The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

gharara with the same ease as she handled everything else in life. Sanam Khan had succeeded in protecting at least one of her daughters.

Back in his study, her father was thinking the same thing as he watched them.

‘You seem troubled, Brother?’ Bazigh Khan said.

‘A little. I want you to take these papers. There is a letter in it addressed to you. Open it tomorrow before you come to see me, and then burn it.’ Akbar Khan placed his right hand on his brother’s shoulder, as if to stress the importance of what he was about to say. ‘I know it is a strange request, but everything will become clear. Tomorrow evening, we’ll talk like we used to before things changed, yes?’ His voice was weary. Bazigh Khan had not heard him speak this way since Jia left. ‘I trust you above all others. And I know that you trust me. I know that you will stand by the family no matter what,’ he said. He locked eyes with his brother, unwilling to look away until understanding passed over Bazigh Khan’s face. The matter was too important to be avoided, yet too delicate to be ridden over roughshod with empty words. ‘No matter what happens,’ he said.

Bazigh Khan nodded. ‘Yes, Brother,’ he said. ‘You have my word.’

CHAPTER 11

He scanned the other guests with a mix of nerves and excitement. The thought of seeing her had kept him up all night. He wondered if this was what a mid-life crisis felt like. He wondered why he was here. He wondered if this was a mistake.

Across from him, surrounded by his closest friends and his children, Akbar Khan danced with his wife. The man who’d damaged Elyas’s life was still happily continuing his. The last time he had been in this place, words had been said and tragedy had followed. The last time he’d seen Akbar Khan was when he had left Ahad in Elyas’s care.

Watching the crowd encircle his father-in-law, clapping and singing and making merry, he felt time fold back on itself. It brought with it pieces of his past…the scent of his new bride’s skin, the henna on her hands, the light as it poured in through the blinds the morning after their wedding night, and the sound of her singing in the bathroom. He was hit by an ocean of longing for old times, followed by a wave of hatred for the man who had taken it from him. Akbar Khan hadn’t aged a day and watching him now, acting as if his life had lost none of its vigour, anger began to rise inside Elyas. He wanted to march over and wrap his hands around the old man’s neck and squeeze and squeeze until the life ran out of him.

‘Drink, sir?’ a voice said, snapping Elyas out of his thoughts. He knew now he should not have come. He turned to leave, but stopped. A woman was waving at him from the other side of the marquee. She began walking towards him, pulling the edge of her pink sari tight around her shoulders, the lace of her blouse delicately framing her slender neck, and he felt that old pull in his stomach return. He watched as she effortlessly crossed the crowded marquee and the years of missed opportunities and unsaid words. She stopped before him, and he realised he was holding his breath. He realised, again, that this was a mistake. He realised he hadn’t really got over her.

‘Elyas,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Jia Khan,’ he said, and then nothing. They stood in awkward silence, watching as others who hadn’t met since the last family event embraced, laughed and posed for photographs. The oft-imagined overcooked words saved up for meeting one’s past love fell away as Elyas shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his new shoes cutting into him. He was grateful when she finally broke the silence. ‘You’ve started wearing glasses,’ she said.

The ordinariness of the conversation managed both to annoy him and put him at ease. ‘I’m getting old,’ he said, as he touched the bridge of the solid black spectacles, pushing them into place.

‘They suit you. You look clever.’

Where the hell were you? Why am I here? And what the fuck is going on? – all words he wanted to say, but didn’t. Experience had taught him the consequences of rash actions, and he understood better than most the power of words. Maybe being tongue-tied in front of an old flame was where small talk originated, he thought wryly.

‘You didn’t think I looked clever before?’ he batted back.

‘You look good. And you still haven’t learnt to take a compliment.’

‘No, you’re right, I haven’t. You would know that if you’d answered any of my letters.’

His words surprised her, and as she fell silent he noticed all the ways in which she’d changed. Her eyes, once shy and unsure, now pooled with self-assurance. Her words were measured, and despite what had transpired between them, her smile was warm and forth-coming. She ignored his dig. ‘I catch you on-screen occasionally,’ she said, and now it was his turn to be surprised. Their parting had been so sudden and her reaction so severe that he had assumed she had cut him out of all existence, like taking scissors to old photographs. That she hadn’t, pissed him off.

‘Where are you staying?’ she said.

‘The cottage.’

‘You still have that?’

‘Never got around to selling. Not much changes here, does it? Same place, same city, same people, same bed… Everything’s the same… Well, almost everything…’ Nothing was the same. Not since she’d left. They were skirting around an elephant and he wanted to name it and shame her, along with all the other pent-up accusations, but the words wouldn’t come. He searched her face for something, anything, anything that would betray her feelings. And then he saw it, that look in her eyes, the way she gently reached up and touched her neck, her fingers spread wide, and he