A low, respectful hum surrounded Pukhtun House. The sky was cloudless, the day cold and crisp. The third day of mourning had begun. Yesterday’s trickle had turned into a torrent as people began to pour in to pay their respects. The news had travelled fast and the Pukhtun tabar had descended swiftly to help with the practicalities of an Islamic funeral.

The tabar was extended family – the tribe. It was allied and divided into groups called ‘zai’ along lines of blood, cooperation, business and conflict. The complicated nature of these lines meant members often belonged to more than one zai. But the only man who belonged to all was their Khan: he was the one man for whom they dissolved old feuds and put aside bad blood and stood united. The death of the Khan required that they come together to mourn him. It was tradition, and it was in tradition that their power lay.

Bazigh Khan’s sons were in charge of overseeing the funeral. The younger members of the tabar had arrived at the first sign of light, and were going about their business like worker bees.

Dressed in white, Idris Khan moved from room to room, organising the house and household. Furniture had been removed and the floors were cleaned, ready to be covered in white cotton sheets. Wasim, the fabric merchant, was responsible for them. His mother and wife cried silent tears as they embraced the Khan’s widow, handing her the neatly pressed sheets they had spent all night hemming. Sanam Khan took them with gratitude before ushering them into the room where women were sitting in remembrance of their God and His servant.

She was reading verses of the Quran and wiping her tears from its pages, when Benyamin came to collect her. They were to see Akbar Khan for the last time.

Across the city, the Jirga were arriving at the morgue to participate in the most important ritual in a Muslim’s life: that of his burial. Formally dressed, some in shalwar kameez and others in Western suits, each man’s head was covered by a small white cap or Afghan topi, of the kind worn during prayer.

They shook hands and embraced, their emotions deep and bubbling over, the elders wiping away tears of regret and fear, as much as of sorrow. The ghusl, the ritual bathing of the body, was a reminder of the transient nature of life. Intimate and poignant, only the trusted were asked to take part. It was, therefore, a great honour and a reinforcement of each man’s place in the family to be here.