Pakistan, an ideological state founded in the name of Islam, meaning peace in Arabic, had not yet achieved the tranquillity and freedom its founders envisioned. One major factor was the death of Muhammad Ali Jinnah within the first year of inception. The loss of the mastermind who had united the subcontinent's Muslims and brought their centuries-long struggle to fruition had allowed the power-hungry individuals to exploit ideological differences among Muslims of Pakistan; previously, these differences had remained mainly dormant in the country's diverse, multi-religious environment. Nine years, four governors-general, five prime ministers, one Indo-Pak war, and one Indo-Pak treaty later, Pakistan was still struggling to find its footing. Lacking both the resources to truly thrive and the wisdom to distinguish friend from foe, the nation nonetheless held on to hope, fueled by the raw memory of the excruciating sacrifices made by its people and their compatriots. Still fresh from the bloody partition, they refused to consider anything less than a robust and stable "Land of the Pure."
Early next morning, Shair emerged from his room, dressed in high-waisted pants and a button-down shirt. The aroma of fresh parathas quickened his steps toward his mother's lounge. "Oh, the smell of home…" he murmured, crossing the rectangular courtyard, eager to see his mother. He found her in her sitting room, listening to the grievances of several villagers. He fought the urge to sweep her into a tight embrace and swing her around. Leaning against the doorframe, he imagined her horrified shriek at such an unrestrained display of affection. He'd then have to make amends with a kiss, which would only shock her further. Shair waited for a nod of acknowledgement before retreating to the courtyard, a smile playing on his lips at the thought, even as he shook his head. When it came to emotional propriety, his mother was more English than the English themselves.
Seated at the breakfast table in the courtyard that connected the haveli's rooms, Shair gazed at the circular arches framing the space. They evoked memories of his childhood, bittersweet now, of his servants—Ditto chief among them—chasing him in and out of those very rooms. Games played late into the night, laughter echoing through the haveli... The thought flickered through his mind, distant and detached, like a memory viewed through a dusty windowpane, yet a pang of something akin to longing tightened his chest. They'd play all night whenever his mother was away, or study diligently when she was home. He remembered walking into his parents' room a few days after his thirteenth birthday. His father lay peacefully on the bed, a stillness about him that even his young self recognised as final. His mother, her face a mask of composure, listened with a steady gaze as the doctor explained the cause of death: cardiac arrest. Just like that, Shair thought, a faint echo of his mother's own stoicism. Yet, despite his best efforts, a lump formed in his throat. She simply nodded upon receiving the news and remained silent for days afterwards, a silence that seemed to weigh down on Shair's heart, making his own grief feel more present. Shair recalled his mother's disapproval when she found him weeping at the funeral. 'Weakness', she had called it, though not in words; the unspoken accusation belittled him to this day. He sighed, pushing the memory aside, the familiar ache of grief a constant undercurrent in his life. He savoured the parathas with brain masala and sweet lassi. The rich, buttery flavour of the parathas filled his mouth, a stark contrast to the hollowness he felt inside. Enjoying the fresh air and open space, he mentally reviewed his schedule for the day and the agenda for the week, the mundane details a welcome, if temporary, distraction from the ghosts of the past.
Midway through Shair's breakfast, Ditto entered the courtyard through the rear entrance, glancing around for Begum Zubaida. Not seeing her, he quickly settled into his usual spot on the brick floor at his master's feet.
"Wo ji, did you sleep well, sahib?" Ditto inquired, his curiosity more performative than genuine. His buoyant excitement at the prospect of sharing the latest village gossip masked the dark circles under his eyes. He knew a feudal lord's strength lay in knowing his people, in the subtle manipulations of circumstance, and capitalising on every situation. That knowledge was power. Without waiting for a reply, he launched into his routine update.
By the time Shair finished his breakfast, the villagers were filing out of his mother's parlour; she had timed her meeting perfectly. He hurried to her side and threw himself onto the sofa next to her. He noticed she had changed the upholstery from red to ice blue and added a new Tiffany lamp, likely Wisteria. A midnight blue silk carpet now covered the floor where an off-white hand-woven rug had been. Despite these drastic changes, the room felt the same to him: cold, a feeling reinforced by his mother's ramrod-straight posture in the Queen Anne armchair and her starched lemon sari. As happy as he was to see her, he knew better than to make any mushy "mummy" comments.
"Ah! Oxford was fun, but there's no place like home," Shair said, pleased to see the triumphant glint in his mother's keen eyes—the only acknowledgement he would receive. His Master's degree from abroad had been very much part of her plan, but the distinction was the cherry on top.
"Shair, I've made the necessary legal arrangements for you to assume responsibility for the estate." She met his gaze directly, her hands folded in her lap. A faint tremor, almost imperceptible, passed through her meticulously manicured fingers. "Your… dalliances don't concern me, but remember this: I will not tolerate you wasting your life. You will work diligently to uphold the respect and standing of your ancestors. I want you to explore emerging industries. I believe it would be a waste of your talents to spend your time solely overseeing the farms. Besides," she added, "establishing a factory could be quite advantageous, both financially and in terms of building a loyal voter base."
Shair smiled, a touch of lazy distraction in his expression. His mother was always so serious. It was as if the annual yield from their farms, the rent from their numerous properties, and the substantial sums in their Swiss bank accounts weren't enough. He shook his head; they never even came close to spending their monthly income.
Begum Zubaida continued, her eyebrow arching. "Your father's old friend, Chaudhary Allayaar, has been quite busy while you were away. He's built an oil mill on his previously barren land… A smart man, I'd say!"
Contrary to his usual habit, Shair interjected. "Why would he do that? Isn't he the third richest man in the country? He doesn't even have a son to inherit it all. He should just relax and enjoy his life instead of exhausting himself with so much work."
As usual, Begum Zubaida ignored his immature outburst and proceeded, "He has gone to Europe for the summer and has asked me to suggest a date for your homecoming celebration on his return." The smile that followed made Shair uneasy. "While we're there, I want you to get to know his daughter."
"But Ma, I just got back! Let me at least settle in. I have so much to do before being tied down to domestic life," he protested.
"Don't be absurd, Shair," she said, looking down at him as she did when he was a child and came home covered in mud. "You can still enjoy your life. A wife at home is hardly an impediment." She leaned closer. "Think long-term, Shair… a girl of her standing has numerous suitors, but Chaudhary Sahib has his heart set on you. I can tell!" she added with a raised eyebrow.
Shair resigned himself to the inevitable. He knew better than to argue with his mother. "Alright, Ma, I'll do as you say, but promise that you won't force me into anything."
She offered a knowing smile, effectively ending the discussion, just as a maid entered and placed her morning tea on the Victorian coffee table in front of her. Shair knew better than to interrupt his mother's quiet time. He jumped up, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and left the parlour.