“I wanted to talk to you about…” Ashif starts.

“You won’t believe it but I was thinking the same thing. How did you know I was going to ask you to join the business?”

“What? No, Pappa. That’s not what this money is for.”

Mansoor isn’t listening. He’s already set a copy of his business plan in front of Ashif. He taps the title page. “See that. We’re going to revolutionize the retail industry, son. You and me together.”

Ashif glances at the cover page. M.G. Visram & Son Dry Cleaners, Ltd. A Presentation to the City of Calgary. “A new business plan? That’s what you need this money for?” His coffee cup rattles in its saucer.

“Everything will be automated, you see,” Mansoor continues, unable to stop himself, after holding it in for what feels like a lifetime.

Ashif leans across the table and tries to stop him. “Look, Pappa. This is money so you can clear your debt and retire.” Mansoor reaches across and opens the business plan for Ashif. “We can take advantage of these new technologies, you see. Computers, the Internet, e-commerce,” Mansoor continues undaunted. “It’s the new frontier. But we’ve got to get in now. Before everyone else and their dog thinks it’s a good idea, too. There’s no time to waste.”

“The Internet? Are you kidding? No one knows if dot-coms are a bubble or the real thing.” Ashif taps his knife against his coffee cup. “You might as well be betting on horses.”

Mansoor guffaws. As if his business was based on luck. It’s based on mathematical models, on calculated risks. But Ashif should know that. He’s a businessman. “Go ahead and check the numbers for yourself. Then you’ll see.”

Ashif slaps shut the business plan. “No more business plans for you, Pappa. It’s too late now. The Internet is for young people.”

Mansoor laughs. He flexes an arm over the table. “Feel this! I can do anything.” Why does his son have such little faith in him? Mansoor has never let him down. Not once. Not ever. He’s been an exemplary father. What’s wrong with this boy?

Ashif sits back and clenches his knees.

“I’m stronger than most men your age. Fit body, fit mind.”

“I want you to stop putting our family at risk. I also don’t want Mummy to work anymore. She needs to retire, too.”

Underneath the table, Mansoor knits his hands together. So what if Layla works? It’s not as if her income is supporting the family. He had only asked her to contribute a little, that’s all. Why was his son being so old-fashioned? “I’m sure she doesn’t mind. It’s like her seva to the community. Her service to all the young people who don’t have home-cooked meals anymore.”

Ashif feels his pulse in his fingertips, thinking about his mother’s hands. “Not everyone is cut out for business.”

“Absolutely true, not everyone is. I have told her, expand. People love her food. But she doesn’t want to. And I don’t like to pressurize anyone. Yet how much money can she make? White people, they love exotic foods. Just like in Uganda. Give them any kind of curry—Goan, Gujarati, Punj—”