I identify my humour quotient with that of my father's. He used

Host: The sun was sliding down behind the old stone college, casting long amber shadows across the tennis court where Jack and Jeeny sat after a long day. The air was thick with the smell of grass, dust, and the faint sweetness of summer sweat. The game was over — the rackets tossed carelessly beside them, laughter still lingering in the air like echoes of youth that refused to die.

From the announcer’s booth, an old radio played faintly — a Sunday interview with Soha Ali Khan. Her voice came through soft but certain, followed by her quote, crisp and warm like sunlight through memory:
"I identify my humour quotient with that of my father's. He used to love British comedies. Also, when it comes to fitness, my father was a sportsman and I too was into sports as a child."

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s lovely, isn’t it? How she talks about inheritance — not of money or fame, but humour, health, and heart.”

Jack: (grinning) “You’re sentimental today.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But don’t you ever think about how much of us is borrowed? The way we laugh, eat, even the way we move — it’s all echoes of someone before us.”

Host: The wind picked up gently, stirring the fallen leaves near the bench. A group of students laughed in the distance — that wide, careless laughter that only youth and ignorance of deadlines can create. Jack leaned back, stretching his arms across the backrest, the light catching the sweat on his forearms.

Jack: “I don’t know. I’ve spent most of my life trying not to be like my father. He was... disciplined to the point of silence. Every dinner was a seminar in posture and restraint. I used to envy kids who could spill juice and get away with it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “But look at you — you still sit up straight when you think no one’s watching.”

Jack: (chuckles) “Old habits. The ghosts of parental expectations.”

Host: A tennis ball rolled to a stop near Jeeny’s feet. She picked it up, turning it between her fingers like a memory made solid.

Jeeny: “My father was the opposite of yours. He laughed too easily. At everything. He could find comedy in the smallest disaster — broken glass, missed flights, burned toast. I think that’s where I get my humor. The belief that if you can laugh at something, it can’t destroy you.”

Jack: “That’s convenient. I’ve always admired people who can turn pain into punchlines.”

Jeeny: “It’s not convenience — it’s survival. My dad used to say humor is a kind of wisdom — the kind that lets you stay light even when life gets heavy.”

Jack: “He sounds like someone who could’ve made even a funeral feel bearable.”

Jeeny: “He did. When my grandfather passed away, he cracked a joke about heaven’s overcrowded guest list. My mother glared, but I laughed — and for a moment, the grief loosened its grip.”

Host: The sunlight softened into gold dust, spilling across their faces. A silence fell between them — not the heavy kind, but the comfortable one shared by people who understand that not every truth needs commentary.

Jack: “Soha’s quote — she talks about inheritance, but not in a sad way. It’s not about living under her father’s shadow, but continuing his rhythm. I like that.”

Jeeny: “It’s rare, isn’t it? To carry someone’s legacy without being trapped by it.”

Jack: “I think the trick is knowing what to keep and what to leave behind.”

Host: A distant church bell chimed, marking the hour. The air cooled; the day’s heat retreated into the earth. Jeeny leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her gaze following a pair of sparrows darting near the fence.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was a kid, I’d mimic my dad’s laugh in front of the mirror — not because I wanted to sound like him, but because I wanted to feel like him. I thought if I could laugh like he did, I’d stop being scared of growing up.”

Jack: “And did it work?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. I still laugh too loud for polite rooms.”

Jack: (smiling) “It’s good. The world needs more impolite laughter.”

Host: The light dimmed further, the sky deepening into violet. Jack’s expression softened; his eyes distant, as though scanning the past.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? My father was a sportsman too. Football. The kind who believed running could fix anything — heartbreak, laziness, grief. I used to watch him train at dawn, his breath turning to fog in the cold air. I thought he looked like a machine.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t join him?”

Jack: “Once. I tripped over the ball, fell face-first into the mud. He laughed. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh like that. I didn’t realize until years later that it was also the first time he’d seen me fail and not try to fix it.”

Jeeny: “That’s love, Jack. Letting someone fall without rushing to rescue them.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s trust — that they’ll get up again.”

Host: The crickets began their evening chorus. The sound filled the quiet, wrapping the world in its slow pulse.

Jeeny: “So — do you think you inherited anything from him?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Yeah. The silence. But I’m learning to turn it into listening.”

Jeeny: “And that’s progress.”

Jack: “And you? What did you inherit besides your father’s laughter?”

Jeeny: “His refusal to give up joy, even when life begged him to.”

Jack: “Then you got the best of him.”

Host: The wind blew again — stronger this time, scattering dust and memory together. The sun had vanished completely, leaving behind a sky that shimmered like brushed velvet.

Jeeny: “You know, what I love about Soha’s quote isn’t just that she remembers her father — it’s that she honors him by continuing what he loved. Humor. Movement. Discipline. It’s not nostalgia — it’s gratitude in motion.”

Jack: “Gratitude in motion. I like that.”

Jeeny: “That’s what we all are, really — moving gratitude. For the ones who shaped us, for the lessons we didn’t understand until years later.”

Host: The floodlights over the court flickered on, bathing them in white. They looked older, wiser, softer — two children of their parents’ ghosts, sitting in the half-light between inheritance and individuality.

Jack: “You know what’s funny, Jeeny? We spend half our youth trying not to be our parents — and the other half realizing we already are.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Host: The night deepened, the last sound of laughter fading into the dark. Jack picked up the tennis ball from Jeeny’s hand and tossed it lightly in the air.

Jack: “Want another match?”

Jeeny: “Only if we play for stories, not points.”

Jack: “Deal.”

Host: And as the ball arced upward — a perfect circle of motion and memory — it caught the light just long enough to look like something divine, suspended between the past and the present.

For a fleeting second, everything — laughter, lineage, loss — felt like one endless rally, and both Jack and Jeeny knew: the game never truly ends. It just changes hands.