On the return journey from the airport, the Chevy crawled along, jerking erratically as if in silent protest. Even his car seemed to be against him. A black Cadillac blared its horn and cut him off sharply. Ditto glared at the driver.
"Brother, you've got a beautiful car; now learn how to drive it!" a tonga driver yelled. Ditto's fists clenched, but he restrained himself, his gaze fixed on his master.
Shair gave up. He pulled over and turned off the engine, staring blankly ahead.
"Wo ji, do you want me to drive, sahib?" Ditto asked gently.
Shair got out of the car without a word. As he walked around to the passenger side, he leaned against the hood, lost in thought. Ditto stood watchfully by the roadside, ensuring no one disturbed him.
Later, when they reached the haveli, Shair listlessly walked toward his room. The impasse with his mother had left him feeling lost and uncertain. Life without Asiya was unimaginable, but what could he do?
The servants exchanged worried glances as he passed, ignoring their inquiries about his meal and well-being. He simply walked to his bed, lay down, and fell into a troubled sleep.
Shair awoke in the middle of the night, clutching his chest. He reached for the water glass on his nightstand and drank deeply. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead as he fumbled for his shawl in the moonless January darkness.
"Wo ji, are you alright? Should I get you something to eat?" his ever-loyal Ditto asked.
"Ditto? What's the worst that could happen if I marry Asiya? Why is my mother forcing me to choose? She's the only family I have; does that mean nothing to her?"
Perplexed and utterly frustrated, Shair wrapped the shawl around himself and went outside. He wandered across the veranda, through the gardens, and out the gate onto the deserted road, hoping for a solution to present itself. Three stray dogs chased each other in circles, growling, barking, and nipping at each other's heels. The largest one barked at Shair, its tail wagging furiously. Perhaps it wanted to attack, or maybe it just wanted to play. Oblivious to their noisy antics and the flickering fireflies that dotted the darkness, Shair trudged forward in silence, mile after mile.
The approaching clip-clop of a horse's hooves pulled Shair from his reverie. He noticed people passing him—on foot, on bicycles, and a few on horseback. The air was filled with the murmur of conversation and the chirping of birds. In the dim light of the winter morning, he realised he was on the canal road. A small tea dhaba nestled among the trees lining the canal, and he headed toward it.
A small boy, wearing a worn shirt and dark pants and whistling a cheerful tune, entered the dhaba with him. He grabbed a broom and began sweeping the dirt floor, tidying the unfinished and somewhat shabby little place. He then dusted the rickety stools and battered tables with a small cloth draped over his right shoulder. Between sweeps and dustings, he hummed and danced, throwing his arms in the air and shaking his hips like a belly dancer.
When he finished, he walked over to Shair and asked what he'd like for breakfast. "Kyun sahib? Desi chai, Kashmiri chai, paratha, naan, halwa puri, cholay, fry unday, ublay unday?" In one rapid burst, he recited the entire menu, his eyes fixed on Shair, a hint of curiosity in their depths, as he wondered what a man of his standing was doing there.
"Chai," Shair muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes. He heard the barefoot boy approach the owner, who was busy preparing tea near the entrance, and whisper something. Lost in his own thoughts, Shair opened his eyes at the sound of someone clearing their throat. The owner of the dhaba stood before him, a chipped mug of steaming tea balanced on a large steel tray. He took a sip. It was strong and sweet, too sweet, but welcome nonetheless.
Whether it was the caffeine jolt or the sugar rush, something sparked in Shair's mind. He noticed a lean man with a large moustache and a cloth cap staring at him. Two older men at a nearby table were more discreet, their hushed conversation drifting to topics of the rich and famous. The young boy he'd seen earlier was now bustling about, serving tea and parathas to the other customers. He gave Shair a small, knowing smile. This is ridiculous, Shair thought. He had to leave. As he reached into his pocket, he realised it was empty.
Shair's embarrassment was profound. "I'm terribly sorry," he stammered. "It seems that I have no money at the moment. Here… you can keep my watch, and I'll be back to pay you within the hour."
The owner's eyes twinkled, and deep wrinkles etched themselves into his tanned face as he smiled. "No, nawab sahib, no. How could I charge you? Please, don't embarrass me. We are your servants. It's a privilege to have you in my humble place. I only wish you'd allowed us to serve you something more from our menu." He clasped his hands and bowed his head as he proclaimed with reverence, "You've honoured me and my future generations by gracing my modest dhaba."
Shair nodded and patted the man's shoulder in gratitude. He didn't tell the tea vendor that, in truth, the favour had been done to him. The encounter had made him realise that it wasn't his mother who was the obstacle in his love story; it was his own identity, the gilded cage of his title and responsibilities. He thought of Asiya, her quiet strength, her vulnerability, and the genuine connection they shared. Could he really ask her to sacrifice everything for him, only to have her face the scorn of society, the whispers, the ostracisation? He thought of his family, the legacy, the expectations. Could he truly abandon it all? Was his love for Asiya strong enough to outweigh the weight of generations? The questions warred within him. His observations at the dhaba had been a catalyst, a glimpse into a life unburdened by titles and expectations. But the reality of his position, the ingrained sense of duty, still held him captive. He knew his mother was right; as the nawab, he couldn't simply disregard his role in the larger community. Yet, the thought of losing Asiya, or of a life without her, was one of a lifetime of hollowness that he wouldn't be able to bear. There had to be a way. He headed home, a newfound resolve hardening his expression. He knew what he had to do. He just had to find the courage to do it.