Rasha bin Salim always complained that his left hand had a mind of its own. It had, after all, caused him immeasurable trouble. It was always sliding over to grab a jewel here, a piece of fine silk here, or maybe a couple gold coins if no one was looking. Rasha was right-handed, and though it would never admit it, the left one was jealous. Luckily for it, Rasha had come into being in that most glorious city in all Persia, Baghdad, where a left hand might find countless spectacles and amazing wonders to behold.
Now, the ears had heard all sorts of things in their lifetime, and when Rasha wasn't using them for listening, they could often be found chattering away at some other body part - after all, they had to do something with all the those silly things that never quite made it to the brain. It happened that one night, as the humble porter slept, an ear - they were awfully hard to tell apart - had developed an itch, and the left hand had answered the call. The ear was very happy to be scratched, and in return for the favor, told of a human law that might earn the hand some freedom. Thus did its antics begin.
"O Evil Hand!" Rasha would shout as he carried his goods through the city. "Why must you betray me?"
But the hand would not relent. Over the next few weeks, all of Rasha's extra time became devoted to foiling the exploits of his left hand. He was constantly wrestling things from its grasp, for Rasha bin Salim was an honest man and a True Believer, and would never steal of his own accord. Finally, he could bear it no longer.
"O Hand!" he cried, "I cannot win! I have no choice but to give you what you seek, though it will certainly bring great suffering to my already meager existence!"
The next day, Rasha brought his case before the Caliph.
"O Great Caliph, mighty ruler of glorious Baghdad and all of Persia without, what would you have me do?"
The Commander of the Faithful, of course, had no idea what poor Rasha was talking about, and in the elegant speech of kings and Caliphs, quite rightly said so.
"Magnificent Caliph," said Rasha bin Salim, "I am but a humble porter, unworthy of the slightest glance by one so excellent as yourself. But the accursed malady that has befallen me leaves me no options but to wallow in my misery or turn to one much wiser than I." Rasha proceeded to tell of his suspicion that his left hand wanted nothing more than to be cut free, and had turned to thievery so that, by law, it would get its wish.
"This is an interesting dilemma, good Porter," said the Caliph. "You would not willingly remove your hand, yet its thieving torments you constantly."
The Caliph thought for a while, and Rasha began to fear that the Commander of the Faithful would advise him to cut the hand off anyway. The left hand grew ecstatic at the thought.
But it was not to be.
"I see a solution," said the Caliph. "You seem an honest man and a hard worker. As it happens, one of my tax collectors was killed recently, and I am offering you the position."
"I understand, O exalted Caliph!" Rasha shouted in joy. "Now my hand can rob the people of their wealth for the good of all Baghdad. O, Thank you, Excellency!"
And so Rasha bin Salim spent the rest of his days as a Tax Collector. The left hand was kept busy, and soon came to enjoy the work, forgetting all thoughts of leaving. Rasha, then, was as happy as an ex-porter could be, with the small exception that, on occasion, his right foot would decide spontaneously to kick someone in the shins.
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