Omar the Peddler

Long, long ago and far, far away, the fabled city of Timbuctu prospered and among the masses crowding the city’s bustling streets, Omar sold his trinkets.

Ever since he could remember he had provided for his sick old mother. Day in and day out, he left at dawn and returned at dusk bringing home bags full of the market’s bounty; and every evening without fail, his mother painfully limped her way to the front door to shower him with rosaries of kisses and blessings. Omar could not think of a better wage for his labor.

He was only sixteen and had been a peddler for more than half those years; but sometimes he felt like he had walked the streets and alleys of the great city for a hundred years.

As he went he showed his goods and sang his selling pitch at the top of his lungs: "Pretty beads! Beautiful stones! For your loved ones! For your own!"

Beggars lined the dusty streets, their cupped hands extended vying for the occasional coin that came their way.

Omar looked at them, wishing that he could place a coin or two in every cupped hand.

However, he did not have much himself. Business had been slow lately, almost dead today. Perhaps it would be just a matter of time before he joined their ranks.

Then he came by the market place and decided to go in it to sell his trinkets; except, he could not afford to pay the dues, so he would need to use cunning to show his goods.

He wore them and looked like a young sheik in rags.

Five rings adorned each finger and thumb, dozens of bracelets dangled from each arm; heaps of chains and necklaces looped around his neck, and scores of brooches and charms crowded his chest. But, earrings he could only wear on each ear one. So he hung one on the one, then another and another, until the chains of earrings reached to the ground.

And again he sang his selling pitch; but now, not as loud.

The market supervisor was keen and spotted Omar making a sale. He gave chase and Omar ran like a rush of air. City police joined the hunt.

Now Omar climbed to the roof tops. He flew from one to the other as if on winged feet. But the police were many and he was soon boxed in.

He looked in all directions for a means to escape. He spotted an open skylight and, without giving it a second thought, dropped through it. He landed on his feet and immediately got up and moved away from under the bright sun pouring into the empty room. From a corner of the room, he looked up and was relieved to see that the city cops were nowhere to be seen.

He scanned his surroundings, seeking a way out. There were no windows. Only a narrow door disturbed the white smoothness of the four walls. Omar had to exit through it, otherwise he was a prisoner. He pushed the door. The ancient hinges protested with a creaking sound as the door swung open.

In the semidarkness, he could make out an impossibly long hallway that seemed to stretch out for miles.

It must be an optical illusion, Omar thought, and started walking towards a point of light in the distance. He soon realized that the corridor was for real. Hours later, or so it seemed to Omar, he reached the source of the light.

It was a small opening on the wall from which a blinding glare flowed. Omar came close expecting fiery heat. But the light was cool as a spring breeze. He squeezed through the opening and dropped into a room where a ball of fire, like a tiny sun, hung in mid-air. The room seemed to have no openings other than the one he just dropped through and was now out of his reach.

He surveyed the contents of the room: The floor teemed with gold nuggets and precious stones. Lying all over it, amid the treasures, there were human skeletons, their chalk-white fingers still clutching some of the riches.

"Holy flying carpet! What kind of a place is this?" Omar exclaimed with his eyes wide open staring at the bright object. Then he bent down, picked up a large diamond and put it in his pocket.

Abruptly, a voice from within the bright object thundered out to him, "This is the Kingdom of the Djins and I am the Great Djin!" Then the fiery thing took the shape of a very large human being. "I am your servant for the duration of two wishes," continued the Djin.

"Two wishes! Three is the minimum, last I heard. What kind of a genie are you?" Omar haggled, like a good peddler should.

"I am not a genie. I am the Great Djin," the Djin protested and then added, with a wink, "The wishes I grant are better."

"May I wish for anything?" Omar asked.

"Yes, but wish wisely," the Djin hissed. Then with an impish look he said, "May I suggest wealth and knowledge; or perhaps, unfailing health? Immortality, alas, I can offer not."

Omar closed his eyes as if in deep thought.

"Well, well," urged the Djin, impatiently.

"I wish for good health for my mother and to wake up in my own bed tomorrow," Omar said.

The Djin shook his head, apparently disappointed, and Omar woke up.

"Mother! Mother!" he called. "I’ve had the most awful dream."

His mother came running into the room.

Omar stared in disbelief.

"Mother, check the pockets of my pants. See what’s in them," he choked out.

"Just a chunk of glass," she said, taking a large stone out of one of the pockets and holding it out for him to see.

"That’s no glass, mother. And I wasn’t dreaming," Omar gasped.

Now among the masses crowding Timbuctu’s bustling streets, Omar walked; and as he went, he dropped coins into every beggar’s cupped hands.