The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

open slowly and the Range Rover slipped through and on to a private road. They drove for almost a mile before reaching the end of the winding driveway, where ten neatly parked black Bentleys signalled that the members of Akbar Khan’s Jury were here and waiting. A white Rolls-Royce, the only one of its kind in the line-up, was being buffed by a chauffeur in a neatly pressed Nehru jacket. Keeping up with the Khans was an expensive part of business, but the accoutrements of privilege were necessary if people were to believe they were living in times of plenty, and that their loyalty would be repaid.

Jia glanced at her watch; they had made good time. Idris had been in touch with the arrangements. ‘The Jirga had to start strictly controlling locations and timings after the attempt on Akbar Khan’s life in ’95,’ he’d said. Jia remembered those days vividly, her father in hospital, men in and out of the house checking security and ignoring everyone around them. A dark cloud had descended on the family business. Tensions had been high then, much as they were now, but this time her father wasn’t here to navigate them.

The riots of that year had left their mark on the Khans and taught them an invaluable lesson: organised crime cannot operate without the rule of law. So they had drawn up a clear set of rules on which the family business now ran. These rules ran alongside the ancient tribal laws, and were enforced and adhered to.

There was a clear protocol for meetings. Decisions were finalised last minute to minimise leaks. Representatives from each family met an hour before the scheduled arrival time to draw straws, with the man with the longest straw making the venue arrangements. It was a great honour, but the work required was hard and they had to move fast. After all, they were Pukhtun and hospitality was as great a concern as security.

Today, Mubarak Khan and his establishment had been tasked with the honour. A master baker, he was among the closest and most trusted of Akbar Khan’s allies. The meeting was being held at his bread-making business on the outskirts of the city, in a pink building that nestled among the landscape like a gentle rose.

He was standing by the entrance when Jia arrived, his portly body reminding her of a wholemeal dough ball waiting to be dusted and flattened and rolled into a chapatti. Mubarak Khan was bound by a deep loyalty. His empire was built on the foundations of the Khan brotherhood that some called ‘biraderi’, but as with all great patriarchal cultures, his family business was in fact started by a woman for her one great love, her son.

Despite his success, Mubarak Khan had not forgotten his debt, or his place in the Khan brotherhood. His feet were planted firmly on the ground and ready to follow the Khan into battle. After all, it was his money that had enabled the uneducated but ambitious baker to start the venture; it was his guiding hand that had helped it prove, and his insistence on ‘taking care’ of competitors that had allowed it to rise and become golden. Mubarak’s mother had baked the code of the ‘Old Country’ into everything she made, and that included her son. It was mixed in with the red clay of his ovens, the salt that seasoned his flour and the blood that ran through his veins. And so Akbar Khan’s daughter was now Mubarak’s daughter; her wishes were his command and her honour was now his duty. He greeted her warmly, kissing her forehead, tears in his eyes.

Jia hadn’t visited the bakery since she was a child. She reached out to touch the walls, letting her fingers move across the once-peeling paint, and saw that they had been restored with care.

Mubarak Khan led her through the building, the fragrance of hot naan and cinnamon swirling through the air as they walked the length of the corridor. He pushed open a door at the end and together they entered a shiny stainless-steel kitchen where men wearing black cotton aprons and matching linen hats were mixing and kneading and baking. Light dustings of flour covered their faces and everything around them. Jia watched as three men took pieces of dough and plied them into balls, rolling each one out into a circle before placing it on a kind of cooking cushion. A fourth man picked up the cushion and reached into the burning tandoor, pressing the uncooked naan against the hot clay wall to make it stick. She thought of her father’s words the last time she had been here. ‘Respect these men,’ he had said. ‘Every day they put their hands into the depths of hellfire to bring you food.’ Watching the men work, Jia wondered how deep into those hellfires Akbar Khan now found himself.

Beyond the kitchen and hidden in the heart of the bakery was a large, windowless conference room. A select few knew of its existence, and if its whitewashed walls could talk, they would have destroyed many a powerful man. The room was a place of shura, of consultation, and this was the way of the Jirga. Akbar Khan had long held that debate and discussion gave people a sense of control over their destiny, and prevented rebellion, and he had encouraged it in his tribesmen. Consultation was the closest they came to democracy.

Today, the room was empty of most of its furniture, the twelve leather armchairs that were usually there having been replaced by white cotton sheets spread across a polished parquet floor. The Jirga sat cross-legged, their heads covered with soft prayer hats and bowed in solemnity. Some of them prayed silently, some a little louder, others discussed personal matters quietly between themselves.

Their Khan had gone on to the next world, leaving them in a place between life and death; their affairs were unfinished, their questions unanswered. They needed a leader who could bring them