Mansoor had always assumed Ashif would outgrow his odd behaviour, but when he hadn’t by age eight, he knew he would have to take things into his own hands. He decided to cut the problem out at its root. Like amputating an extra pinky finger. The hand might feel strange for a little while, but in good time, the body forgets. It always does. Just like the time he found all those boxes of Ashif’s diaries. He didn’t beat him like his father would have. Instead, he calmly explained why writing and reading fiction were an utter waste of time. His son was upset at first, but in due course, he complied with the right behaviour.

Mansoor naturally helped matters along by removing all bad influences from his son’s life. First and foremost, his teacher, Ms. Clarke. What kind of teacher can’t differentiate between facts and fiction? He removed him from that school immediately and enrolled him in one with a solid track record in winning math and science awards. He also encouraged him to join the debate club and sports teams. He taught him about how to joke with people, put him in elocution classes. He also rewarded every success. An ice cream for a goal, a nickel for the right answer. Pavlov knew what he was doing. Eventually, Ashif came to him with his own ideas. Attending a hockey game together, joining Toastmasters. He excelled at his new pursuits and brought home top marks. Trophies, too! He shudders to think what would have happened if he hadn’t intervened. Thankfully he did. His son is who he is today because of him.

Yet Ashif is off track again. It was only a matter of time until he was laid off, maybe even fired. He’d always assumed that his company, with its deep pockets, would have trained him properly. It was the only reason he let him stay in Toronto after business school. He had expected him to come back home, armed with a strong set of business skills and a solid Rolodex, to take over the family business. Yet all his company has managed to do is to give him a big head. He seems to think he’s better than everyone else—his father included. As if. Mansoor could do his job with his eyes closed, and for half the money to boot.

Mansoor would have to take things into his own hands if he wanted to fix his son again. The solution was clear. He’d take Ashif under his wing at the business. Train him from the ground up. M.G. Visram & Sons Dry Cleaners, Unlimited. That’s what he had once envisioned. A big family, working together like a well-oiled machine. They’d keep their resources—talent, labour, money—within the family. That’s how empires are built. He had wanted more children—boys or girls, it didn’t matter. Women were capable of anything these days. Look at Margaret Thatcher, Oprah Winfrey, Benazir Bhutto. They didn’t stop until they reached the top. Good for them. Instead, they hired other women to help them with their duties at home. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of children—low-paying positions that could easily be covered by their high-powered salaries. It made complete sense. A division of labour. Exactly how Ford revolutionized the automobile industry. Now that was progress! He would have gladly welcomed a daughter into the business. Let her stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. But he never had the chance. There were no daughters, no other sons. Only Ashif, and he would have to do.