Ashif laughs. “For me? No, everything is for you.” Then words spew out of him, like a volcanic eruption. “I hate my job, did you know that, Pappa? I can’t stand it, actually. But why do I stay? Because of you! You can’t take care of Mummy, so I have to. I want you to stop putting my mother’s life in jeopardy!”

Mansoor turns his gaze outside. Rows of planes sit on the tarmac, like giant, motionless birds. His hands throb with pain as if they are bruised, as if his fingers are broken. He pumps his fists open and closed, but there is no relief.

Ashif tucks the cheque between the salt and pepper shakers. “The next time I speak to you, I only want to hear that you’ve sold the business, paid off the debt, and you’re ready to retire. Understand me?” He stands up.

“Where are you going? There’s still so much I want to tell you.” Mansoor offers his son a copy of his plan. “It will change everything. Revolutionize the retail industry. I promise you.”

Ashif shoos his father’s hand away. “No more pipe dreams, Pappa. Enough is enough!” He buttons his jacket and briskly walks away.

Chapter 13

“ENOUGH IS ENOUGH,” MANSOOR’S father said as he pushed open the front door with his cane. He was home for lunch, as always. Dwarfed behind him was his accountant, Badur, who carried a small brown bag stained with oil. A canvas bag hung from his shoulder. In his shirt pocket, a pocket-protector lined with pens; behind it, a pair of scissors, only the curved black handle visible. Mansoor was three years old. He sat at the dining table, his head resting on an outstretched arm, rolling a wooden toy car back and forth across the surface. His ayah, Jocelyn, sat next to him in a pinafore patterned with acacia trees. When Govindji walked in, Jocelyn sat up to attention. So did Mansoor. He was eager to say hello, but he knew he had to wait for his father to address him first.

“What a nice surprise, Badur bhai. You’ve come for lunch,” Mansoor’s mother, Gulzar, said. She was standing at the stove and quickly lifted her pacheri-scarf from around her neck to cover her head. “Let me bring another plate.”

“No, no, Bai. I am not eating,” Badur said, shoving his Coke-bottle glasses up his nose.

“What have you come for then?” Gulzar asked.

Badur shifted his eyes to Govindji, who was already at the coal stove, lifting the lids on the pots.

“See what I mean, Badur Bhai? Vegetables again!” Govindji held a spoonful of cauliflower curry above the pot. “What are we? Paupers who can’t afford meat? I can afford anything!” He threw the spoon back into the pot. It clanged against the side. “How’s a man to live on vegetables alone? And look at my boy,” he said, pointing to Mansoor. “Without a proper diet, how will he grow, hanh? Have I not provided everything for her, told her she can buy anything from the grocers, butchers, fishmongers, you name it? My only request: meat! Essential for the diet. Look at the Europeans, hanh? Solid. Rock solid. Meanwhile she wants my son to eat like a street boy. This is not India, lady. This is the new world. This is Africa!” Govindji shifted from one foot to the other as he jockeyed his pants up over his round belly.