Young Writers Society

**Author's Note: This is a prequel to my other story "The Beggar Boy". This is part of a bigger story that I am planning on continuing so if anything seems missing or unexplained they will be explained in later works (that's the plan, anyway.) Enjoy, and if you can give me some tips on how to improve my writing, I would greatly appreciate it.

It was a blisteringly hot day as the young couple wandered through the desert in search of a doctor. The woman's stomach was bulging underneath her burqa and as she walked, a liquid trailed in the sand behind her. Her water had broken and she was gripping her husband's arm with one white-knuckled hand and holding her stomach with the other. There were a few people milling about in the streets, but no one seemed to notice the couple. “Help us!” the man cried. “Her water just broke. She needs a doctor!”

Desperately, he made his way through the streets, the girl dragging behind him. The people whispered among themselves, snickering as they stole glances at them. “I don't see rings!” “They're not married!” “That child is a harami!” “And they're Hazaras!”

The woman gasped for breath and told the man she needed to stop. “I can't,” she breathed. “The baby is coming!”

Panicked, the man led the woman to an abandoned bench and sat her down gently. He lifted her burqa just enough to get his hands underneath. “Take a few deep breaths and then push, okay?”

The woman nodded as she took in shaky, slow breaths through clenched teeth. She did this a few times and then began to push. A wave of fresh agony poured over her as her body contracted, causing her to scream in pain. The man, poised between the woman's legs, began saying words of encouragement in a simultaneously calm and excited voice. “I see it's head!” he told her as she continued to push. “Come on, you can do this! Keep pushing!”

The woman's contractions continued and her screams faded to moans and, at last, the baby was born. Her body was drenched in sweat and her dark hair clung to her face as she breathed more easily now. She lifted her head just enough to see the man holding the crying baby in his arms. “It's a boy,” he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.

He took off his tattered, sweaty shirt and wrapped the baby in it. “What should we name him, Delara?

“Akhtar Sharif,” she replied, her voice cracking. “It was my father's name, and he was an honorable man.”

The man sat next to Delara on the bench and held the baby out to her. Delara took the baby in her arms and began to weep. “Sahib, is this a disgraceful thing we have done? Will Allah forgive us for our sin?”

Sahib leaned in and kissed Delara on the cheek, his scruffy beard scratching at her skin. “Look at our beautiful baby. He is Allah's gift to us. His forgiveness is in this boy's eyes.”

Delara looked down at Sharif's innocent milk chocolate colored eyes and as she smiled, she began sobbing again. “Yes,” she agreed. “Allah has been kind to us, even after we have sinned.”

“We will take good care of Sharif,” Sahib assured her. “I will find a job and a place for us to live and we will raise him right.”

Just then a Hazara woman approached them. She was wearing a burqa (as the law required of all women in public), but from the cane in her hand and the severe slouch in her spine, it was clear that she was elderly. Delara instinctively held Sharif closer to her chest as she looked up at the old woman. “What are you two doing out here with a baby in this heat?” the woman asked, her voice cracking with nearly every syllable.

“He was just born, and we have nowhere to take him,” Sahib explained.

The elderly woman replied, “there is an orphanage not far from here. They can care for your child until you come back for him. I know it isn't ideal, but sometimes it is necessary.”

Sahib and Delara both looked at the woman in disbelief.

“We can't take our son to an orphanage!” Delara cried. “Sharif deserves better than that!”

The woman took on a sympathetic tone as she said, “Indeed he does. But look where you are. He deserves better than this as well. At least at the orphanage he will have a place to sleep and food to eat. And you can come back for him any time you'd like.”

Sahib was the one to speak next. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked down at Sharif. “Perhaps it is best,” he admitted.

“No! How could you agree with her?” Delara wailed. “He's our precious baby! Our only son!”

The woman sat next to Delara and took her hand. “There is no shame in this, you know. Lots of mothers do it. Sometimes there is just no other option.” She waited a moment before repeating, softer this time, “there is no shame.”

***

Delara protested the whole way to the orphanage. Sahib had decided to place Sharif in better hands, despite Delara's desperate pleas. The elderly woman led the way while Sahib and Delara trailed sulkily behind. Delara was still in an extraordinary amount of pain from giving birth, but she seemed numb to it as she clung tightly to Sharif, who was sleeping in her arms. She felt her panic rise as they neared the place where she would leave her son.

The building was not much bigger than a kolba, and there were children running around barefoot in torn, dirty clothes and the lawn was littered with cracks, holes, and cigarette butts. Delara stopped dead in her tracks. “We can't send Sharif here!” she cried, dread causing her voice to rise. “Look at how filthy they are!”

“But look how well fed they are, as well,” Sahib assured her. “We can't give him that right now.”

Before Delara could say anything, a man came outside and greeted them. “Salaam. I am Ali. I run the orphanage.”

Ali was also quite old by the looks of his cracked skin and gray beard. He wore a gray turban on his head and his clothes were worn, just like the childrens'. “Come with me,” he said. “I will show you around.”

As they entered the orphanage, they were greeted by a frenzy of hyper, excited children. As they made their way through, they noticed that most of the children were Hazaras, like them. Such a shame, Sahib thought, then quickly pushed the thought away.

The interior of the building didn't look much better than the exterior. Bunks were lined against nearly every wall and at each of them was a single pillow and a worn blanket. At the end of each row of beds was a row of cribs. Dust and grime coated the walls and the kitchen was a mess of pots and dishes. Ali explained that the orphanage didn't get much funding, so they had to prioritize. The children got plenty to eat, but as a result, they didn't get new clothes very often. As they followed Ali into his office, Sahib and Delara noticed that the old woman had disappeared. Once they got into his office and sat in the chairs facing his desk, Sahib asked, “where did the woman go?”

Ali raised an eyebrow and cocked his head slightly in confusion. “What woman?”

“The woman who led us here,” Delara explained. “She was very old, and had a cane.”

Ali chuckled. “When I saw you outside, it was just you two.”

“She told us to come here. She said you would take care of Sharif.”

“I never saw a woman,” Ali insisted. “Maybe it was a sign from Allah.”

Delara and Sahib were bewildered. They were so shocked they couldn't find any words to say.

“Anyway,” Ali continued. “So, you want me to look after your son for you, correct?”

Sahib nodded, still not able to speak.

“And his name is Sharif, right?”

Sahib nodded again.

“Okay, well I will provide the best care available for him and you can come visit him any time you'd like. I've gotten newborns before so don't worry about me not being able to provide for him.”

Tears welled up in Delara's eyes, but didn't start to flow until right after she handed over Sharif. Then, the tears came and wouldn't stop. They flowed as they left the orphanage and their son behind. They flowed as they made their way back to town to find a place to sleep. They flowed when they found a cheap inn to stay the night. They flowed as she laid her head down to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning, her pillow was still wet with tears. She turned to face Sahib and saw that he, too had awoken to a pillow drenched in sorrow.