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When we were together, he wasn’t the shrewd politician making headlines or the man his enemies cursed behind closed doors. He was just my father. And no matter how much the world judged him, I never did. He was my everything—the one person who could never be wrong in my eyes.

At eighteen, I started making solo trips to India. Our bond grew stronger with each visit, nurtured in the privacy of his Panvel farmhouse, away from prying eyes and political circles. Very few knew about me—the American-born son from a marriage that barely lasted six months. Dad preferred it that way, keeping me shielded from the gossip that often surrounded his life. But I didn’t care about his public image or his affairs. To me, he was more than a politician with a playboy image. He was my hero, my connection to a heritage that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. To me, he was a lion—flawed yet regal—who loved me in a way that rose above his imperfections.

At twenty-two, I came to Mumbai again, eager to spend a few weeks with him before starting my master’s degree back in New York. We’d just returned from a horse-riding session, our faces flushed from the exercise and laughter. I remember teasing him about his riding posture and him laughing it off, telling me I was still years away from matching his skill.

He reached for his whiskey bottle, pouring himself a glass. I frowned, snatching the bottle from his hand.

“You drink too much, Dad,” I scolded, switching to Hindi as I always did with him. “Doctor ne mana kiya hai na? Liver damage ho raha hai aapka.” (Enough, Dad. Didn’t the doctor told you not to have this? Your liver is getting damaged.)

He waved me off, chuckling. “One drink won’t hurt, Zayed. I’m fine.”

“No,” I insisted, taking the bottle from his hands. “I want my father to live longer. Aaj aap wahi piyenge jo main banaunga.” (Today, you’ll only drink what I make.)

“Aur woh kya hai?” (And what’s that?) His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Chai,” I said with a grin. “It’s good for your health. That’s what we both need after our ride.”

He settled into his favourite armchair, a proud smile playing on his lips. “Theek hai, beta. Main wait karta hoon tumhari chai ka.” (Alright, son. I’ll wait for your tea.)

“It’s going to be the best tea you’ve ever had.”

“Par jab tak chai aati hai, ek chhota peg ho jaye,” (But until the tea arrives, I’ll have a small peg) he winked at me, laughing—that warm, booming laughter I loved so much.

Smiling, I shake my head and turn toward the kitchen. I had to hurry, or else that ‘one peg’ would definitely become two.

Within minutes, the smell of fresh ginger and cardamom filled the air as I prepared the tea. Just then, out of nowhere, a thunderous voice roared through the house, shattering the quiet.

“QURESHI!”

The cup I had just removed from the cupboard slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor. My heart stopped. That voice wasn’t just angry—it was venomous, filled with an unrestrained fury that made the hair on my neck stand up.

Silently, I moved toward the kitchen door to peek into the living room. A glass wall separated it from the rest of the house. For the onlookers, it was just a mirror, but for the one standing on the other side, where I was, it gave a clear view of what was happening in there.

I wanted to burst into the room, stand by my father’s side and show whoever this man was that no one raised their voice at him without consequences. But I didn’t.

Dad had always made one thing clear: I was never to interfere in his political matters. And I had respected that, always staying in the background unless he called for me.

Even now, as that thunderous voice echoed through the air, I stayed rooted in place. My dad was no ordinary man. He was Qureshi—the man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. There wasn’t a person alive he couldn’t handle.

Still, as I watched him step into the living room with his whiskey glass in hand, I couldn’t shake the unease creeping over me.

I didn’t know it then, that this was the moment that would change everything.

A tall man stood there, brimming with anger. When Dad walked out, whiskey glass in hand, he looked calm—but for a split second, I saw it. Beneath his casual demeanour, I caught a flicker of fear.

“Aren’t you Pratap Walia’s watchdog Vishnu? His bodyguard?” Dad chuckled darkly, his tone dripping with disdain. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be glued to your precious boss, shielding him from harm? He needs all the protection he can get these days.”

But this man, Vishnu, wasn’t intimidated. He stepped forward, his eyes burning with fury. Then came the accusation that made my blood run cold.

“You and I both know exactly who he needs protection from,” he sneered. “I know you’re the one who hired a sniper to kill Pratap Walia.”

My heart nearly stopped. Kill? Had Dad really plotted someone’s murder? Before I could even process the thought, he confirmed it himself—admitting to Vishnu that he had tried to kill some Walia, and I froze. I watched, paralysed, as he continued to vent his frustrations about his relentless struggle to be at the top of the political race and how Pratap Walia was his strongest competitor who had overshadowed him and became the Deputy CM of the state that my father had worked so hard for.

Vishnu heard it all, but when Dad threatened coldly that he would try to kill Pratap Walia again in the future, Vishnu grabbed my father’s collar, yanking him forward, stating that he would never succeed. Their argument continued until Vishnu could no longer control his anger. He even threatened that he would have killed Dad the moment he stepped in here, but the only reason he hadn’t done it yet was because he had promised his boss, Pratap Walia, not to take the law into his own hands. As if I would have let him hurt my father.

Blood boiled in my veins. I gripped the knife I had used to cut the ginger for tea harder, resisting the urge to step into their fight and stab Vishnu with this same knife.

Then, suddenly, Vishnu made a video call to someone. The confession from the sniper in Malaysia. I pressed my palms over the glass wall so hard that my fingers turned white as I watched the colour drain from Dad’s face.