‘We will never forget this debt. Our lives are your lives,’ he said, this time in a language she understood. He stopped, and kissed the palms of her hands, his display of gratitude embarrassing her. She would need to learn to handle such things better if she was to stay.

By afternoon the city had come to a standstill. Mourners lined the streets around Pukhtun House and police officers were out in force.

The coffin was placed in the living room, ready for each visitor to pay their respects. When it was time for the Janaza prayer, the men lined up facing the casket, the imam beside it. He placed his iPad on the pulpit, open at the final draft of his sermon.

‘When God commanded the angels to bow before Adam, Satan in his arrogance refused, and with that refusal he declared war upon mankind. Our souls are both the prize and the battleground. The complexities of life, the choices we make daily, are part of this fight. As warriors, we are grateful that only God knows the intention of man, and that only He will judge us.’ He paused and looked at the faces of the mourners, knowing that he could never gauge their hearts.

He cleared his throat and spoke again. ‘Many will ask what this city finds to honour in this man. Many will turn away, because to them he is not a man but a monster, and an enemy of the law. They will say that he brought evil and hate to our daily struggle. But we will answer them: did you ever talk to Akbar Khan? For if you did, you would know why we must honour him. Akbar Khan restored our self-respect and gave us dignity. This was his meaning to his people. And in honouring him, we honour the best in ourselves. Come, let us stand for prayer.’

Some shaken, some silenced, the men took their places, each one facing the direction of the qiblah, the imam leading them, Akbar Khan before him. The rows of men had been painstakingly counted: odd numbers were considered pleasing to Allah and blessed for the deceased. The women stood behind the menfolk, their chadors pulled over their bosoms. They shuffled closer together.

A hush fell across the building and its grounds at the first takbir: ‘Allahu Akbar!’ The Janaza prayer had begun. The congregants spilled out into the garden, across the lawn and into the streets surrounding the house, standing shoulder to shoulder. At the fourth cry of the takbir they turned their faces right and then left, re-entering the world of material things. It was time to bury the dead.