The lost prince of Kabul : My return

His name was Zalan. He was 24 years old and he washed dishes in a small hotel in Murree. His face was handsome like a film star, his body was tall and strong like a Pathan warrior, but his clothes were old and dirty. His hands were burnt from hot water. Everyone in the hotel called him "Oye Chotu" even though he was the tallest among them. But Zalan's eyes were different. They were grey, like the winter sky. And they never looked down. Even when he was washing dishes, he looked like a king who was just sitting on a dirty floor. "Zalan! You are slow again! Wash faster!" The hotel manager shouted and slapped him on the back of his head. Zalan said nothing. He just kept washing. He had learned in the last 10 years that if you are poor, you have to stay quiet. He had no family. He had no home. The old hotel owner, Bashir Ahmed, found him 10 years ago on the road near Murree, unconscious and bleeding. He was only 14 then. He remembered nothing. He didn't know his name, his parents, or where he came from. Bashir gave him the name Zalan because he found him during a storm. Every night, Zalan had the same dream. A big palace made of black stone. A beautiful woman with green eyes crying. A man with a crown on his head shouting "Run, my son, RUN!" And then fire. So much fire. He always woke up sweating. Tonight was a very cold night in Murree. Snow was falling. There were no customers in the hotel. Zalan was cleaning the kitchen alone. At that moment, the door of the hotel opened with a loud sound. Cold wind came inside. Three big men in expensive black shalwar kameez entered. They were not normal customers. They had guns on their waist. Their beards were trimmed, their eyes were cruel. Behind them, an old man in a wheelchair was pushed inside. The old man was maybe 80 years old. His face was full of wrinkles but his eyes were like an eagle's. He was wearing a very expensive Peshawari chappal and a golden watch. He looked like a King. The manager ran to them. "Sahib, welcome, welcome! What do you need?" One of the bodyguards said, "Our Nawab Sahib is going to Islamabad. Snow blocked the road. We need rooms for the night." The old man in the wheelchair said nothing. He was looking around the hotel. Then his eyes stopped. He stopped on Zalan. Zalan was standing near the kitchen, holding a dirty plate. He was also looking at the old man. For some reason, his heart started beating very fast. The old man slowly raised his shaking finger and pointed at Zalan. His voice was old but powerful. "Who... who is that boy?" The manager laughed. "Oh, he is just a dish washer, Nawab Sahib. An orphan. He knows nothing." The old man pushed his wheelchair himself and came closer to Zalan. He came so close that Zalan could smell his expensive perfume. The old man looked at Zalan's face, then at his grey eyes. The old man's eyes became wet. "Bring light! Bring light here!" he shouted. A bodyguard brought his mobile torch and shone it on Zalan's face. The old man slowly touched Zalan's left shoulder. He pushed his dirty shirt a little to the side. There, on Zalan's shoulder, was a birthmark. It was not a normal mark. It was in the shape of a small crescent moon with a star in the middle. It was red like blood. The moment the old man saw that mark, he started shaking badly. He fell from his wheelchair onto the floor. Everyone ran to help him. But the old man was not looking at them. He was looking at Zalan and he was crying. He was an 80-year-old Nawab, a powerful man, crying like a child in front of a dish washer. "My Prince... My Prince is alive!" he screamed loudly. The whole hotel became silent. "Shehzada Zalan! Son of Nawab Jalal Khan of Kabul Kingdom! You are alive!" Zalan stepped back. "What are you saying? I am not a Prince. My name is Zalan, I wash dishes here." The old man was now on his knees, holding Zalan's legs. "No! Your name is Shehzada Zalan Khan! You are the only heir of the Great Kabul Kingdom! The kingdom of the Durrani Pathans! I am your father's Wazir, I am Khan Baba! I saw you being born! I gave you your first sword! That mark on your shoulder, only the royal blood of Durrani has it! Your grandfather had it, your father had it!" He took out an old photo from his pocket. It was a photo of a handsome King and a beautiful Queen holding a small baby. The baby had the same grey eyes. "Look! Look at your mother! Queen Rania!" Zalan's hands were shaking. The woman in the photo... she was the same woman he saw every night in his dream. The woman who was crying. "10 years ago, your uncle, General Sher Khan, attacked your palace in Kabul. He wanted the throne. He killed many people. Your father fought till the end. Your mother gave you to me and said run. I was taking you to Pakistan, but on the Murree road, his men attacked us. They stabbed me and threw you in the river. I thought you died. For 10 years I thought my Prince was dead. I prayed every day at your grave. But Allah is great! You are alive! You are alive and washing dishes!" The three bodyguards were shocked. They immediately kneeled down in front of Zalan. "Shehzada Sahib!" Zalan could not believe it. Was he really a Prince? Was his whole life a lie? Was he not an orphan but a King? The old man, Khan Baba, took off his own expensive coat and put it on Zalan's shoulders. "Come home, my Prince. Your kingdom is waiting. Your mother is still alive, she is a prisoner in her own palace for 10 years. Your father... they say he is still alive in the dark prison. Your people need you. The Kingdom of Kabul needs its Prince back." Outside, the snow was falling faster. Inside the small hotel, a dish washer was standing with a King's coat on his shoulders. Zalan looked at his burnt hands, then at the ring on Khan Baba's hand. It was a royal ring with the same moon and star. He closed his fists. "Take me to my Kingdom. ---