Ahmed
When my uncle was a young, dashing bachelor, he decided that it was time for him to move out from living with us and into his own bachelor pad. He found himself a cozy apartment not too far from where we lived. It had a small little garden where one could sit in the evenings or perhaps in the morning with a cup of tea. He furnished it tastefully. He needed someone to take care of it and his requirements. By chance, he found Ahmed. Ahmed was a eunuch. He was about eighteen years old at that time. At a very young age, Ahmed had been indentured to a sheikh. Since Ahmed was to work in his harem, the sheikh decided to have him castrated. In those days, it was not uncommon to have young boys castrated for that reason. To me, it seems cruel and unthinkable to commit such a heartless atrocity. At the tender age of four or so, Ahmed was taken from his home in the village. His family was too poor to take care of him properly. They imagined him being well fed and taken care of in the home of this wealthy sheikh. He was tearfully torn away from his mother’s bosom and handed to one of the sheikh’s servants, screaming hysterically and crying inconsolably. He was taken away to be raised in the harem amongst the sheikh’s numerous wives. Once he was castrated and had overcome the trauma of such a violent act performed upon him, he became the docile and happy-natured child that he was by nature. He was a tot and he yearned for the nurturing love of his family. Sometimes he was petted by the women in the harem, but that was not too often. Mostly, he ran their errands and was ordered about. Soon his memory of his family in the village began to fade to a vague happy dream in the back of his mind. As the years went by, for some reason or another, he was let go. He did not know why. He then was hired by a family with three children. The woman was very egoistical, lazy, and cruel. While her children were spoiled and coddled, the woman had him doing everything. He shopped, he cleaned, he cooked, and ran errands. If he sat for a second to catch his breath, she would find something else for him to do. Poor child, he was no more than seven or eight. What a cruel fate he had been dealt. “Why are you sitting, Ahmed? You lazy good-for-nothing? The windows are dirty! Wash them,” she would demand. This would go on day in and day out. Ahmed was young and full of energy. He tried very hard, yet was so unappreciated. When the husband came home for lunch, the wife would sit on her chair fanning herself, pretending utter exhaustion, even though all she had done all day was sit on her chair and ordered him about. “Welcome home, husband. You wouldn’t believe the day I have had! I cooked! I cleaned! I ironed! I took care of the children! I am exhausted!” she greeted her husband, as he entered the house. “You did what?” Ahmed thought in amazement. “You did all that? Then what did I do?” Ahmed held his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself. Where would he go if they fired him? His family was too poor and could not afford to feed and clothe him. He was only a young lad. He needed a roof over his head and food to fill his stomach. He let her complaints about him go in one ear and out the other. He kept silent. However, he felt a sense of great injustice. One night, exhausted and discouraged, as he lay on his mattress in the corner of the hallway, his tears ran down his cheeks, he aped her voice. “Husband. You wouldn’t believe the day I had! From morning till night I worked my fingers to the bone and that good-for-nothing Ahmed does nothing,” he cried piteously. His mistress happened to pass by just at that moment. With a cry of outrage, she fell upon him and began beating and berating him mercilessly. The next morning the heartless harridan threw him out of the house without giving him his salary, without even allowing him to eat a morsel of something. The poor boy stood in the middle of the street sobbing and terrified. He did not know what would become of him. Where was he to go? How would he fend for himself? He leaned against a garden wall on the street, weeping and shaking uncontrollably. He was terrified! What was he to do? Oh, what was he to do? A lady living across the street witnessed what had happened. She was a kind old widow who lived alone. She had watched him often from across the way. She noticed how hard he worked and his cheerful disposition. Her heart went out to him. She took him in. She lived alone. She had no family in this country. She was not Iranian born but from Baghdad. She treated him like a son. He would accompany her on her errands. Sometimes they would go to the cinema together, for it was improper for a lady to venture out alone. Other times they took walks in the neighborhood or visited some of her friends. They stopped at the ice cream parlor or the corner sandwich store, where the neighborhood old men sat playing board games and sipping endless tiny glasses of tea. The old woman and the lad enjoyed each other’s company. For the very first time in his short, sad life, Ahmed felt safe, happy, and loved. But things were not to remain that way for him. A few years later, when she did not get up in the morning, he called her for breakfast. Since she still did not answer, he entered her bedroom. Alas, she had died peacefully in her sleep. He was heartbroken. She was like a grandmother to him. He loved her. He had lost so much in his young life. One more time he felt abandoned and forsaken. One more time he felt himself to be alone against the world. But this time all was not lost. It seemed that fate had other plans for him. My uncle happened to be acquainted with his mistress. He knew Ahmed and liked him and his ready smile. He needed someone to take care of his home. He chose Ahmed. My uncle and Ahmed were roughly about the same age. Ahmed was fascinated with the life my uncle led. He was charmed by him. He hero-worshipped him. He felt safe there. All day long he smiled and sang as he went about his work. There were no unreasonable demands made upon him. He made friends with the people around the area. He felt he was fortunate to find another good home. And he had. He was liked and trusted. He knew his responsibilities and took them seriously. On Sundays, my uncle usually took turns in inviting one of my sisters and I to his home for lunch. To us, it was a very special event. Ahmed would cook a favorite meal and the little niece of the week would be his guest! Oh, how grown up we felt! Oh, how we delighted in the attention! How very special we felt! Our mother would drop us off at noon. As we waited for my uncle to come home, Ahmed would regale us with the funniest stories of his experiences. We would howl with laughter at his anecdotes. The harder we laughed, the more outrageous his stories became. One day my uncle came home with a pup. One of his acquaintances had persuaded him to take a pup from their dog’s litter. Now neither my uncle nor Ahmed had a clue on how to take care of the poor dog. They made a little shelter for him in the garden against the elements. Ahmed was responsible for putting water out for him and feeding him. He did not like dogs. He was petrified of Brownie, for that was what my uncle named him. The poor pup was left to his lonesome self all the time. He had no one to play nor interact with. Once a day Ahmed would dutifully bring him food and quickly rush back into the house. At first the pup cried piteously. Later his cries turned to growls of anger. He snarled and bared his teeth in rage. My uncle did not have the time to interact with him. Ahmed could barely control his fear of the unfortunate dog. Brownie was so angry that he once caught Ahmed by the seat of his pants. The pants tore. His derrière was thankfully unharmed! Ahmed was lucky that only the pants tore and he was able to escape safely. When my sisters and I went there, we would sit by the windowsill above where Brownie was in the now abandoned garden and talk to him. He would look up to us and listen wistfully. Once in a while he would respond with a gentle woof. I once asked permission to go play with him. The suggestion was vehemently denied. I don’t know what happened to Brownie. He had a miserable life and perhaps he died of loneliness and heartache. Every time I think of him, I experience a strong twinge in my heart and still feel utterly sad. Every living creature needs companionship and love. The day came when my uncle met the woman he was destined to marry, the love of his life. Things changed for Ahmed once again. As was the custom, her mother set about organizing her daughter’s new home. She was uncomfortable with Ahmed running the household, even though he was a eunuch. This time his move was not too drastic. He moved into my parents’ household. There were more people there, and he had a busier social lifestyle with the other members of the staff. Shortly after that, my sister and I were sent to boarding school. We were gone for a few years. I wanted to study dress designing in Paris, after I was done with school. My father would have none of that. Instead, I had to return home. When I returned, Ahmed was still there, but not for too long. By this time, he was in his middle to late thirties. He was no longer a young lad who was unsure of himself. He had worked for others for so many years. He now wished to become his own boss. I am not sure where he went. I would like to think he went back to his family in their little village at the foot of the mountains. I would like to think he opened a little shop and earned a decent living. I would like to think that he was embraced by his family’s love, for everyone deserves to have happiness and family. I would like to think he was embraced by adoring nieces and nephews, that they all realized what a very special man he was. I would like to think that Ahmed led a life filled with contentment and success. For more than most people, he deserved a big share of that.