The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

together. Like fatherless children they waited for someone to show them the way. They waited for the child of their Khan, as was tradition, but a woman had not led their people in centuries and few had faith in her abilities.

‘Of course, nowadays these youngsters want to put us aside and think for themselves, as though we are stupid and know nothing of the world!’ Sher Khan said to one of his fellow Jirga members. While his sons had been in prison, they had developed opinions that did not sit right with him. He wanted to hand over his responsibilities as a Jirga member, but he had little faith in their ability to step into his shoes. He had been relying on the Khan’s power and wisdom to bring them into line. With Akbar Khan gone he was forced to seek counsel elsewhere. ‘What are we to do?’ he said. ‘I am afraid our ways will die if something is not done. Akbar Khan promised to help but now he has passed to the next life, may Allah be pleased with him, and I do not know where we will turn for answers.’

The man beside him nodded in understanding; the demise of their homeland and scant hope of pure-blood Pukhtun grandchildren in this new land concerned them greatly. A way would have to be found to navigate issues of marriage and still maintain family loyalties. But for now it would have to wait. The Khan was gone and rumours of a rebellion were surfacing. The limbo in which they found themselves could quickly turn to purgatory if plans were not put in place to restore faith.

Fitting then, that it was the aroma of burning coals that greeted Jia when she walked into the room. In one corner a chef carved a slow-roasted baby calf with a sharp knife. Jia’s stomach turned at the sight of the flesh falling to the platter below. The chef’s table was plump with meat of all kinds; chappal kebabs and chunks of lamb sat amid mountains of rice with slim strands of carrots, sultanas and raisins, and, of course, fresh naan.

Mubarak Khan handed her a piled-high plate. There was nothing on it she could eat, but meat was the staple of her people. ‘You have fulfilled the law well,’ she said to him. ‘I’ll take this with me and share it with my mother. She hasn’t eaten since the wedding.’

Mubarak Khan nodded. ‘Your father always said that it was our laws that set men apart from beasts,’ he said. ‘The old laws give our lives meaning.’ Jia nodded. She knew the laws of Pukhtunwali well. They were deeply ingrained in her people. Melmastia and nanawatai were laws that demanded unconditional generosity and gave Pukhtuns their reputation as the most hospitable people in the world. It was the law of badal that gave them their other reputation, for invoking vengeance. She knew that history’s ledger was filled with the body count of those who had attempted to avoid its fulfilment, and that the path of the Pathan flowed red with the blood of feuds. But she hoped that time had brought change and that a more enlightened group of men sat before her today.

Having worked hard to disentangle herself from her father’s empire, she was conflicted about agreeing to meet with them. She had raised this with Idris, but he had offered no alternative. Power lay in the Jirga, and she needed their support. In the end, Benyamin’s safety was paramount, so she had resolved to put her pride aside. The drive over had given her time to peel away some of her concerns and develop a kind of strategy.

She would ask her father’s allies for zmeka, the law that demands a Pukhtun defend his property. She would remind them that as a daughter of their tribe and the child of their Khan, the code by which they lived obligated them to defend her and her honour. She hoped they would respond to her call. She had lost one brother; she would not lose another.

The men rose as she entered, and waited for her to take her place. Her head still covered and bowed, solemn and aware that every eye was on her, she walked across to where Bazigh Khan was waiting. Her hand in his, he led her to her place at the front of the room. The men sat down again. The atmosphere was heavy with the work Bazigh Khan had done to pacify them; the residue of reined-in arrogance and the scent of testosterone still lingered. The room felt thick with resentment, their hostility thinly veiled. Like a pack of hungry wolves, they waited. She knew that these men could sense fear and twist it to their will. In that moment, she was glad of her father’s tutelage and his raising her not to fear men.

‘Jia jaan, you are the daughter of our Khan,’ Bazigh Khan said. ‘We would like to offer you our condolences. “Inna lillaahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’oon.” If you are in agreement, we would like to start with the Fatihah to pray for maghfirat for Akbar Khan.’ Jia nodded, joining the men as they placed their hands before their faces, shielding their eyes from the world to recite seven of the most powerful verses of the Quran, calling upon their God. Jia hoped He was listening.

With the word ‘ameen’, Bazigh Khan signalled the end of the prayer, the men’s voices chiming with his. Then, drawing from the Quran again, he said: ‘And give good tidings to the patient, who, when disaster strikes them, say, “Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.”’

Jia wondered what her father would have to say about the situation in which she now found herself. She had considered his dispensation of justice to be ugly and misguided, feeding only his ego and having no place in the betterment of society. She had argued endlessly with him over this man’s value and