The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

‘It will take more than a little sugar to kill that old man!’ called a familiar-looking man stirring the curry pot on the stove. The wedding was awash with family; Benyamin wasn’t even sure how some of them were related to each other – they were ‘cousins’ and that was all he needed to know. ‘Have you not heard? Even the plague runs and hides from Bazigh Khan!’

And Bazigh Khan laughed wholeheartedly at his cousin’s words. The men’s lungs filled with air, their bellies with food. It was a good day to be alive. It had been too long since this house had heard such laughter.

‘Put the mithai in the dining room,’ Bazigh Khan said to his nephew. ‘It will start to smell of karahi if you leave it here.’

Benyamin took the basket into the dining room. He looked around for a place to leave it, but boxes of Maria’s wedding trousseau lined the walls. He was about to exit when he felt someone’s eyes on him. A woman with a familiar face, one much thinner than he remembered, was standing by the window. He flinched at the sight of her. She’d caught him off guard.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said. His voice was soaked in annoyance, the kind one saves for family. It surprised her.

‘Benny?’ she said. She’d been slow to recognise him.

But he knew her instantly. She didn’t look that much older, and although something about her manner said she wasn’t the girl who had fled this house years ago, he knew her. And in that moment, it felt as if not a thread of time had elapsed since they’d last met. Seeing her, the responsibility briefly slipped from his shoulders, falling to the floor along with the years that had passed, as he felt himself becoming her little brother again. He wanted to embrace her, but his pride stood like a glass wall between them. He stepped back. ‘Have you seen Baba?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘You’ve lost weight. You look like a man.’

Benyamin straightened up.

‘I am a man,’ he said. He had enough attention from both sexes to know he was no longer the overweight kid he used to be. His baby fat had been replaced by muscle; his chest was wide and his eyes proud, but something in them told Jia that that pride was not whole. Her little brother had grown up and his aura was hard and cold, tinged with self-preservation. But in spite of all that, to Jia he was still the same little boy who wanted to eat ice-cream sandwiches and kebab-topped bagels every day, the one wiping dripping ketchup from the side of his mouth.

‘Don’t say anything stupid to Mama,’ he said. ‘She’s old now, she can’t handle your stuff any more.’

‘Benny, I’m here for the wedding. Maria asked me.’

‘You know how you get. Just leave it alone, OK?’ He was picking a fight with her the way one picks a scab. He didn’t really want it to bleed, he just wanted to know what was under it. She didn’t reply, and it pissed him off even more. ‘Just do what you want and leave. You do anyway.’

She reached out to touch him but he turned away, and reflected in his eyes, for the first time, she saw what she had done. The walls that she had built to protect herself had left those more vulnerable than her on the outside. In taking care of herself she had forgotten those for whom she was responsible. Benyamin was holding on to his anger; it had started to define him. She had done that to him and it hurt her a little to know he was right. Unable to stay in her presence, he walked out of the French windows and into the garden.

The guests were feasting; the air was scented with tender lamb, hot roasting coals and warm naan, and rang with the sound of rhythmic clapping and singing. The smells and noise drifted in through the open doors as Jia watched her brother walk across the lawn towards their father. The old man was laughing and dancing with her mother; she was pushing him playfully away and he was bringing her back into his arms. Benyamin joined them, his father enveloping him in a hearty embrace. It was rare to see Akbar smile. It was rarer still to see him laugh so heartily. As Jia watched the garden full of merriment, her heart filled with memories of Zan Khan. She moved back into the shadows, waiting for the longing to pass.

CHAPTER 10

Akbar Khan quickly descended the staircase of his home. His wife had been fussing over his attire and he had kept the men waiting longer than he deemed acceptable. Twelve of them, all immaculately dressed, were sitting patiently in the study.

The room spanned the length of the house, its large bay windows, covered with heavy velvet curtains, faced each other at opposite ends. The Khan’s antique desk sat in front of one of these windows, a leather captain’s chair behind it. Across from it was a tall, carved wooden jhoola, the kind of cradle swing found in the homes of feudal families of Pakistan and the royalty of pre-partition India. Matching chairs lined the sides of the room, each one intricately carved from rosewood with a small table beside it. Each one filled except for one.

The talk was small, of the weather and Eid and Hajj, and ended with Akbar Khan’s arrival. Each man stepped forward to shake his hand and they embraced thrice, as was the custom, multiplying between them the greeting of peace.

Akbar Khan surveyed his men. They were his brothers in arms. Although their work was not an appropriate subject at other weddings, it was welcome at Pukhtun House. Akbar Khan knew his men were here today as much for connection as for celebration. They needed to hear him speak, the way congregants need their preacher on