The Uncle.

It is a Tuesday night in a famous parmagiana joint in Melbourne. Two Masterchef contestants who are trying their best to remain unobtrusive are sitting over the bar counter eating their parmas, and they add a touch of celebrity to an otherwise sparse and subdued dinnertime crowd at the pub-restaurant.

There are three Indian men sitting near us.

There is a quiet white-haired gentleman, a young man in his early twenties to his right who is his son, and then there is the uncle. The uncle is travelling from interstate on a business trip. The dinner location was his nephew's idea.

The uncle sits there in his business suit, his shirt collar still crisp, peeking out from underneath his grey suit. His back is ramrod straight, he leans forward as he speaks, and his index finger is always making a point.

"You know," he says to his nephew "I know that your amma has asked to see if I can get you a job, just to start somewhere, you know? I am looking, but you know, I want to get you a good job, not just some kind of a shit job."

The nephew smiles a little, upset that he is in a position of need. "That's okay, uncle, I am applying to a few other jobs..."

The uncle dismisses his comments with a wave of his hand. "Have you thought about Dubai? You know, you can make lots of money in Dubai, even if you just start out."

The nephew smiles again, and gives a little shake of his head. His life is here in Melbourne - his family, his footy team, this new girl he's seeing.

The conversation carries on, the uncle continuing to dictate their conversations like a business meeting. They talk about the footy, he looks at the picture of their dogs, they talk about how his brother will be travelling to Europe. His voice is firm and cold - he does not smile even once.

"Wow!" the nephew shakes his head, trying to relieve the high tension of a relaxing family dinner, "I can't believe I finished all that meat!"

"Yeah, it's good. You know, young man, Dubaiii.... if you work there, you can own your own house in four years."

There is more awkward silence. They finish their meal.

"Eh, dessert." says the uncle, staring unblinking at the nephew. It is not an offer. It is a challenge.

The nephew shrinks. He raises his hand with a smile, not meeting his gaze. "No thanks, uncle. I just... can't. This is too much."

The uncle raises one eyebrow and looks down, he lets out a disappointed sigh at this sign of weakness.

He brings out his wallet. It is as thick as a small book, filled with credit cards and receipts from his travel and business cards. His personal assistant must not be able to organise this part of him.

The bill comes and he is quick to snatch it away from the half-hearted attempts by his brother to pay for the meal. It is a dance they are all too familiar with.

"Hey, it's nothing," - he lifts his hand just enough to reveal the cost of their dinner for three to his brother.

He walks to the bar to pay and his brother and nephew are left at the table. They are both quiet, the brother's fingers drum along to the music in the pub. The nephew is deep is thought, wondering what success and happiness looks like, and whether they are the same thing.

"Coffee?."

Surrendered, they stand up, thank uncle for dinner and walk out into the cold Melbourne night.