The Khan by Saima Mir (best thriller novels of all time .txt) 📗

a young woman, but she had tried to keep the legacy alive by training her grandchildren in the art of the gentry – familiarity with the knot counts of Persian rugs, how to tell if a fabric is silk or synthetic, the choosing of chai, discernment in the quality of china, the purchasing of pure spices – all skills that had proved useless until now. According to the genteel ways in which Sanam Khan was raised, weddings were the one time ostentation was allowed, and Benyamin was pleased to see the how well the preparations had gone. It had taken an army of men to drape every tree on the estate in lights but not one of these workmen was visible now.

The wedding guests began to arrive in all their splendour, their black, blue, grey and white cars lining the driveway of the sprawling family house, each one more expensive than the next. Hidden away from prying eyes, they were able to enjoy Akbar Khan’s keen hospitality. The grounds swelled with powerful people, some of whom did not want to be seen, others who had a price on their head: they needed assurances that their safety was guaranteed. Discreetly placed cameras covered every part of Pukhtun House. Connected to a hi-tech security system, they allowed guests to maintain a sense of privacy and safety. The army of loyal men who were known to watch over the Khan and his home continued their surveillance from a distance. All that was needed was one simple signal and the house would be surrounded and in full lockdown. But few people other than Akbar Khan and his family were ever seen in the grounds of Pukhtun House. The Khan’s justice was known to be swift and his men skilled in its delivery. This and their undying loyalty struck fear into the hearts of anyone who would attempt anything. Though no one was visible, everyone was being watched.

A marquee covered the entire north side of the garden; no expense had been spared. Ladies in swirls of bright silks filled one half of the tent like sweet fruit coulis, as they admired and envied each other’s jewels. The younger generation dressed more simply, opting for pearls in place of their mothers’ gaudy gold necklaces, the children of immigrants tempering the vibrancy of their heritage with shades of their new homeland. At the other side of the marquee their fathers, husbands and brothers knocked back whisky in sharp suits, shalwar kameez and silk Nehru coats, laughing raucously as they patted each other on the back and shook hands over stories of love, war and business.

At the end of the garden, a young man waited on the bridal stage. Tapping the mic he gently drew the crowd’s attention. He grinned and winked at the older ladies, who feigned offence, as the younger women stole glances, hoping to catch his handsome eye. Confidently, slowly, he began humming a well-known Pukhtun love song. The hum turned to words, the men began to clap, the women sway, and he had control of the crowd. He sang of the beauty of Pukhtun women and of the strength of their men, and of the love of their homeland. His words took effect and a loud cheer went up from the men, and the women clutched their hands over their mouths, muffling their laughter. One particularly stout man dressed in cream shalwar kameez and a heavily embroidered waistcoat started miming to the song. He took his wife by the hand, his other arm in the air, and began copying the ways of folk dancers. The crowd clapped loudly and whoops of delight travelled across the gardens and into the house, where Benyamin was. He was holding the basket of motichoor ladoo, each one as big as a fist. The yellow sweetmeat balls had been sent as a mark of respect from a friend of Akbar Khan and were to be given out to the guests at the end of the night.

Benyamin entered the kitchen. The counters were filled with fresh meat, coriander, bulbs of garlic, onions and other produce, the hobs with large pots of bubbling curry. The fragrance of rice and kewra water filled the room. A burly man wearing a blood-stained apron was chopping mutton with a cleaver, the knife cutting through shoulder after shoulder with ease.

‘Why are you cutting the meat, Lala? We have people to do this.’

‘I know, beta. I came in to oversee things but they were making a mess of it! And I want it all to be perfect for your sister. And will it be you next?’ Bazigh Khan raised a jesting eyebrow at his favourite nephew, who brushed him off affectionately; he was used to the question.

Bazigh Khan was a stout man with a red beard, and his business was butchery. Those who knew him understood that he was a man to frighten Iblis and his army of fallen angels. He was a man of myth. There were those who would swear blind that he was responsible for all chaos in the world, saying that when God ordered the angels to bow before Adam, it was Bazigh Khan who whispered in the ear of Iblis. Growing fat and arrogant on the butcher’s friendship, the devil raised a rebellion that took on the Lord of heaven and earth Himself.

In the real world, Bazigh Khan owned the country’s largest supplier of halal meat, and his produce was eaten in all the best restaurants, halal and haram alike. Today, he had personally taken it upon himself to prepare the roasting lamb, the baby chickens and the keema for chappal kebabs. This was his gift to his niece. After all, she had been raised in his arms and was his heart and honour.

‘You’re looking a little skinny, Benyamin jaan. Eat! Make us proud, like a real Pukhtun!’ he told his nephew.

‘Yeah yeah… Look, I’ve brought poison for all you REAL Pukhtun diabetics. It’s part of my plan to kill you