The thief found himself falling to his knees, the back of his legs gushing out blood. In the next instant, he turned to have his throat slit by the child.
Kazi went for the second thief who did not understand what was happening. The knife clumsily thrust downward and failed miserably. Kazi was too small and too quick. His movents were thodical, devoid of the hesitation and fear one might expect from a human, much less a boy his age. There was no emotion in his eyes.
There was only death.
Slash! Slash! The wrists were cut and the thief stumbled back. The throat was the quickest way to kill, Kazi realized. He was too short and weak to jump up and cut it, so he needed to aim for their legs first, to get them down to his height.
But there were two of them. Two grown n. The odds were stacked against him. The thief with the bleeding wrist hissed. Adrenaline was pumping through his muscles and he refused to die. He refused to have his life ended like his comrade’s.
Kazi’s hazel eyes focused and he charged.
Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!
The boy didn’t blink once.
One after another, the two bodies dropped.
The air was filled with the tallic scent of blood. Blood dripped and invaded their little sanctuary. The room, once bathed in darkness, was now illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window.
Kazi stood amidst the three fallen thieves, his expression unchanged. The stolen knife was returned to the darkness of the floor. In the eerie quiet that followed, the young boy surveyed his surroundings. His parents were alright. Everything was okay.
His father ca over and hugged him, thanking him.
That was the first ti Kazi Hossain ever killed another human being. It wouldn’t be the last.
***
At the end of the sumr season, a foreigner ca by. A Pakistani servant searching to hire a servant for his master in his villa. Kazi and his family lived in the Char Rajibpur Upazila. Back then, in the late 90s, they were called Thanas; sub-sects of a district and numbering in four-hundred and ninety five. Most n and won stayed in their respective Upazila their whole lives. As simple farm people with no literacy or education, there was a fear they would not fit anywhere else in the world besides. Even neighbouring urban areas were spoke in a hush-hush tone.
Every couple years, opportunities to leave would arise. In this case, it was to Mohanganj Upazila, the heart of lower Bangladesh. Technically, it wasn’t a city, but to Kazi’s people, it was viewed as one. It was richer, larger, and had several villas where the wealthy lived.
The day the foreigner ca, everyone pointed him to a single household—to the Hossains. One look at the boy, two seconds of eye contact with his beautiful hazel eyes, and three seconds of his eloquent way of speaking, and the foreigner was convinced. Kazi Hossain was to serve in the villa of his master.
"There’s a girl’s school, you might even find a rich wife...oh, this is wonderful!" Maa was gushing about it as was Baba.
"Kazi, you are a smart boy, do you understand ? Very smart!" Baba put his hands on his shoulders, his face right up into him. "You are a genius! Our pride!"
"The boy will take a while to train," the foreigner said. "An adult will need to pick up the slack."
Baba imdiately volunteered. "I will go!"
Kazi glanced over to his mother. In his mind, that was the worst choice. Baba already had a job. Maa didn’t. It didn’t make sense for Baba to get another job while Maa stayed ho.
"It doesn’t matter to . Either you or her work."
The foreigner was going along with that. That wasn’t good. "What kind of stuff will we do?"
"There are three families of servants besides you, so you will start with simple cleaning and stitching."
"Stitching?" Baba grimaced. "That’s..."
"Maybe I should go," Mama said. "I can stitch. We need to put on a good impression, right?"
"Mm, yes, agreed." Baba nodded his head. "Then she will go."
Young Kazi was secretly delighted. This way, everything would go along smoother. All three of them would be busy with work and survival, and life would be better. That was what he thought. In hindsight, his calculations weren’t wrong.
The ti of the world zipped by. Their family had no belongings, so they were able to leave as soon as they could. But before they did, Baba took him aside, kneeling down to his level for a heart-to-heart.
"Kazi?"
"Yes, Baba?"
"You are a genius. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. You are the smartest, kindest, and most beautiful boy I know."
"Thank you." An automatic response. A robotic response. Baba smiled and pulled him into a hug.
He stroked his hair and seeped his love into him. Baba pulled back, smiling at him, his eyes searching his face for an answer that even Kazi did not understand. "I can say this for certain—you are Imam Mahdi. You are destined for so much more than this." He gestured at their ho and its sorry state. "Look at the world. It’s ruined, but you...you can see it, can’t you? You can see it all. You are the Guided One. You have been gifted by Allah. I know you have. You weren’t supposed to be born. All the won said your heartbeat was too weak, but you lived."
Blasphemy. Even at his young age, he knew his father was speaking blasphemy. His eyes were crazed and his fingers held onto his shoulders too tightly.
"You are our duas manifested, Kazi."
Seven years old and Kazi was called Imam Mahdi, the Guided One of Islam.
Seven years old and Kazi left his ho.
Seven years old was the last ti he didn’t feel like a failure.
"Stop it." The mories began to crack. "Stop showing this. I know what happened. I know I failed." His eyes were full of anguish and he forcibly closed them. "Just...disappear already."
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