Ashif takes the whisky and sets it on the table at a distance in front of him. “It’s not a sure thing, Pappa. That’s what I am trying to tell you.”

Mansoor extends his glass to Ashif in a toast. “He’s being too modest. Bottoms up, executive sir.”

Ashif raises his glass slowly. When they clink, another valve opens, and before he knows it, he’s telling his father he doesn’t want to be on the executive track. He’s not cut out for this job.

Mansoor laughs. “That makes no sense. Who doesn’t want a promotion?” Is his son lying? Maybe there’s no promotion at all. He’s getting laid off but he’s too embarrassed to say. He doesn’t know whether to finish his whisky or not.

“There are just a lot of qualified people who want to get on that track,” Ashif says in an effort to turn the conversation.

Mansoor wags a finger at Ashif playfully. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of a little competition? Come on, have some confidence, will you?” He double punches the air. “You can knock your opponent to the ground.” He looks at Layla. “What do you think, Layla? Who’s going to win? Our son or some fool idiot?”

“Our son, who else?” Layla says proudly. She pulls out a chair and sits down next to her husband.

“See, son! Your mother and I have the utmost confidence in you. We are here by your side.”

“But it’s not a done deal, Pappa,” Ashif says, trying to gnaw his way out of this trap.

“Come, son. Let’s make a list.” Mansoor pulls out the pen angled between the buttons of his shirt. “Let’s be clear-headed about this. We’ll mark down your competitors’ strengths and weaknesses. Mark down yours, too. Then figure out a way to beat them.”

“Look, Pappa. I’ll try my best,” Ashif says to appease him. “It’s not as if I don’t have a good job already.” He checks his wristwatch under the table then takes a gulp of whisky.

“Oh-ho, who said you don’t have a good job?” Mansoor says, half-laughing.

“Yes, such a good job. Top-notch, isn’t it?” Layla adds.

“Aye, Layla. No one asked you.” Mansoor clucks his tongue. “We are talking business here. Can’t I speak to my son in peace for once?”

Ashif leans forward in his seat, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. He is about to tell his father not to speak to his mother like that when Layla widens her eyes and shakes her head ever so slightly at him, as if to say, Don’t make it worse, son. We’ll talk when we are alone. Ashif sits back in his chair and reaches for his whisky again.

Mansoor takes another sip, too. “Look, son, I know you have a good job. No one is saying otherwise. But how difficult is it to make it to middle management? Don’t be so easily satisfied, son. Every Tom, Dick, and Raja is working at these big corporations nowadays. Good for them. Good for you. But there’s a reason they call it middle management. It’s far from the top. Believe you me, son, the consequence of mediocrity is death.”