The Khan

by Saima Mir

  Elyas, who had been poised for a fight and a barrage of abuse, was taken aback. The Pukhtun ways were legend in his home. His grandfather had been hard on his children, saying it was the custom of the ‘old country’ and the best way to instil discipline in one’s offspring. That Akbar Khan would be anything else had not occurred to him.

  Jia reached over and touched her father’s cheek. ‘Baba jaan…’ she said. And Elyas saw a tender expression fall across his face. He listened to his daughter quietly, his head bowed throughout her explanations. He seemed like a good man, a just man, and Elyas wondered if there was any truth to the stories about Akbar Khan. When he finally raised his head, he looked down the table at his son-in-law, and Elyas was reminded of the oversized eyes of a maindak, but of course he could not be as harmless as a bullfrog. Jia finished speaking and Akbar Khan called Elyas towards him. ‘Bacha, come here.’ He patted the empty place to his left. Elyas did as he was asked.

  He both feared and revered Akbar Khan. So when asked for his father’s name, Elyas answered in more detail than was necessary. His knowledge was sketchy and he found the names difficult to pronounce, but Akbar Khan seemed impressed with his effort. He smiled and patted him on the back. ‘Good, good. I am pleased my daughter has chosen to marry into such an honourable family. Even if the manner has been a little less than honourable. We must correct that oversight and organise an official wedding. I know you have already had your nikaah, but in my house that is not enough. I am a forward-thinking man but many in my family are not. I do not want them to point fingers at my daughter and her honour, you understand?’ Elyas nodded. ‘Then write down your parents’ name and address on here and leave the rest to me,’ Akbar Khan said. The scribbled details were taken gratefully by Akbar Khan and slipped into his shirt pocket.

  ‘He’s probably going to have me beaten up,’ Elyas had said half-jokingly to Jia on the way over, ‘and then thrown out of the house.’ Akbar Khan had done neither. Instead he had only smiled.

  After the meal, Akbar Khan said he had much to attend to, and stood to take his leave, his son-in-law following suit. Akbar Khan placed his hand on Elyas’s head. ‘Kor di wadan!’ he said as he kissed him.

  For a second, fear filled his new son-in-law’s eyes, but Sanam Khan smiled, and Jia whispered in his ear, ‘It means “a blessing upon your house!”’ And he relaxed.

  Akbar Khan pulled out a roll of purple banknotes from his kameez pocket and called Chilli Chacha towards him. ‘Buy some mithai and send the rest of this to your family,’ he said. ‘Tell them my daughter has found a Khan worthy of her!’ Jia kissed her father without reservation and he responded with laughter, turning to hug his new son-in-law once more.

  No one even noticed the small slip of paper that made its way into the manservant’s hand and from him to Bazigh Khan.

  CHAPTER 17

  That unnoticed slip of paper destroyed the house that Jia built. It took two years, but at the end of it, her father-in-law was implicated in a complicated tax fraud.

  A company once registered by him became one in a long line of businesses used to commit carousel fraud. Signatures had been forged, invoices drawn up for products that never existed, and VAT falsely claimed from HMRC. She had no proof of his involvement, but Jia blamed Akbar Khan. ‘Are you listening to me?’ she screamed.

  He ignored her, and carried on writing on his notepad, his gaze unflinching. She could feel the pressure building up inside her, his disinterest like screws tightening her sinews. From the corner of the room, Elyas watched. He knew his father to be meticulously law-abiding, a man who had never even had a parking ticket. He had fallen under Akbar Khan’s spell and revealed personal information. Information that had taken him to the verge of a jail term.

  Akbar Khan put down his pen. What his daughter did not know was that Elyas’s father had come to him for help. The man was in financial trouble, mortgage repayments long overdue. He had no stomach for business and his start-up company had swallowed up his income and more. Akbar Khan had agreed to help, but reluctantly. He’d considered this the best of a bad deal, and now his daughter blamed him.

  ‘These honourable men you worry about so much…I know things about them that you do not,’ he said. He turned to Zan, who was standing beside him and gestured for a glass of water. It was bitterly cold outside, and inside the central heating was drying out the air, leaving skin chapped and mouths dry.

  Zan placed his hand on his father’s shoulder, to show his allegiance as much as to protect his sister. But Akbar Khan wasn’t annoyed with his daughter. He was proud of the rage that ran through her. It was a sign of her loyalty to those under her care, but she hadn’t yet learnt to win. ‘My child, life is ugly,’ he said. ‘The only people who survive it are those who make themselves its equal.’

  ‘My father-in-law trusted you and now he is ruined.’

  ‘Well then, he was a fool,’ said Akbar Khan, his words so matter-of-fact, his manner so calm, that they snatched the fight from Jia’s mouth. Violence was her only option. She lunged at him, her face contorted in anger and heartbreak, and found herself being held back by Zan. He had stepped in between her and his father. Her arms were flailing; she had lost control of herself.

  The investigation, the court case, the jury’s deliberation, all of it had chipped away at her. She had held it together until now. She couldn’t do it any more. The shame of what her father had done, the embarrassment before her in-laws, their silence on the matter, had made it all worse. If they had blamed her, she could have fought them and argued for her father, but they hadn’t; they had simply looked broken. And now here she was, her shame leaving her ravenous for blood.

  Taking her by the shoulders, Zan forced her out into the hallway. ‘Calm down,’ he said. Stoicism was rare in Pukhtuns, but Zan had mastered it. Controlled, disciplined and intelligent, his mix of British sensibility and Pukhtun courage had brought him respect in his father’s eyes. He had become the kind of son a Khan could be proud of. His sister, however, did not share the sentiment.

  ‘I hate him,’ she said. She spat the words like hot fat. ‘For what he has done to us and for what he has done to you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. The immediacy of his response disarmed her.

  She sat down on the floor and cried. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her had dissipated now, and she was exhausted. She wondered what was to become of them. Her head hurt at the thought of Zan in her father’s world. He had embarked on a path of pain, and there was nothing she could do to change that. She cried salty tears, for him and for herself. They dripped down her face and into the crevice of her mouth, their taste reminding her of the grazed knees and minor scrapes that had ended with childhood. There was shame and embarrassment today, but no one was going to prison. She realised that though her anger was justified, it was wasted, and that there were bigger battles to come. So she opened her eyes, wiped her face and got to her feet.

  She was considering her next move, when her husband’s voice cut through the silence. It made its way through the thick walls and closed doors of the study and left her cold. He was shouting at her father, his words clear and hurtful, like sharp objects being ground into her wounds.

  Zan watched her flinch. ‘Not nice, is it,’ he said, ‘when someone attacks your family?’ Jia remained silent, her confusion evident on her face. ‘Your father-in-law should have known better. No one forced him to sign the papers, and the courts have found him not guilty, but you have given Elyas permission to shout at Baba. It’s not our father’s fault that your husband’s father did what he did.’

  He said the words slowly, deliberately, and was ready for retaliation, but she dropped her head into her hands, and by the time she looked up, black lines of mascara and kohl were smudged across her cheeks.

  ‘I watched an old man standing in the dock and fighting for his life, day after day, knowing that I was partly responsible for putting him there. While we sit safely in our houses, that is what Baba does to peo
ple. He doesn’t care who it is or what happens to them. He just keeps on going. It’s business to him, just business. He destroys lives, livelihoods, and all for what? For money. He’s kept it from us, this business of his, but this time I saw it, every last drop of pain. I watched it being wrung out of an innocent man. All because his son had chosen to marry me, and because I am Akbar Khan’s daughter.’

  Her father, her hero, the hypocrite, and so was she. She couldn’t forgive him and it was tearing her apart. ‘He’s done all these things, all these awful things and more, and yet I still love him? What can I do?’

  ‘Why do you need to do anything?’ Zan replied. ‘Why do you care so much what people think?’ His arrest and the years that followed had changed him from the inside out. ‘Making peace with the differences between our birthplace and our parents’ is hard. Making peace with their choices is even harder.’ Jia looked up at her brother: his face was unblemished, his eyes were tired. Standing in their father’s house they would both have given anything to turn back the clock and be children again. But there was no way back. Life had shown them its disfigured face. ‘Jia, we’re not like white society. They look after their own and that’s what Baba does. The day you see the world for what it really is, you’ll realise the lines drawn between right and wrong are not black and white, and they are not drawn for or by people like us. That day, you will see our father for what he really is, and you won’t be able to forgive yourself.’ There was nothing more to say. Jia knew that words could not change who they were and what had happened. They stood in silence, looking at each other, each one helpless in their own way.

  A sudden crash interrupted the quiet, then Akbar Khan’s voice, angrier than either had ever heard it before. ‘Get out of my house,’ he said. Suddenly Elyas was standing in the hallway, his face red with rage, and Jia knew he would never speak to her father again. He moved at speed, making his way out of the house, letting the solid oak door smash against the frame as he left.

  Jia followed him into the driveway, hoping to stop him, bring him back, to calm the situation, but she found herself standing alone in the darkness. A gale was blowing; its bitterly cold fingers wrapped itself around her face and permeated her bones. The wind swept through the branches of the trees that lined the long driveway, bending and twisting them to its will, their boughs refusing to give up control. The night made them menacing, like the monsters of childhood nightmares. She heard a loud crack above her head and she dodged as a chunk of the apple tree fell to the ground. Through the sound of the raging storm came the angry revving of an engine and headlights appeared. It was Elyas. She ran to him, climbing into the car, hoping to make him change his mind, but he was reversing before she could even close the passenger door. From the other side of the darkness came Zan, rain pouring down his face, dripping off his jaw, shaking his head at Jia, mouthing the words: ‘Don’t go. Please.’ He could see he was failing. He had to bring them back. If they left now, things would never be the same again. He moved swiftly towards the driver’s door but Elyas was faster. He put the car into gear and hit the accelerator, tearing down the driveway.

  Jia turned to see her brother climbing into a BMW, the speed they were travelling and the rain making him almost invisible at once. At the end of the driveway, Elyas jammed on his brakes, stopping inches away from the wrought-iron gates. The impact threw Jia back in her seat. ‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘You’ll get us both killed.’ She was angry at her father, at Elyas, at Zan, and at herself. The blood pulsed through her temples making it hard for her to think.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. She softened, letting go of her pride and taking his hand in hers. They sat in silence, watching as the iron gates swung slowly open. Maybe when they got home, they could talk things through properly and figure out a way through this mess. She pulled down the visor in front of her, wiping her face clean of tears, rain and make-up. As she looked in the mirror, Zan’s car came into view. The rain was easing and she could see his face looking back at her.

  Elyas turned into the main road and Jia lost sight of her brother. In that moment, she realised that no man, no matter how beloved, would ever take the place of her family. She reached down into her handbag and took out her phone, dialling his number.

  Lying in her old bed years later, her face washed clean of the make-up she’d worn for Maria’s wedding earlier that day, Jia could still feel the cold sting of that stormy night against her cheeks. The smell of the wet gravel and the sound of it crunching as the car tyres spun out of control was still fresh in her mind. And then the flash of silver from the opposite side of the road, the shrieking of brakes on the rain-soaked tarmac, followed by glass smashing and the sharp screech of metal cutting through itself: it would never fade from her memory. The smell of burning rubber would never leave her.

  The crash had been loud; it must have echoed for miles. Zan’s car turning into the road, the boy racer coming the other way, jumping to the wrong side of the road to overtake a driver who was navigating the precarious driving conditions.

  She remembered running and losing her shoes somewhere along the way. She reached the site of the crash before Elyas had even made it out of his car. She saw the BMW Zan had been driving in front of her. It had crumpled like a tin can, the Subaru sandwiched through its centre. Frantically, she’d searched for her brother, screaming his name until her throat was ripped to shreds. The driver of the Subaru was dead; the air bag had failed to open, his crushed head resting against the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, his girlfriend was pressed against the side of the car, whimpering for help, but Jia was not there for her, she was there for Zan. And then she saw him, lying lifeless on the other side of the road.

  Through the heavy rain and darkness, Elyas watched Jia cradling Zan in her arms, her face up to the heavens, twisted in agony.

  Family trickled out of the gates of Pukhtun House. Stumbling over each other, they washed on to the street.

  Sanam Khan was the first to see them, a hand reaching out for her son as she stood in the road, her youngest child clinging to her in fear. She clutched her last-born to her chest and screamed out for her firstborn, the anguish in her voice reaching the other side of the city and piercing the night sky. Maria Khan muffled her cries with one hand at the sight of the mangled car. She grabbed her mother with the other.

  Collapsing into a heap next to Zan was Akbar Khan. He ran his fingers through his son’s hair, wiping the blood from his forehead – ‘Ya Allah! Ya Allah! YA ALLAH!’ – on his knees, drenched in rain, his supplications getting louder and louder, as though exorcising the devil. The old man’s calls to his Lord were the last thing Elyas heard before the ambulance sirens closed in and drowned out everything else. They arrived from all sides, white against the darkness.

  Events unfolded in front of Elyas like a grainy, silent film. Around Jia everything seemed to be in slow motion: a paramedic cajoling her to let go of her broken brother, his words lost in the cold, damp air, her eyes dim. Jia was in another place, another world, one where she could rock Zan back and forth, back and forth, to this place. Streams of whispered words came from her mouth as tears dripped from her face to his. Only Akbar Khan was close enough to hear what she was saying, and it was her madness that forced him to resume control. He raised his head and straightened his back.

  His eldest son was gone, a boy who had come to life through him and become a man under his watch, become so much more than he could ever have hoped. Akbar Khan had started to believe in Zan’s plans for the family business. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to dream, but handing over his empire had begun to seem like a reality. He should have known better; he had developed ideas above his station, and he had forgotten he was not the master of final judgement, although he had dealt it out enough times over the course of his life. He had brought destruction to those he believed deserving, and to others who had simply become collateral damage in the battleground of business. Today that destruction had been visited upon him.<
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  He leaned in and whispered something to his daughter and she immediately loosened her grip. The paramedics moved in swiftly, lifting Zan’s broken body on to the cold stretcher and into the ambulance. In the distance, Elyas watched his wife. Behind her swarmed paramedics, policemen, and other faces, some but not all familiar. But she saw none of it. Her head down and her palms upwards, she looked as if she was praying. She wasn’t, though; she was staring at the blood.

  Only Akbar Khan saw Elyas standing alone in the distance. He had lost his son and he would not give up his daughter. He put his arm around her, and like the old-fashioned wooden toy, the kind that stands and collapses, collapses and stands, she clutched her father. She could not watch them take her brother away. Through the sea of people, Akbar Khan led his family – what remained of it – home. The doors of the ambulance slammed shut as they left, and the gates to the house swung closed after them. Elyas knew then that his marriage to Jia Khan was over.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sanam Khan knocked on the bedroom door and waited. The house was dark, the only light coming from the living room, where she’d left the men waiting.

  She blamed herself for their presence. She chided herself for not having given more alms to the poor; she should have offered more of herself, of her time and her money, and now it was too late: the evil eye had them and there was nothing to do but pray. She spoke her daughter’s name into the darkness. She was glad she was here.

  Jia sat up. Her mother’s voice was soft, but Jia was a light sleeper. She had been since Zan’s arrest, her senses always on alert. She climbed out of bed and opened the door. ‘Your father’s brother is here,’ Sanam Khan said. ‘I don’t understand what he’s saying.’

  ‘Where is Baba?’ said Jia.

  ‘Come, wash your face quickly, they’re waiting.’ Her mother was always practical at times of difficulty, and Jia had come to see the value in her ways. Tasbeeh in hand, the old woman waited, counting prayer bead to prayer bead, as Jia made her way to the bathroom.