There is only one thing in the world that can motivate me enough to leave my heavenly bed: chai. The beautiful rust colored liquid with a semi-floral scent and saccharine flavor is most definitely the highlight of my day. There is a special formula to making the best cup of chai known to existence. Adding one teaspoon of sugar and a splash of evaporated milk will make even the most caffeine-tolerant person an addict.

With that enticing image in my head, I rush through my quick and simple daily morning routine, which consists of washing my face, brushing my teeth, and plaiting my hair into a singular thick braid. Throwing on a blue dupatta over my head after changing into a printed blue kameez and matching shalwar, I run downstairs to my beloved cup of tea.

When I reach the kitchen, Abbu already has the dining table set with puri, sooji ka halwa, aloo cholay and two steaming cups of chai. After giving him a kiss on the cheek, I sit down and happily scoop out some halwa onto my plate.

"Beta, I hope you realize that if you keep waking up late, they will take you out of medical school." I freeze mid-chew.

Not again. I leap out of my chair, knocking over my cup of chai.

"Sorry Abbu, wish I could stay for breakfast! Love you, bye!" I yell as I grab my lab coat and sprint out of the house.

Luckily, Rashid Jahan Medical College and Hospital is located on the street behind mine, just a quick ten minute walk from my home. When I round the corner of my street, I sigh heavily, half out of exhaustion and half out of relief. The big marble statue of Rashid Jahan glares at me as I approach the main gate breathing heavily and letting out sounds not unlike those of a dying goat.

As I slip down the halls as quietly as possible, I say a quick prayer in hopes of making it into the class unnoticed.

I push the auditorium door open as softly as I can and make my way over to the back row to avoid being singled out. Needless to say, my plan failed instantly.

"Dr. Durrani, after four years of consistently being late to lecture and staying overtime to clean the laboratories, I had hoped you learned your lesson. But of course, you had to carry on your tradition of arriving in an untimely manner to what should be the most important part of your career," Dr. Raksha says haughtily, staring me down. My cheeks instantly flush due to the unwanted attention from my fellow classmates.

"I'm sorry," I squeak out. "It won't happen again."

"Sorry won't cut it next time. You will be removed from your house-job position if you are tardy again. Do you understand?" She says sharply, her eyes piercing through me.

"Yes, Doctor," I say reassuringly with the slightest waver in my voice.

A sharp tug on my lab coat causes me to fall into the chair beside me. Without having to look over, I already know who it is. There is only one person apart from me who enjoys sitting in the back of the classroom where not a single word on the blackboard can be read.

"Tania kept you late last night?" Afshi whispers carefully while keeping her eyes on Dr. Raksha's retreating back.

I wait until the professor is preoccupied with her lesson before answering. "She made me stay an extra three hours just to switch out all of the lightbulbs. They weren't even broken!"

Afshi pats my hand sympathetically. "You need to quit that job. It's draining what little energy you have left after rotations every day."

She says this in good spirits, but we both know it is next to impossible in today's economy.

Aside from Abbu, Afshi is the only other living relative I have left. She may be my third cousin bloodwise, but I push all that aside and call her my sister. Her family passed away in the same war for independence that took the lives of almost all of the citizens of Surajistan, including Ammi and Raza. The province is still not as bustling and loud as it was three years ago, but it is a work in progress, no thanks to the Royal Court of Mir.

The entire royal family fought in the war alongside the citizens as a symbol of unity and equality. They were the face of hope in the darkest time the province had seen. Only one family member had survived, but after the war's end, he retreated to the royal palace, only to never be seen again. For a while, it was understandable. He had lost his entire family in a single day, and to top it off, the burden of running an entire province was put on his shoulders. A year after the war, people started to express their concern for the nation and irritation at Prince Rafay for not being proactive in the rebuilding. Only then did he start issuing orders from the confines of his castle regarding the restoration of the land.

The only indication of his existence nowadays is the occasional royal announcement on television regarding tariff rates or new security measures. Of course, where royalty is concerned, rumors will always exist. Some say that the estranged prince was heavily disfigured by cause of the war, which resulted in him being ashamed to be seen by the public. Others say he has a contagious illness that could infect anyone within an arm's length. Apparently, he was quite the heartthrob before the war, which is why the female doctors like to believe the infectious disease theory. They all want to be 'the one', not only to cure him, but to marry him.

I, on the other hand, refuse to believe those sham theories.

As bothered as I am about his uninvolvement, I learned to think nothing of it, so long as each citizen works together to bring the nation back to life. The lives lost will never be forgotten, but it is important to try to restore the community and make the best out of what is present.

Dr. Raksha begins assigning us to hospital wards. I already know which one she's going to send me to, since she's hellbent on making me miserable. As if medical school wasn't miserable enough.

"Mahroosa, Afshaneh, Nayab, and Zohair, you four will be completing rounds in the Pulmonology Unit. Nayab, if you forget to record tidal volume again, I will have you record the lung capacities of every single person in this hospital. Twice," Dr. Raksha warns.

Nayab visibly gulps and nods his head frantically. As much as I disliked working in the Pulmonology Unit and hated Dr. Raksha for assigning me to it, I knew better than to check my work only twice.

After five grueling hours of examining more than twenty patients, all with varying degrees of lung ailments, we burst through the hospital doors and throw our surgical masks in a nearby hazards bin.

"I swear, if another patient coughs up mucus and spits it on me, I'm dropping out," Nayab shudders. He rips off his lab coat as well and dumps it in the bin as well.

"Did you even want to be a doctor, or did your parents force you?" Zohair asks. "Because, if you really don't want to do this, you know you can just tell them."

"Yeah, right," Nayab laughs bitterly. "Not everyone's parents are as open-minded as yours. It was either engineering school or medical school. I chose the lesser of two evils."

I knew what it was like to be in his shoes. My parents influenced my career choice since childhood. Being the daughter of two physicians, I was expected to follow in their footsteps. Unlike Nayab, I found a passion for medicine along the way. I was drawn to the body's physiological processes and its ability to fight off various infections. The one illness that no one has found a cure for was the one I wanted to study the most: cancer.

As we pass by a food market on our way home, Zohair looks at me pointedly and says, "Chai, anyone?"

Two reasons as to why he singled me out loomed over my head. One, he knows I love chai more than anyone in this universe and would never miss an opportunity to drink it, or two, he wants some alone time with me.

I hope it's the former.

Zohair has fancied me for as long as I can remember. His advances definitely didn't go unnoticed. It wasn't that he was bad-looking or had a terrible personality. I just didn't fancy him in that way. To the average person, his dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and muscular build, combined with his easy-going personality were things to be admired.

"I think I'm going to head home and check on Abbu," I say. "Maybe next time."

I hastily start walking away without waiting for a response to avoid a conversation I really don't want to have.

Afshi catches up to me and throws an arm over my shoulder. "Roosa, I don't understand why you won't give him a chance. He's every girl's dream," she says mockingly with a fake dreamy sigh.

I throw her arm off and retort, "If you like him so much, why don't you ask him out?"

"Can't, he only has eyes for you," she smirks. I roll my eyes and push her playfully.

"I don't know, something about him bothers me, but I can't tell what it is," I say, rubbing my forehead slightly as if talking about this will bring about a headache.

Afshi shakes her head in dismay. "You're deluded. Anyway, I'll drop by your house in the evening. I haven't seen Sufi Khalu in a while." She walks down the street behind mine and disappears into one of the houses on the left.

I pick up my pace, eager to see Abbu and have our shaam ki chai. It is a tradition we've had since I was twelve.

As I open the door to my house and open my mouth to greet my father, I hear his wracking sobs echoing off of the walls.

My heart drops into my stomach and my vision starts blackening. I have only ever heard those cries once before.

Ammi. Raza.

With every step I take towards the kitchen, memories from that cursed day trickle into my head like a stream, building up against a dam just waiting to break through. I brace myself as I cross the entryway of the kitchen, my hands shaking and legs feeling as if they are about to give out.

Please. I don't have anyone left to lose.

My father, author of many medical books and research papers, and a big contributor to finding cures for infectious diseases, is a proud, but modest, man. He was highly respected in the province for both his contributions to society and for his intelligence. Everywhere he went, he was recognized and praised for his work. He was always calm and poised, elegant and composed, never letting emotions get the best of him. To see him hunched on the kitchen floor, pale-faced with streaks of tears covering his cheeks destroyed me.

"Abbu," I whisper as I make my way over to his crouched form in the kitchen, scared to find out what torment awaits me. "Kya hua?"

"Meri beti, maaf kardo," he begs in anguish with tears running down his tanned cheeks.

"What for?" I ask, bewildered. Unease begins to consume me, my state of confusion and anxiety growing as my father emits a new round of heart-stabbing sobs. I gently take his hands and tilt his face towards mine. "Abbu, what happened? I'm sure we can fix it, whatever it is."

"Criminal summons," is all he says, shaking uncontrollably. My heart pounds harder than it was before as my mind races through the possible scenarios of what could have happened. When I come up with nothing, I take hold of Abbu's shoulders and rattle him gently. "What happened?"

The only answer I receive is a bone-crushing hug.

Words to be Defined

Abbu - Dad

Chai - tea, specifically red tea

Dupatta - a scarf that is part of traditional South Asian outfit

Kameez - a shirt that is part of traditional South Asian outfit

Shalwar - pants that are part of traditional South Asian outfit

Poori, Sooji ka halwa, Aloo cholay - typical South Asian breakfast dishes

Beta - child/son (in the context that I use it in, it means child)

Ammi - Mom

Khalu - Uncle, specifically from maternal side, but not mother's brother. Could be mother's sister's husband, or mother's female cousin's husband.

Shaam - late afternoon

Kya hua? - what happened?

Meri beti, maaf kardo! - My daughter, forgive me!

Beti - daughter