Bright sparks

A pleasant-faced man of few words, now and then Ahmed would casually run a calloused forefinger along a wickedly glinting blade to test its keenness 8212; something that made us gasp. Yet he never nicked himself. Once, trying to emulate him, I sliced the skin off my forefinger. More painful, however, was the spanking Dad gave me for my foolishness.

Ever eager to please, Ahmed gave his unflagging attention to even trivial tasks like sharpening the spikes of our track shoes, our blunt arrows and darts. And he accepted payment without ever haggling. Sometimes he allowed us to operate the treadle although we usually moved it a trifle too fast for his comfort. Once an exuberant sibling really overdid it: the big, spoked wheel broke free from its fastenings and hurtled down the yard.

8220;Trying to escape, eh?8221; chuckled Ahmed, as he retrieved the runaway. But his levity sounded phoney. Soon I saw through his ruse. Seeing our fear-stricken faces, he was trying to mask his own dismay over his damaged grinder 8212; his sole means of livelihood 8212; in order to spare my brother a thrashing from Dad. Could there have been a kindlier man?