‘Stay with me, child, I need you here,’ Sanam Khan said to Maria, holding her back from the funeral car as Jia took her seat. She knew she could not stop Jia accompanying her father’s body to the cemetery, and so she pressed her lips tight on that matter, but she did not want both her daughters breaking tradition and the rules that Muslims had followed for centuries. ‘Let the men bear this burden,’ she said. ‘They do what they want their whole lives. They must face the consequences of their actions alone.’ Jia was still within earshot, and couldn’t help but wonder if the words were directed at her.

The funeral procession made its way slowly through the streets that Akbar Khan had been the talk of for so many years. Her father’s men walked the distance from the house to the cemetery, as a mark of respect, the casket on their shoulders. Jia was in the first car behind them. The drive felt longer than any she had ever taken and her heart was a storm of emotions. As she tried to brush aside her thoughts and consider what her father would have done in her place, the heavens opened. Akbar Khan had loved the rain, often standing by the window, watching it soak the ground, listening to its rhythm. Jia wondered if this was a sign. Rain was a mercy but also a punishment. Armies of angels descended to take the souls of the good, but who would be coming for the Khan?

As the car turned into the cemetery, Jia spotted the elderly man she had met at the house among the crowd. The pull of his Khan had been too strong. Row upon row of black umbrellas, suits and shalwars spilled through the cemetery gate and ended at the plot where Akbar Khan was to be buried.

The cars stopped by the waiting Jirga. Their Khan would have to face his Lord alone but they would go as far as possible on the journey with him.

Michael helped Jia out of the car. She was the only woman in attendance. Muslim men buried their dead, because women were considered too emotional to witness the event. Coming from a race that was hot-headed, whose men were known for holding grudges, and being rash in their actions, the irony of this was not lost on Jia.

Still not strong enough to walk far unassisted, Benyamin was helped to his place by Bazigh Khan. He stood beside his sister as their cousins carried the coffin to its final resting place. Jia reached out to take his hand. Akbar Khan had been the shoulder that others looked to lean upon; today he was on the shoulders of others, and even his son could not help him.