A marquee covered the entire north side of the garden; no expense had been spared. Ladies in swirls of bright silks filled one half of the tent like sweet fruit coulis, as they admired and envied each other’s jewels. The younger generation dressed more simply, opting for pearls in place of their mothers’ gaudy gold necklaces, the children of immigrants tempering the vibrancy of their heritage with shades of their new homeland. At the other side of the marquee their fathers, husbands and brothers knocked back whisky in sharp suits, shalwar kameez and silk Nehru coats, laughing raucously as they patted each other on the back and shook hands over stories of love, war and business.

At the end of the garden, a young man waited on the bridal stage. Tapping the mic he gently drew the crowd’s attention. He grinned and winked at the older ladies, who feigned offence, as the younger women stole glances, hoping to catch his handsome eye. Confidently, slowly, he began humming a well-known Pukhtun love song. The hum turned to words, the men began to clap, the women sway, and he had control of the crowd. He sang of the beauty of Pukhtun women and of the strength of their men, and of the love of their homeland. His words took effect and a loud cheer went up from the men, and the women clutched their hands over their mouths, muffling their laughter. One particularly stout man dressed in cream shalwar kameez and a heavily embroidered waistcoat started miming to the song. He took his wife by the hand, his other arm in the air, and began copying the ways of folk dancers. The crowd clapped loudly and whoops of delight travelled across the gardens and into the house, where Benyamin was. He was holding the basket of motichoor ladoo, each one as big as a fist. The yellow sweetmeat balls had been sent as a mark of respect from a friend of Akbar Khan and were to be given out to the guests at the end of the night.

Benyamin entered the kitchen. The counters were filled with fresh meat, coriander, bulbs of garlic, onions and other produce, the hobs with large pots of bubbling curry. The fragrance of rice and kewra water filled the room. A burly man wearing a blood-stained apron was chopping mutton with a cleaver, the knife cutting through shoulder after shoulder with ease.

‘Why are you cutting the meat, Lala? We have people to do this.’

‘I know, beta. I came in to oversee things but they were making a mess of it! And I want it all to be perfect for your sister. And will it be you next?’ Bazigh Khan raised a jesting eyebrow at his favourite nephew, who brushed him off affectionately; he was used to the question.