It is a chilly winter evening in Katlang, Mardan, as Yasir Ali puts dinner on the table for a guest in a hujra of the small village of Azi Khel. The guest is an old man who has come from Kohistan. He asks the boy Yasir Ali, “Where is that tall, handsome and white-bearded man who used to bring me food whenever I came here?”

“Oh, you talk about Muhammad Nabi Kaka,” Yasir answers. “He is no more with us. He died on Eid last year,” he says, with a deep sigh. The guest stares at the boy, motionless.

“Died?” the guest repeats, his eyes open wide in shock.

Then tears rush down from his eyes, and flow down his cheeks and beard.

“I have never met such a generous person [as him] in my life,” the old guest says in a low, quivering voice.

Yasir nods: “Yes, he was

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