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

He thought carefully before he addressed them. ‘One mouth but two ears,’ his mother used to say, and he had taken it to heart.

‘Our role on this earth, my brothers, is to serve God and to assist His people,’ he said. ‘We understand that this is the dunya and not the jannah. This world is meant as a trial. It is harsh on the believers, and its pain will not cease until we are in the ground. As holders of this knowledge it is imperative that we ease that pain in whatever way we can. Even if the world judges us harshly. Remember this, that you and I are believers, and the world itself is a prison for the believer.’

The call for prayer interrupted him, coming from a speaker in the corner of the room. He stopped immediately. ‘Come, let us offer Isha together,’ he said, and stood aside to let his men make their way to the wet room.

They lined up before the twelve taps, the water sweet and clear, washing away their differences as it poured over them from their face to their feet, taking with it their sins. Ritually cleansed, they entered the room where the imam was waiting.

Ibrahim Khattak knew prayer to be a seminal part of these men’s lives. His father had spent his life in service to the mosque that Akbar Khan had built forty years ago. Since his death it had fallen to Ibrahim to tend to the Khan’s needs, helping him navigate the knottier laws of Allah, laws that could otherwise have kept the Khan up at night. Ibrahim was steeped in the old ways and well versed in the new, as were all the men who gathered there that day. They knew what was expected of them and Akbar Khan was well acquainted with their needs. Linked by blood, marriage and business, their families had been bound together for centuries. These powerful men pledged unwavering allegiance to the Khan; they were his Jirga; they were his right arm and his left.

As the imam began to speak the Arabic words of salah, silence fell. Shoulder to shoulder they stood before the God of Muhammad, who was also the God of Moses and Jesus and Krishna and Confucius. They knelt before him as men have done for fourteen centuries, their foreheads pressed deep into the prayer mat, whispering the words of repentance and supplication and praise, hoping for wisdom and wealth. The fardh offered, some stood for the sunnah, the optional prayers. Others remained seated, turning their attentions to their private tasbeeh.

Afterwards, as their wives offered envelopes of banknotes to the bride’s mother outside, the men returned to the study and promised their property, lives and honour to their God and then to Akbar Khan. Each man brought gifts, some brought requests; all brought respect.

One of these men was Sher Khan, Akbar Khan’s brother-in-law. He had waited twelve months for this day, and considered it auspicious to find himself seated next to his Khan. So when his protector asked him to pray for his daughter’s happiness he found the knot in his tongue loosened.

‘Inshallah and ameen, Khan sahib,’ he said. ‘I will surely pray for Maria. And I ask the same of you for my sons. They are good boys. They made only one mistake and trouble has followed them since.’

Akbar Khan’s eyes were downcast as though deep in thought. In truth, they were hiding his disappointment. He believed man’s role in the world was to evolve spiritually and emotionally, but Sher Khan’s family shunned self-improvement. Rough and abrupt, he’d not made the best impression on Akbar Khan when his sister had expressed her intention to marry him. Today was yet another reminder of Sher Khan’s ineptness.

Unaware of the Khan’s feelings, however, he continued to press his case, his voice betraying his ego. ‘I believed we were equal when we came to this country,’ he said. ‘I worked hard every day. I looked after my wife. I sent my children to school… I wanted them to live a good life, a happy life. Did we want to see this rioting? No! I was a law-abiding man. The boys’ mother, she listened to the police, we trusted them… She told the police where they were. She thought they would help us. But they took our sons and locked them away for twelve years, and since then they are like marked men, in and out of prison whenever they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The gorai,’ he said, spitting out the word for ‘pale skin’ as though it had a bad taste, ‘they burned our houses and abused our women but nothing was done to them. They get community service. What is this community service? Tell me. They have no idea about community, about honour, about friendship!’

On this, Akbar Khan agreed with him: the treatment of their men by the British law courts had not been just, and had only served to feed people’s anger. That Akbar Khan had the means to manipulate both the people and the police force meant that he could bring about the demise of the city if he wished, but he knew that doing so would serve no purpose. There were no winners in war except for dealers of arms and carpetbaggers. He had not become Khan by opening the gates of hell; he had become Khan by keeping the devil at bay. He measured and held his own tongue, while cutting the tongues of others out.

He looked at his brother-in-law, the pain he felt for his people evident on his face. ‘Treat a man like an animal and that is what he becomes,’ he said. ‘The justice system does not see us as human. I understand what you are saying, my brother, but I am not happy that you have raised this matter with me now, at my daughter’s wedding. Could it not have waited?’

Sher Khan fell to apologising. ‘Khan Baba. I have