"Kazi, dear, could you help me stitch this?"

Ripped clothing was common and so stitching was a skill all the women knew. Their clothes weren't elaborate but they did necessitate quality for the sake of warmth. Kazi was an infant when he began helping his mother and five and a half when he surpassed her in skill.

The older Kazi was pleased that he got up to help. This season, his father had found a decent patch of land that was growing potatoes. If all went well, by the end of the month, they would be able to sell it and enroll him into the school down south.

"Baba, not too much water."

"Okay, okay."

"Remember, the base, not the leaves."

Kazi explored and observed the neighbouring farms. He talked, he learned, and he applied every observation and every lesson to their own potatoes.

The soil in the region was seeped in water and thus very fertile. The growth rate for a full potato ranged from seventy to eighty days. From visuals and the softness of the potato, they weren't completely ripe for harvest. Unfortunately, they couldn't afford to wait another month, either they sold it now, ate it, or they starved.

Everything did go well. Half of the potatoes were traded and the rest was kept in their back pocket. From then on, Baba hung onto every piece of advice he gave. Layering potatoes in damp leaves or finding In the following season, their crops grew faster and better.

One night, while sitting on a hillside overlooking the stars, Baba tousled his hair. "You're a smart boy, you know that?"

"I know," Young Kazi replied, much to the adult version's chagrin. There wasn't an ounce of arrogance in his voice, there was only fact.

"You should know then to use your knowledge to help people. Your parents, obviously, those are the people you have to respect and listen to the most. Then your closest friends and neighbours. Help them if you can. But don't be gullible. You can't trust anyone in this world besides your family."

"Why?"

"Why? Well…"

"Is it because like us they also only trust their families?"

"Yes, exactly."

"But if we stop trusting families and start trusting each other as people, wouldn't the world be a better place?"

Baba frowned. He ran a hand through Young Kazi's hair and shook his head. "The world is complicated. Someday, when you're older and you see the world, you'll understand." Baba looked at the stars above, smiling. "Although maybe…maybe it will be different with you. Maybe you will be able to change things."

"I want to change things," Young Kazi said out of approval.

"Maybe you will." He rubbed his head again. "Maybe you will."

The stars were a wonderful sight. Already, he had memorized their locations and given them a unique name. To this day, Kazi remembered the made-up names he gave. They were silly and limited by his lack of life experience.

But no amount of stargazing or jokes stopped the aching hunger in his stomach or the stench of blood and shit in the air.

Six years old, Kazi Hossain was regarded as the smartest in the Upazila. The water levels were low during the summer and the char island they were on was stable and clear. People gathered their livestock in a new area, having put them on rafts and boats to prevent damage from the floods.

Young Kazi could never be left alone.

"Kazi—"

His head snapped at the hand preparing to touch him. "Don't touch me." His brows went into a deep scowl. "Didn't I tell you? Sickness happens through excess contact."

"Right, but I'm not sick…" The old man was older than his father and with half the dignity.

"Then why are you always touching your head when you're farming?"

"That's, er…"

"You blew your nose. You're sick. Some kind of cold. Leave me alone."

So he did. Everyone listened to him. Everyone did as he said. He wasn't king, he was a sage. A source of knowledge to draw upon. The boy that knew the region like the back of his hand, who had people ask him where to go for their particular job. A pseudo-village started to take root in the summer season.

The adults tended to talk to him. Children avoided him like a plague. It was like they didn't regard him as their own. He was neither an adult or a child; he was something beyond, they sensed.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Kazi, six years old, lived with his parents in a humble dwelling—a single space that served as their sanctuary. The absence of beds or separate rooms made their home a reflection of the simplicity of their lives.

They all slept close by. Thus, on the fated night of death, they woke up one after another when the thieves entered.

"Get up, now!"

Thieves were neither common nor uncommon. It happened to their neighbours and his parents always discussed when it would happen to them. Today was that day.

The three thieves demanded their valuables and their food. A flicker of fear struck his father's eyes, who slowly picked himself up. "Hold on—"

"No holding on! Ten seconds or we slit your throat!"

The thieves didn't see him. Kazi was on the left side of the room with his mother. In that moment, as his mother's breath hitched and he sensed her fear, something within the six-year-old boy clicked—a primal instinct to protect her. To protect his father. To protect everything that belonged to him.

But fear? Fear did not exist. He was merely carrying out what he was supposed to do. To him, this was another task. Another part of life.

Kazi seized the opportunity when one of the thieves brandished a knife. When one wielded a great weapon, the others would not. Some parts confidence and some parts confidence were in the thieves. Swift as a shadow, the young boy lunged forward, his small hands darting to snatch the weapon from the second intruder's pockets. Slash! 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 a child.

Kazi went for the second thief who did not understand what was happening. The knife clumsily thrust forward and miserably failed. Kazi was too small and too quick. His movements were methodical, 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 men. The odds were stacked against him. The thief with the bleeding wrist hissed. Adrenaline was pumping through his muscles and he refused to die.

Kazi's hazel eyes widened 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 metallic 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 came over and hugged him, thanking him.

That was the first time Kazi Hossain ever killed another human being. It wouldn't be the last.

At the end of the summer season, a foreigner came 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 men and women 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 came, 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 me? 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 immediately 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 home.

"It doesn't matter to me. 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 time 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 home 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 women 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 home.

Seven years old was the last time he didn't feel like a failure.

"Stop it." The memories began to crack. "Stop showing me this. I know what happened. I know I failed." His eyes were full of anguish and he forcibly closed them. "Just...disappear already."