by Saima Mir
The bouncers watched the red Ferrari leave. One of the men was slightly taller than the other. He shook his head as the car left and then continued with his conversation: ‘Yeah, it’s her birthday. She’s been going on about wanting some fairy castle.’ He pulled out his phone and showed his colleague a photograph of his five-year-old daughter. ‘They say it changes your life but you don’t believe them. And then one day your little girl wraps her hand around your finger and nothing’s the same.’ He smiled as he put his phone back into his pocket.
A silver Subaru turned the corner next to the nightclub. It circled back and a man in a suit leaned out of the passenger side. The shorter of the two bouncers clocked who he was just as the spray of bullets began. Revellers collapsed on top of him, their legs taking the hit. By the time he was able to stand, all he could see was blood. And his friend’s body in a heap on the pavement.
CHAPTER 9
A lone security man watched from his tower and bowed as Benyamin Khan did a last sweep around the grounds of the private residence, under the gaze of countless security cameras, to check everything was ready. Grandiose and imposing, the Victorian mansion was exactly the kind of place befitting the city’s kingpin, and the perfect setting for a wedding.
Built by a wealthy textile merchant, it had fallen into disrepair when Akbar Khan bought it. It was part of the city’s heritage, but to Benyamin it was just home. The extensive gardens bloomed all year long thanks to their two gardeners. They kept the varying green hues of the lush landscape visible from every window. From its hilltop, the house watched over the two aspects of the city, the white and the Asian, a divide not visible in the landscape but etched on the minds of the people who lived there. Pukhtun House was the one place where the two met as equals to discuss matters of importance.
The inside of the house was suitably dignified, thanks to Sanam Khan. She had spent years collecting artefacts and antiquities, and restoring pieces of furniture to their former glory. She had once belonged to generational wealth and looked down on the gaudiness of new money. This house was a labour of love. The family finances had dwindled when her grandmother was a young woman, but she had tried to keep the legacy alive by training her grandchildren in the art of the gentry – familiarity with the knot counts of Persian rugs, how to tell if a fabric is silk or synthetic, the choosing of chai, discernment in the quality of china, the purchasing of pure spices – all skills that had proved useless until now. According to the genteel ways in which Sanam Khan was raised, weddings were the one time ostentation was allowed, and Benyamin was pleased to see the how well the preparations had gone. It had taken an army of men to drape every tree on the estate in lights but not one of these workmen was visible now.
The wedding guests began to arrive in all their splendour, their black, blue, grey and white cars lining the driveway of the sprawling family house, each one more expensive than the next. Hidden away from prying eyes, they were able to enjoy Akbar Khan’s keen hospitality. The grounds swelled with powerful people, some of whom did not want to be seen, others who had a price on their head: they needed assurances that their safety was guaranteed. Discreetly placed cameras covered every part of Pukhtun House. Connected to a hi-tech security system, they allowed guests to maintain a sense of privacy and safety. The army of loyal men who were known to watch over the Khan and his home continued their surveillance from a distance. All that was needed was one simple signal and the house would be surrounded and in full lockdown. But few people other than Akbar Khan and his family were ever seen in the grounds of Pukhtun House. The Khan’s justice was known to be swift and his men skilled in its delivery. This and their undying loyalty struck fear into the hearts of anyone who would attempt anything. Though no one was visible, everyone was being watched.
A marquee covered the entire north side of the garden; no expense had been spared. Ladies in swirls of bright silks filled one half of the tent like sweet fruit coulis, as they admired and envied each other’s jewels. The younger generation dressed more simply, opting for pearls in place of their mothers’ gaudy gold necklaces, the children of immigrants tempering the vibrancy of their heritage with shades of their new homeland. At the other side of the marquee their fathers, husbands and brothers knocked back whisky in sharp suits, shalwar kameez and silk Nehru coats, laughing raucously as they patted each other on the back and shook hands over stories of love, war and business.
At the end of the garden, a young man waited on the bridal stage. Tapping the mic he gently drew the crowd’s attention. He grinned and winked at the older ladies, who feigned offence, as the younger women stole glances, hoping to catch his handsome eye. Confidently, slowly, he began humming a well-known Pukhtun love song. The hum turned to words, the men began to clap, the women sway, and he had control of the crowd. He sang of the beauty of Pukhtun women and of the strength of their men, and of the love of their homeland. His words took effect and a loud cheer went up from the men, and the women clutched their hands over their mouths, muffling their laughter. One particularly stout man dressed in cream shalwar kameez and a heavily embroidered waistcoat started miming to the song. He took his wife by the hand, his other arm in the air, and began copying the ways of folk dancers. The crowd clapped loudly and whoops of delight travelled across the gardens and into the house, where Benyamin was. He was holding the basket of motichoor ladoo, each one as big as a fist. The yellow sweetmeat balls had been sent as a mark of respect from a friend of Akbar Khan and were to be given out to the guests at the end of the night.
Benyamin entered the kitchen. The counters were filled with fresh meat, coriander, bulbs of garlic, onions and other produce, the hobs with large pots of bubbling curry. The fragrance of rice and kewra water filled the room. A burly man wearing a blood-stained apron was chopping mutton with a cleaver, the knife cutting through shoulder after shoulder with ease.
‘Why are you cutting the meat, Lala? We have people to do this.’
‘I know, beta. I came in to oversee things but they were making a mess of it! And I want it all to be perfect for your sister. And will it be you next?’ Bazigh Khan raised a jesting eyebrow at his favourite nephew, who brushed him off affectionately; he was used to the question.
Bazigh Khan was a stout man with a red beard, and his business was butchery. Those who knew him understood that he was a man to frighten Iblis and his army of fallen angels. He was a man of myth. There were those who would swear blind that he was responsible for all chaos in the world, saying that when God ordered the angels to bow before Adam, it was Bazigh Khan who whispered in the ear of Iblis. Growing fat and arrogant on the butcher’s friendship, the devil raised a rebellion that took on the Lord of heaven and earth Himself.
In the real world, Bazigh Khan owned the country’s largest supplier of halal meat, and his produce was eaten in all the best restaurants, halal and haram alike. Today, he had personally taken it upon himself to prepare the roasting lamb, the baby chickens and the keema for chappal kebabs. This was his gift to his niece. After all, she had been raised in his arms and was his heart and honour.
‘You’re looking a little skinny, Benyamin jaan. Eat! Make us proud, like a real Pukhtun!’ he told his nephew.
‘Yeah yeah… Look, I’ve brought poison for all you REAL Pukhtun diabetics. It’s part of my plan to kill you all and take over the family business.’
‘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. ‘I
t 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 Fridays.
He thought carefully before he addressed them. ‘One mouth but two ears,’ his mother used to say, and he had taken it to heart.
‘Our role on this earth, my brothers, is to serve God and to assist His people,’ he said. ‘We understand that this is the dunya and not the jannah. This world is meant as a trial. It is harsh on the believers, and its pain will not cease until we are in the ground. As holders of this knowledge it is imperative that we ease that pain in whatever way we can. Even if the world judges us harshly. Remember this, that you and I are believers, and the world itself is a prison for the believer.’
The call for prayer interrupted him, coming from a speaker in the corner of the room. He stopped immediately. ‘Come, let us offer Isha together,’ he said, and stood aside to let his men make their way to the wet room.
They lined up before the twelve taps, the water sweet and clear, washing away their differences as it poured over them from their face to their feet, taking with it their sins. Ritually cleansed, they entered the room where the imam was waiting.
Ibrahim Khattak knew prayer to be a seminal part of these men’s lives. His father had spent his life in service to the mosque that Akbar Khan had built forty years ago. Since his death it had fallen to Ibrahim to tend to the Khan’s needs, helping him navigate the knottier laws of Allah, laws that could otherwise have kept the Khan up at night. Ibrahim was steeped in the old ways and well versed in the new, as were all the men who gathered there that day. They knew what was expected of them and Akbar Khan was well acquainted with their needs. Linked by blood, marriage and business, their families had been bound together for centuries. These powerful men pledged unwavering allegiance to the Khan; they were his Jirga; they were his right arm and his left.
As the imam began to speak the Arabic words of salah, silence fell. Shoulder to shoulder they stood before the God of Muhammad, who was also the God of Moses and Jesus and Krishna and Confucius. They knelt before him as men have done for fourteen centuries, their foreheads pressed deep into the prayer mat, whispering the words of repentance and supplication and praise, hoping for wisdom and wealth. The fardh offered, some stood for the sunnah, the optional prayers. Others remained seated, turning their attentions to their private tasbeeh.
Afterwards, as their wives offered envelopes of banknotes to the bride’s mother outside, the men returned to the study and promised their property, lives and honour to their God and then to Akbar Khan. Each man brought gifts, some brought requests; all brought respect.
One of these men was Sher Khan, Akbar Khan’s brother-in-law. He had waited twelve months for this day, and considered it auspicious to find himself seated next to his Khan. So when his protector asked him to pray for his daughter’s happiness he found the knot in his tongue loosened.
‘Inshallah and ameen, Khan sahib,’ he said. ‘I will surely pray for Maria. And I ask the same of you for my sons. They are good boys. They made only one mistake and trouble has followed them since.’
Akbar Khan’s eyes were downcast as though deep in thought. In truth, they were hiding his disappointment. He believed man’s role in the world was to evolve spiritually and emotionally, but Sher Khan’s family shunned self-improvement. Rough and abrupt, he’d not made the best impression on Akbar Khan when his sister had expressed her intention to marry him. Today was ye
t another reminder of Sher Khan’s ineptness.
Unaware of the Khan’s feelings, however, he continued to press his case, his voice betraying his ego. ‘I believed we were equal when we came to this country,’ he said. ‘I worked hard every day. I looked after my wife. I sent my children to school… I wanted them to live a good life, a happy life. Did we want to see this rioting? No! I was a law-abiding man. The boys’ mother, she listened to the police, we trusted them… She told the police where they were. She thought they would help us. But they took our sons and locked them away for twelve years, and since then they are like marked men, in and out of prison whenever they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The gorai,’ he said, spitting out the word for ‘pale skin’ as though it had a bad taste, ‘they burned our houses and abused our women but nothing was done to them. They get community service. What is this community service? Tell me. They have no idea about community, about honour, about friendship!’
On this, Akbar Khan agreed with him: the treatment of their men by the British law courts had not been just, and had only served to feed people’s anger. That Akbar Khan had the means to manipulate both the people and the police force meant that he could bring about the demise of the city if he wished, but he knew that doing so would serve no purpose. There were no winners in war except for dealers of arms and carpetbaggers. He had not become Khan by opening the gates of hell; he had become Khan by keeping the devil at bay. He measured and held his own tongue, while cutting the tongues of others out.
He looked at his brother-in-law, the pain he felt for his people evident on his face. ‘Treat a man like an animal and that is what he becomes,’ he said. ‘The justice system does not see us as human. I understand what you are saying, my brother, but I am not happy that you have raised this matter with me now, at my daughter’s wedding. Could it not have waited?’