The Khan

by Saima Mir

  ‘What if the person who wanted him dead was someone he cared about? Then the choice would be between saving his own skin or theirs,’ said Ahad.

  Idris’s face was dark, his eyes cold. ‘Just like your mother,’ he said. ‘Always looking for a loophole.’

  Elyas sat down slowly; the fog in his head began to clear. Something was waiting for him in the corners of his mind. He thought about Jia, her words, how she had talked with Karzai in the concert hall that night. Something had bothered him about it – perhaps it was simply her caginess. Whatever it was, he’d put it to the back of his mind in the chaos of the shooting afterwards. He closed his eyes and replayed the memory, and recalled how Jia had taken something from Karzai and put it in her handbag. Had it been an exchange? Was the brown packet he’d seen Karzai putting away one that she had passed him? Money? But it made no sense. Why would she pay him? Unless she had found her loophole? ‘It was only recently that I realised how much my father really loved me… Sometimes the one you’d take a bullet for is the one holding the gun.’ Her words came back to him. Had she always planned to take over her father’s empire?

  Elyas suddenly remembered something else from that night at the concert. He made his way quickly to the bedroom and opened the walk-in wardrobe that was now his. He hadn’t unpacked properly yet. He unzipped his suitcase and began searching frantically. He found the jacket he’d been wearing that night and emptied the contents of its pockets. Nothing. Then he remembered the internal pocket. He reached in and his fingers touched the edges of an envelope. He’d forgotten to give it to Jia when he was handing back the things that had spilled from her handbag during the shooting.

  He opened it, taking out a piece of folded paper. He recognised Jia’s handwriting.

  Baba,

  You were my hero. I had no way of knowing what life had in store for us, but I knew that as long as you were with me, everything would turn out well.

  I was naive.

  When Zan died I broke. You watched over me for months as I grieved. Then the baby came and went and I broke again. The grief was bubbling up inside me, leaving me bitter. So I left. Life was hard without you. But it would have been harder with you.

  And then you called and told me about my son. That he was alive. You’d kept him from me. Because you had thought it best.

  I had been in a haze after Zan’s death. I had been unwell. I had trusted you to protect me, but you failed. Instead you took advantage of the situation.

  Your actions took from me the people I loved, the people I could have loved the most.

  I didn’t get to see him grow. I didn’t get to be there for his first day at school. I never got to hold his hand in mine when he was afraid, or sad, or when he was lonely. And now you tell me he is alive, and expect no repercussions. You raised me like a son but treat me like a daughter.

  I love you, Baba. But you took away my choice. You took away my freedom. You took my life. And I cannot allow that to happen again.

  Your daughter,

  Jia Khan

  Elyas pressed his hand against his chest. The air felt thin, leaving him unable to breathe. He scanned the letter again, hoping he’d misunderstood. He folded it up and put it in his jacket pocket. His head began to hurt, and he rubbed his temple with his thumb, trying to figure out what to do. He ran through the conversation they’d had in his bedroom a week ago. He hadn’t got it then, but he did now. He finally understood who Jia was. She was Akbar Khan’s daughter and she had had him killed – and possibly betrayed the man she hired to the police. She had planned her father’s death, paid for his execution, and then carried on as if none of it was her doing. That’s what she had been trying to tell him, but he was too blinded by love to listen. Jia Khan was a stone-cold killer, and she was carrying his child.

  He walked into the living room and stood by the fireplace. He took a log from the pile and put it on the fire.

  ‘Are you OK, Dad?’ said Ahad.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, turning round. Behind him the cream corners of the letter curled under the log, disintegrating into the flames.

  CHAPTER 48

  Jia stepped back into the house. Satisfied with her words, the reporters were moving away from the gates of Pukhtun House. Inside, the Jirga were gathered.

  Sanam Khan waited in the hall, in her hands her husband’s favourite chador. She unfolded it and wrapped it around Jia’s shoulders. She could not stop her daughter entering the world of men, but she would make sure she kept her honour. The familiar smell of Akbar Khan’s aftershave mixed with the scent of stale tobacco enveloped Jia, triggering memories of childhood and her father. She pulled the shawl tight around her and walked towards the study.

  The men had been called to Pukhtun House to discuss important matters. They had been told about the events of last week and they knew that badal had been exacted. With each man stood his son and representative. Jia Khan walked over to the desk and invited the men to sit. Idris poured her a glass of water and placed it by her right hand. She waited until each man was seated before beginning.

  ‘I have called you here for the last time as members of the Jirga,’ she said, her voice full of authority, her words absolute. ‘As of tomorrow my father’s Jury will be retired and a new Jirga sworn in. They are your sons, and they have shown themselves worthy. They were prepared to put their lives on the line for the good of our people. I hope you will show them respect.’

  These were clever men, they were smart men; they had left their homes and travelled to a foreign land and they had succeeded in their hopes of providing security for their children. Jia knew that they were aware of her plans to place them in retirement. She would not disrespect them by assuming otherwise.

  ‘I assure you that we will continue to follow the ways of the Jirga and in doing so seek your consultation in major decisions,’ she said. ‘Shura is the way of the Quran, it has always been the way of the Khans, and I will honour that. You have worked hard for us. Now it is time for you to rest and for us to work for you. People of honour stand by their word,’ she said.

  The men nodded in agreement. 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 fam
ily 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 and to stand by her. He knew she was coming for him, and he was in submission to the will of the Almighty. She has long planned the demise of the Jirga. Surprising, then, that she has bound it tighter and herself in it. Surprising but fortuitous. It is a cold woman indeed who would not spare her own offspring. And this cold woman will make a great Khan for our people.’

  EPILOGUE

  Jia sat on the bed, the baby in her arms, wrapped in the pretty pale green blanket that Maria had crocheted. Maria was due next month. Her legs swollen, her blood pressure high, she was on bedrest. She’d taken up the craft to stay busy.

  Jia looked at the newborn, who had been safe inside her until a few hours ago. Closed eyelids, perfect pink lips, tiny fingers wrapped around hers, now out in the cold, mean world. Skin to skin, she pressed the baby against her breast. She protected those she loved, but one’s own children were a different matter. They didn’t listen, they pushed boundaries, they scattered tacks under their parents’ Achilles heels. Last time, the burden of parenthood had outweighed the love. She wondered how it would be this time. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the bed. She was exhausted.

  Her labour had been long and intense. Everything had been fine and then the baby had gone into distress. A rush of po-faced medical staff into the room had alerted Jia and Elyas to the gravity of the situation. She’d been taken to surgery. Shortly after, the cry of a newborn signalled everything was going to be fine.

  Elyas had been by her side the whole time. He’d looked tired and she’d sent him home a few hours ago. The baby had gone down, but sleep wouldn’t come to her. Her mind was exhausted, discombobulated, and her body broken. She made a note to speak to the doctor in the morning.

  She looked up to see her brother at the door to her hospital room. He was holding a teddy of the kind only people without children would buy, and in his other hand was a flat brown box. She felt a rush of love and calm descend.

  ‘From Tarantino’s.’ He held up the box. ‘I’ll see that baby and raise you cold pizza,’ he said. ‘Breakfast of champions.’ He took the baby in his arms and placed it gently in the cot.

  ‘You OK?’ he said. She nodded, overcome by his presence and by all the things they had been through together. This was family. Here was someone who knew her beneath the armour, before the world took hold of her.

  They sat in comfortable silence, Jia eating slice after slice. ‘Elyas doesn’t have a clue about food,’ she said.

  ‘What can you expect from a man who has oat milk in his chai?’ he replied, and she laughed. They hadn’t laughed together in years. He looked relaxed, fresh-faced and golden. He seemed easy in a way that she hadn’t seen since her return to the city. She felt herself relax and sleep came. When she awoke he was still there, sitting beside her, watching her, his face covered in brotherly love.

  ‘You snore just like Dad,’ he said, teasing her. ‘Must be the nose…’ He paused. ‘You know, for years I wished you’d died instead of Zan.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Me too.’

  ‘That baby looks like me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You were a beautiful baby. So much hair, and huge eyes.’

  ‘I feel sorry for this little one…’ He looked down into the cot, at the baby wrapped tight in blankets, unaware of the world unfolding around it. ‘And I worry about you.’

  His soul chose that moment to crack wide open and everything inside him poured out on to the hospital floor. Maybe it was because he finally felt strong again, maybe it was because Jia appeared weak, or maybe this was just how love for family was, messy and unconditional, made of ties that even knives could never sever.

  ‘I’m the one who stayed,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who looked after Pops, and took him places. I’m the one who held Mama when she cried, night after night. I’m the one who Maria leaned on.’ His face looked distant, and Jia wanted to take all his pain away and into herself and numb it with the morphine drip that was attached to her. ‘Do you know, she still sometimes calls me Zan? Maria and I are just shadows. Do you know how it feels never to be good enough?’ He looked tiny in that moment. He began to cry, his head in his hands, the sound of a man breaking in two echoing around the disinfected room.

  Jia leaned over and put her arms around him, and he rested his head on her shoulder. They stayed that way for a long time, the tears rolling down his face and on to her neck, and her hands wiping them away.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here,’ she said. ‘But I am now and I’m not going anywhere again.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Here is my Jirga, the people without whom this book would not be wha
t it is.

  Thank you to Nikesh Shukla, if it wasn’t for your kindness, support and practical help this book would not be a reality. So many people offer help, but few go the distance. You’re a bona fide superhero and I’m honoured to know you.

  To my agent Abi, I waited my whole life to hear someone say ‘I got this’ and to know that they really did. Thank you for fielding emails, handling calls and navigating deals. If I ever go into battle, I’d like you with me.

  To Arzu and Helen, thank you for your invaluable advice, brilliant insight, and attention to detail during the editing process. You shone a light on all the dark places I was hiding from and forced me to raise my game, but you did it with kindness.

  To my editor Jenny Parrott, for the ‘dancing’ emails, the ‘yes’ and the pep talk. I love your enthusiasm!

  To my sisters, Khola and Javaria, who read early drafts and kept telling me I should keep writing, and to Fozia who always brings the funny.

  To Sabena, for always being on the other side of the phone and reminding me I’m not mad. I’m so glad I got on that flight.

  To Mary, I could not have got through these last few years without you. Life feels easier when you’re around, I miss you.

  To my husband, Adnan, for believing in me, even when I quit, thank you for rescuing me from myself.

  Saima Mir is an award-winning journalist. She started her career at the Telegraph & Argus and went on to work for the BBC. She is a recipient of the Commonwealth Broadcast Association’s World View Award, and has written for numerous publications, including The Times, the Guardian and the Independent. Saima’s essay for It’s Not About The Burqa appeared in the Guardian Weekend and received over 250,000 hits in two days. She has also contributed to the anthology The Best, Most Awful Job: Twenty Mothers Talk Honestly About Motherhood. Saima grew up in Bradford and now lives in London.