The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

The daughter of Akbar Khan had proved herself worthy. She had exacted badal and she had brought their sons together under one banner. They were pleased. The one or two dissident voices among them had been quietened, if not by the actions of Jia Khan, then by fellow members of the Jirga. Unity made them strong. It had been this way for centuries. A divided Jirga could lead to bloodshed and decades of unrest in business and matrimonial matters. Many of the men had daughters and they had secretly been worried about their futures. But the new Khan had allayed those fears. After all, she was a woman and had an understanding of these things.

Jia spoke again. ‘Rest assured that I am responsible for those who call me their Khan. And I will honour that responsibility until my death.’

It was time. Each man turned and placed his hand on the shoulder of the one in front and took the centuries-old oath. The sound of their voices rippled through the house as their emotions overcame them. Promising to honour the laws of Pukhtunwali and keep the covenant of secrecy, they were now bound to each other and their Khan by more than blood. Jia pulled her chador over her head and tight round her shoulders. One by one, the men came forward, each one placing his hand on her head, offering words of prayer and praise. She was their sister, their mother, their honour. What was said within the confines of the Khan’s study could not be repeated outside those four walls. And what was confided to the Khan by a Jirga member was sacred and secret.

The men embraced each other heartily as though meeting for the first time in a long time. Watched over by Jia, they were safe once again under their appointed leader. It was a day most blessed.

As they turned to leave she raised her hand. ‘Before you go, I would tell you one more thing.’ She picked up the glass and drank from it deeply. The men waited to hear what else their matriarch had to say.

‘Know that I would not hesitate to kill anyone who attempted to hurt our family and bring an end to our peace,’ she said, her voice cold and her hand steady. ‘Even if that meant someone from this room.’

Idris and Bazigh Khan were the last to leave. It had been a long day and they had not yet spoken about the day’s events or those that had preceded it. As Idris was driving his father home, Bazigh Khan pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket.

‘She will prove herself a worthy Khan,’ he read out. ‘Your uncle gave me this the night he died. It was as if he knew it was coming.’

‘Baba jaan, I wish to respectfully ask a question,’ said Idris.

‘Go ahead,’ his father said.

‘How is that you have such faith her? Pukhtuns have traditionally subjugated their women, and yet here I see your unquestioning loyalty to one. What am I missing?’

‘She is our mother now. Our people have always held their mothers in high esteem. Paradise is said to be found at their feet,’ his father replied. ‘And…Jia Khan has more Pukhtun in her bloodlines than most of these menfolk. She will do what she must to keep the family honour. Do not underestimate her. I have seen what she is capable of with my own eyes…’ Bazigh Khan stopped.

Wanting to hear more but understanding the subject required delicacy, Idris stayed quiet, hoping his father would trust him enough to tell him exactly what he had seen. They travelled in silence for some time. Then the old man spoke again.

‘Son, I know that you have wanted to make her your wife since you were young. I know that even living with Mary, you consider Jia Khan the other half of your soul. But know that you were saved when she married Elyas.’

Idris pressed his father. ‘Baba jaan? What did you see?’ he said.

‘I saw your uncle’s anguish. Sanam Khan and I were the only ones that did,’ he said. ‘It was pitch black the night he came to me with the child. It was his grandson, Jia and Elyas’s son, Ahad. I had never seen Akbar Khan that way. He was a hard man but not heartless, and what he had seen had shaken him. He handed me the child and asked me what we should do. I had no idea. I had raised you but with the help of Sanam Khan.’

Idris was stunned. ‘Akbar Khan wanted you to kill his grandson?’ he said.

‘No! My brother wanted me to help him save him! I had seen her try once but had thought it the madness of post-partum women. I had spoken to her and called her mother to keep watch and feed the child. But Akbar Khan, he told me he had caught her a second time, the child on her lap, and the pillow over the baby’s face…’

‘Who, Baba jaan?’ said Idris.

‘The child’s mother. Jia Khan.’ Bazigh Khan stopped. ‘She told me it was the Pukhtun way. That in times of war such things were necessary. That she had far to travel, that the child would bind her and be used by her father against her.’

Idris pressed his foot on the brake hard. His car screeched to a halt inches away from a crash. Engrossed in his father’s words, he hadn’t noticed the lights change or the car in front stop. His understanding of the situation had always been that Jia hadn’t wanted the baby, and had sent him to live with his father. That the truth was much darker made his blood run cold.

‘You are worried, my son,’ said his father. ‘I would be too. She bided her time for fifteen long years. The night of his death Akbar Khan gave me a letter with instructions not to read it until the following day. In it, he told me to forgive Jia Khan