The smell of camphor and disinfectant filled the air. Akbar Khan’s cold corpse lay on a steel table in the centre of the white wet room, ready to be cleansed and then placed in the ground. The imam waited by the door. He knew the Pukhtun tabar was an emotional tribe and he warned them that the soul of Akbar Khan was still present. ‘It will remain connected to the earth for forty days. So, please, keep your anguish under control.’

The men nodded respectfully. Though young, the imam had proved himself to be worthy. By day he was a lawyer, working at the world’s largest legal firm and navigating the laws of the land. By night he helped believers understand and follow the laws of Allah. The two sides of his life stood him in good stead with all generations of the family. He was an honourable man.

When Sanam Khan arrived, she stood at her husband’s side, one hand on Benyamin’s shoulder, the other on the back of the chair that had been brought for him to sit on. As the wife of the deceased, she was the only woman allowed to participate in the final rites.

A shroud lay loosely over Akbar Khan’s body. He would never pray again; his spiritual accounts were complete and ready to be submitted. But his men could ask on his behalf, and they called upon their Maker to forgive their old friend and leader. Seeing him lying there, empty of his soul, brought a strange calm upon them, and as the solemnity of the ritual came to a close their eyes dried with the drying of his body. Camphor was sprinkled on three large pieces of white cotton, once, twice, thrice. The men stepped back and professed their faith: ‘La illah illallah, Muhammadur rasool Allah.’ As the cloth was brought forward and the kafan wrapped around the man who had terrified generations, he looked like any other corpse about to be lowered into a grave.

By noon the steady stream of visitors to the house had become a river. What had begun as hundreds grew to thousands. The streets around the family home and the mosque filled with parked and queuing cars.

The women wiped their tears with their chadors as they prayed, their heads covered and bowed. Young and old sat side by side, some veiled, others not, safe in the knowledge that the house of Khan held no judgement in matters of faith.

Jia stood by the front door, greeting the visitors as they arrived, Maria leaning on her, her hennaed hands clutching her chador as she tried to muffle her cries.

The Jirga had left the morgue and would be arriving shortly. Afraid that the sight of the casket would overwhelm her, Jia asked her sister to see to the mourners inside.