"Yeh… mera beta hai?" Radhe whispered.
"Sikandar," the boy said proudly. "Lekin ghar mein sab mujhe 'Sanam' bulate hain. Kyunki mummy kehti hain, main unka aakhri sahaara hoon."
The dhaba was crowded. Radhe was wiping a steel glass, not looking up. But the air changed. A faint scent of jasmine and old books—the same fragrance that haunted his nightmares.
He stood up, put one arm around Nirjara, and lifted Sikandar onto his shoulders.
But Radhe wasn’t violent. He was something worse—broken and hopeful.