The Beggar Boy

Many centuries ago, in a vast desert, there lived a young orphan boy around the age of 10. He was very poor and had earned the title of “The Beggar Boy” by the desert locals. Every day he sat on a street corner with a tin cup and a sign that said “Homeless: Please Help." Most of the locals ignored him, threw rocks at him, some spit on him and called him a “worthless harami (bastard)”. However, no matter how badly he was treated, every day he returned to the same spot and sat with his cup and his sign and waited. Most days he received nothing, but every once in awhile someone would pass by and offer him some bread or toss a few coins into his cup.

No one knew the boy, or where he had come from or even why he was alone. All they knew was that he was a Hazara boy in a land full of Pashtuns, and for that, the boy was outcast. He couldn't do anything about the way he was born, yet they tormented him anyway. The Pashtuns viewed the Hazaras as filthy animals, and forced them into a life of subservience. Many Hazaras left when this happened. They moved on to better places where they had more freedom, but the ones that couldn't afford to leave stayed, and among them was the Beggar.

One day, a young man approached the boy on the street. The boy instinctively shielded his face with his arms and prepared for whatever torment the man decided to give, but none came. Slowly, the boy moved his arms away from his face just enough to see that the man was smiling at him. When he knelt next to him, the boy flinched and scooted away. What is he planning? Several seconds passed before the man finally spoke.

“Hello,” the man said in a warm, confident voice.

The boy looked at the man more intently now. He was tall and light-skinned with high cheekbones and a cigarette protruding from a mouth hidden by a thick dark-haired beard. A Pashtun, the boy thought with increasing panic. The man reached over and gently shook the boy's hand. The boy remained silent. “What is your name?” the man asked calmly.

“Akhtar Sharif,” the boy reluctantly replied. “Everyone calls me the Beggar Boy, though.”

The man smiled and said, “Well, Sharif, my name is Jalil and I have a job offer for you.”

The boy stared at the man now, his mouth dangling open in shock.

“It isn't much, but it will get you off the streets and put food in your stomach.” The man examined the boy's tattered clothes that hung loosely to his starved body. “I'll even get you some new clothes.”

The boy thought for a moment before asking, “what will I have to do?”

“I need a new servant,” the man explained. “My previous one was too old to continue working. I try to help out as much as I can, but I am a very busy man and my wife needs someone to help her keep the house clean.”

The thought of serving a Pashtun disgusted the boy, but seeing no other option, he reluctantly agreed. “Great!” the man exclaimed. “Come with me! I will get you some food and some proper clothing and you can get to work!”

***

After Sharif was fed and clothed, he was led to a kolba behind the main house. “This is where you will stay,” Jalil explained. “Every morning you will report to the house to eat breakfast and help Aziza tend to her morning chores. Then, you will do whatever she has you do next. When I return home from work, we will have dinner. Then, if you have any chores left to do, you will finish those before going back to your kolba. Understand?”

Sharif nodded. Jalil had not spoken with malice, but instead took on a gentle tone toward the boy. Sharif had never had a Pashtun be nice to him before. Now he was serving one who only spoke to him with kindness. It made him suspicious of Jalil at first, but when Sharif could find no hint of any ulterior motive, he relaxed some.“Welcome to our home,” Jalil said, placing a hand on Sharif's shoulder. “I really hope you'll like it here. I know that Hazaras tend to be wary of Pashtuns, and I can't blame you for that, but we will treat you well, Sharif.”

Sharif looked up at Jalil with tears welling up in his eyes. Maybe I can be happy after all. I may be a servant, but at least my masters are kind to me.

“Tashakor, thank you,” Sharif cried.

Jalil squeezed Sharif's shoulder gently and smiled down at him with a smile so comforting it melted away any doubts Sharif had left. “Get some rest,” Jalil said. “You can start in the morning.”