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

come together to mourn him. It was tradition, and it was in tradition that their power lay.

Bazigh Khan’s sons were in charge of overseeing the funeral. The younger members of the tabar had arrived at the first sign of light, and were going about their business like worker bees.

Dressed in white, Idris Khan moved from room to room, organising the house and household. Furniture had been removed and the floors were cleaned, ready to be covered in white cotton sheets. Wasim, the fabric merchant, was responsible for them. His mother and wife cried silent tears as they embraced the Khan’s widow, handing her the neatly pressed sheets they had spent all night hemming. Sanam Khan took them with gratitude before ushering them into the room where women were sitting in remembrance of their God and His servant.

She was reading verses of the Quran and wiping her tears from its pages, when Benyamin came to collect her. They were to see Akbar Khan for the last time.

Across the city, the Jirga were arriving at the morgue to participate in the most important ritual in a Muslim’s life: that of his burial. Formally dressed, some in shalwar kameez and others in Western suits, each man’s head was covered by a small white cap or Afghan topi, of the kind worn during prayer.

They shook hands and embraced, their emotions deep and bubbling over, the elders wiping away tears of regret and fear, as much as of sorrow. The ghusl, the ritual bathing of the body, was a reminder of the transient nature of life. Intimate and poignant, only the trusted were asked to take part. It was, therefore, a great honour and a reinforcement of each man’s place in the family to be here.

The smell of camphor and disinfectant filled the air. Akbar Khan’s cold corpse lay on a steel table in the centre of the white wet room, ready to be cleansed and then placed in the ground. The imam waited by the door. He knew the Pukhtun tabar was an emotional tribe and he warned them that the soul of Akbar Khan was still present. ‘It will remain connected to the earth for forty days. So, please, keep your anguish under control.’

The men nodded respectfully. Though young, the imam had proved himself to be worthy. By day he was a lawyer, working at the world’s largest legal firm and navigating the laws of the land. By night he helped believers understand and follow the laws of Allah. The two sides of his life stood him in good stead with all generations of the family. He was an honourable man.

When Sanam Khan arrived, she stood at her husband’s side, one hand on Benyamin’s shoulder, the other on the back of the chair that had been brought for him to sit on. As the wife of the deceased, she was the only woman allowed to participate in the final rites.

A shroud lay loosely over Akbar Khan’s body. He would never pray again; his spiritual accounts were complete and ready to be submitted. But his men could ask on his behalf, and they called upon their Maker to forgive their old friend and leader. Seeing him lying there, empty of his soul, brought a strange calm upon them, and as the solemnity of the ritual came to a close their eyes dried with the drying of his body. Camphor was sprinkled on three large pieces of white cotton, once, twice, thrice. The men stepped back and professed their faith: ‘La illah illallah, Muhammadur rasool Allah.’ As the cloth was brought forward and the kafan wrapped around the man who had terrified generations, he looked like any other corpse about to be lowered into a grave.

By noon the steady stream of visitors to the house had become a river. What had begun as hundreds grew to thousands. The streets around the family home and the mosque filled with parked and queuing cars.

The women wiped their tears with their chadors as they prayed, their heads covered and bowed. Young and old sat side by side, some veiled, others not, safe in the knowledge that the house of Khan held no judgement in matters of faith.

Jia stood by the front door, greeting the visitors as they arrived, Maria leaning on her, her hennaed hands clutching her chador as she tried to muffle her cries.

The Jirga had left the morgue and would be arriving shortly. Afraid that the sight of the casket would overwhelm her, Jia asked her sister to see to the mourners inside.

Sher Khan was the first of Akbar Khan’s business associates to arrive. Two tall men stood either side of him. They had been working closely with Idris all morning. ‘Jia Khan, our prayers are with you,’ he said, and then, introducing the two men, ‘My sons, Razi and Raza. My daughters and wife have been here since Fajr.’

‘Yes, Khan Baba. My family is grateful to your family,’ Jia said. It had been a long time since she’d been thankful for the support of her own people.

Sher Khan and his sons took their place with the mourners, waiting where the casket was to be brought. They were followed by an elderly man slowly navigating the stone steps of the house. When the man stumbled, a young woman with him reached out a hand to assist, but he knocked it back. Seeing Jia in the doorway seemed to give him the momentum he needed. His pace quickened and he eagerly placed his palm on her head upon greeting her, speaking in a dialect of Pashto she could not understand. Taking his hand in hers, she tried to thank him in a mix of English and the dialect of her family. The old man replied, tears in his eyes, and Jia looked to the young woman beside him for an explanation.

‘He is saying he owes a great debt to your family,’ said the young woman. ‘We are from your grandfather’s village in Afghanistan. Your father’s people, they