In the buzzing streets of Mumbai, where spices danced in the air and dreams simmered over tandoors, stood a modest yet beloved restaurant named Salim’s Tandoor. It was no five-star affair, but every evening, it overflowed with loyal customers craving its legendary kebabs and biryani. The man behind its daily grind was Shabbir—a bulky, not-so-bright, but incredibly determined soul in his early 40s.
The story began many years ago when Shabbir’s father, Salim, a migrant from Kerala, moved to Mumbai with nothing but hope and a recipe notebook his wife had once written. Renting a shabby corner space, Salim turned his passion into a family-run eatery. Years later, he summoned his son Shabbir, who had barely managed to clear 7th grade after more retakes than a low-budget soap opera.
Shabbir, with limited academic skills but an unshakable will, toiled beside his father. Greasy aprons, sleepless nights, and burnt palms—Shabbir wore them like badges of honour. Time passed, and Arif, the youngest son—nearly a decade younger than Shabbir—was also called to Mumbai. A cheerful, agile teen with a knack for systems and people, Arif soon took over the operations while Shabbir became the “boss” of the finances.
When Shabbir married Shahida—a stunning graduate with poise and flair—people whispered tales of beauty and the beast. Shahida, however, never warmed up to Shabbir. To her, he was a man of meat, money, and mass, but not mind. Her WhatsApp was flooded with Ivy League wedding pictures of friends, while her own profile displayed a chubby man in a stained kurta.
Still, she stayed, perhaps for the comfort of prosperity. And life carried on.
They had two gorgeous kids—Swaleha and Sufiyan—and Salim, sensing his time approaching, returned to Kerala, leaving his Mumbai kingdom to Shabbir and Arif.
But power, like overcooked meat, is hard to chew.
Shabbir, now the sole decision-maker, began investing the restaurant’s profits into real estate. But instead of buying property jointly with his brother, he did something sly. Every property was registered in Shahida’s name. Salim and Arif, trusting and uneducated in legalese, never questioned this. Shahida smiled silently as signatures were inked and papers sealed.
Then, Salim passed away. Mumbai’s monsoon cried with the family, but beneath the tears brewed a storm.
A few months later, Shabbir picked a fight with Arif. Over salt in biryani, over electricity bills—it didn’t matter. The real reason was clear: Shabbir wanted him out. Arif was shown the door.
People back in Kerala weren’t blind. Whispers became words; words turned into sympathy. Arif received unexpected financial help from relatives, well-wishers, even old customers. Within a year, he launched his own outlet—Arif’s Biryani Bunker. And he nailed it. What he lacked in capital, he made up in experience. Slowly, the bunker became a buzzword.
Meanwhile, Shabbir lived in what he thought was bliss. Shahida handled all the bank accounts—again, in her name. Shabbir, forever a fan of shortcuts and blind faith, didn’t bother much. He was earning well, had a home, properties, and believed—foolishly—that his world was untouchable.
Until one bright morning, a letter arrived.
Divorce
Shabbir’s world crumbled like a papad in curry. He tried calling, begging, crying. But Shahida had blocked him everywhere.
With her educational prowess and a lawyer friend from college, she fast-tracked the process. Within months, she took control of everything—properties, businesses, and bank accounts. What shocked Shabbir even more was her complete disinterest in custody. She left the kids behind like extra baggage.
Now, the kids cried for their father’s attention while he cried for answers.
What Shabbir didn’t know was this: Shahida was never truly his. From her college days, she’d shared a secret romance with Govindan, a lecturer’s son back in Kerala. Tall, articulate, and unmarried, Govindan was the man of her dreams—an unfinished chapter she wanted to rewrite.
With her divorce done, Govindan moved to Mumbai, and within months, they tied the knot.
Shabbir’s empire was now theirs.
The man who once owned properties and business was now flipping through job ads. His own creation, Salim’s Tandoor, now glowed under a different name with Govindan’s face smiling on billboards.
Broke, betrayed, and bald (thanks to stress-induced hair fall), Shabbir eventually took up a job as a restaurant manager. Ironically, it was the same lane where his restaurant once stood. The same street where he once ruled now saw him sweeping floors and taking customer complaints.
His kids, Swaleha and Sufiyan, remained his only sunshine. Despite being abandoned by their mother, they stood by their father, growing wise beyond their age. Swaleha once told her friend at school, “My Abba used to be the king of kebabs. Now he just wants us to be the best versions of ourselves.”
One day, while checking the spice stocks at work, Shabbir bumped into a familiar face.
It was Arif.
Dressed in crisp whites, Arif had just finished a food shoot for his new menu. Their eyes met. For a moment, no words were spoken.
Then, Arif smiled.
“I need a manager for my new branch,” he said. “Want to run it with me?”
Shabbir’s lips quivered. His pride wrestled with his pain. But then he saw his kids playing outside, chasing an ice cream cart.
He nodded.
Epilogue
Years later, Arif & Shabbir’s Kitchen became one of Mumbai’s most talked-about family restaurants. They turned their broken past into a bond of healing. Shabbir, once a victim of betrayal, was now a beacon of humility and hard-earned wisdom.
Govindan and Shahida? Rumours say they’re stuck in endless legal battles over mismanaged funds and tax evasion.
Fate has its own recipes. Sometimes bitter. Sometimes spicy. But always just.
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