No translation

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

No translation

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day, the Mullah was sent on an important and delicate diplomatic mission to Kurdistan with the ambassador and a translator. Once in Kurdistan, the Kurdish leaders were preparing a feast and, through the interpreter, invited them.

So they put on their finery and went to the dining hall and everything was going well. But in the middle at the formal banquet, just as the Kurdish leader was about to speak, Nasruddin suddenly let out a loud fart.

The head of the embassy was completely embarrassed and said, “You farted, Nasruddin, and have thus brought shame on Turkey!”

Nasruddin only smiled and replied, “But these are all Kurds here! How in the world would they understand a Turkish fart?”

 

Excerpted from the forthcoming Lethe Press book by Ron J. Suresha,

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 

Is there a universal language? The answer is blowin’ in the wind.


One house is plenty

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

One house is plenty

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day, Nasruddin’s wife Fatima went to listen to the sermon at the mosque. When she came home, Mullah said to her, “Fatima, tell me: what did the preacher say today?”

She replied, “The preacher declared that, ‘Whoever shall perform his marital duty to his wife, he manifests God, the Almighty, in His grace, and makes his home a Paradise!”

When they both went to bed, the Mullah declared, “Come! Let us build ourselves a house filled with God’s grace,” and they coupled.

Shortly afterward, Nasruddin rolled off his wife. Fatima implored him to continue, “Wait, Mullah, you’ve just built a house for you. Hurry up, build me one!”

But Nasruddin replied, “It is easy enough for me to build you a house of your own. But I fear that you will then eventually invite your father and your mother to live there, and then finally, you’ll let all of your relatives into our house, which will make the architect indignant. Please, do not grieve. One house between the two of us is plenty!”

Excerpted from the forthcoming Lethe Press book by Ron J. Suresha,

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 

 


Mouth wide shut

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

Mouth wide shut

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day, during a meeting of the village elders, one of the speakers talked uninterrupted for several hours, not letting anyone else get a word in edgewise. Nasruddin, sitting in the corner listening, was yawning continuously throughout the fellow’s pontifications.

When the fellow finally finished at the close of the meeting, one of Nasruddin’s friends turned to him and said, Well, isn’t that a shame! We did not have the pleasure of hearing our dear Mullah talk tonight. You haven’t opened your mouth once.”

“Are you kidding me?” asked the Mullah. “I was so bored that my jaw is now almost broke from yawning so much.”

 

Excerpted from the forthcoming
Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 


Free haircut

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

Free haircut

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day, Nasruddin entered a barbershop, followed by a young boy. Nasruddin told the barber that he was in a hurry and wanted to get his haircut first. The barber readily agreed and proceeded to give Nasruddin a fine haircut and beard trim. Nasruddin checked his hair, replaced his turban, told the barber he would be back soon, and left.

The boy hopped into the barber chair, and the barber cut the boy’s hair. After he was done, the boy got out of the chair and started to leave. The barber stopped him and said, “But where is your father? He said he’d be right back, and now he’s late.”

“Father?” said the boy. “That man’s not my father. He’s just some guy I met on the street outside who told me to come in with him for a free haircut!”

 

Excerpted from the forthcoming
Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 

You know what they say about assumptions.

Since most stories depict the Mullah as bald, this story must have taken place before it all fell out. He was a rascal, even then.

Exactly what I would have done

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

Exactly what I would have done

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

When Nasruddin was newly married, just on the third night, Nasruddin dreamt that he was swimming deep in a vast ocean. It was a happy dream until he woke up to realize that he’d wet the bed.

Of course, he was embarrassed but was unsure quite how to tell his wife, Fatima, snoring fast asleep next to him. So Nasruddin arranged his blanket partly over the damp spot and then lay back down, pretending to be asleep.

After a minute, he bolted upright with a shout, “Arghhh! Dear Allah, save me!”

Fatima awoke and turned her head to look at her husband. “What’s the matter, Nasruddin?”

The trembling and visibly shaken Mullah replied, “Fatima! Wife, you have no idea what sort of horrifying nightmare I’ve just had!”

She asked, “What did you dream?”

“I saw three tall minarets, one set right above the next, and atop the third minaret was an egg, and on that egg was a needle, and on that needle balanced a covered table, and at that table I had to eat my dinner!”

Fatima gasped, “God! How terrifying! What a predicament! My poor husband!”

Nasruddin replied calmly, “You can’t imagine how shocked I was!”

Fatima sympathized, “I can only imagine, dear husband. You must have been frightened beyond belief. Out of sheer fear, I would have soiled the bed, or worse!”

“Indeed,” Nasruddin readily agreed, “that is exactly what I would’ve done myself!”

Excerpted from the forthcoming Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 

It’s terrifying to imagine the heights to which some people will go will to cover their infantile behavior.

A stupid beard

A Mullah Nasruddin story

A Stupid Beard

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day the imam told Nasruddin, “Anyone who wears a beard longer than his fist is stupid.”

When the Mullah returned home, he checked himself in the mirror and realized that his beard was quite a bit longer than his fist. He took a lit candle and was intending to burn off only an inch or so of the offending hairs — just the part that was hanging below his fist.

Whoosh! In a flash, the beard went up in flames and he could not put it out before he singed his entire face. Now Nasruddin’s face looked like the underside of a plucked and roasted chicken.

The next day, Nasruddin went to see the imam and said, “What you told me yesterday was completely correct. A man with a long beard possesses short wisdom.”

“Idiot! I meant you should use a pair of scissors or a razor. Why in Allah’s name did you burn off your beard?”

“Well, I didn’t have either of those things, but I had some fire on hand. I admit that I lost my beard and burned my chin from ear to ear, but at least now I am free of being stupid.”

Excerpted from the forthcoming Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 

If beards could think, they probably would decide not to set themselves on fire.

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin

Forthcoming December 2014 from Lethe Press:

The long-awaited sequel to the award-winning book,

The Uncommon Sense of the Immortal Mullah Nasruddin:

 

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin

Naughty, unexpurgated stories of the beloved folk hero from the Middle and Far East

by Ron J. Suresha

 

Nasruddin and his hairy ass
Nasruddin and his hairy ass — not final cover art

 

The following excerpts from the sequel have been previously published on this website with the “Naughty Nasreddin” category and tag. Click any story title to see the story.

If you’re old enough to understand the word “unexpurgated,” you’re old enough to read this book.

 

 

 

Only two sides of the river

A Mullah Nasruddin story

Only two sides of the river

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One sunny afternoon Mullah Nasruddin was sitting quietly on a riverbank near Lake Aksehir when someone approached the river from the opposite side. After looking around a bit, the fellow noticed Nasreddin and shouted out, “Hey there! Excuse me — please tell me, how do I get across?”

Without getting up, Nasruddin shouted back, “You are across!”

 

Excerpted from the forthcoming Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin, by Ron J. Suresha

 

Most times, you’re already right where you need to be, but just don’t recognize it.

 

Thank God I Wasn’t in It

by rjs
Comments: Comments Off
Published on: January 18, 2014
A Mullah Nasruddin story

Thank God I Wasn’t in It

continued from “The Quilt Is Gone, the Fight Is Done”

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

After Fatima’s quilt was stolen, Nasruddin bought a bow, quiver, and some arrows. It made him feel more secure somehow, knowing that he had a weapon to protect his family and home — and his quilt — so he placed it near his bed.

One breezy night a loud flapping and rustling in the backyard wakened Nasruddin.

Seeing his wife Fatima snoring asleep in her bed, he crept to the window, picking up his trusty quiver and bow. There was definitely something moving out back, some sort of shadowy figure with his arms aflutter in the strong wind.

Nasruddin rubbed his eyeballs twice and blinked thrice and shook his head until his neck cracked, but he could only make out the cloak of the man standing at the far end of the backyard near the tree. The moonlight in the wind scattered clouds that obscured most of the faceless apparition, but Nasruddin peered at the dark figure in the corner of the yard as hard as he could, and he thought he recognized — could it be? — that someone was wearing his cloak? The thief must have nabbed it from the branch where Fatima hung it to dry after she’d cleaned it last night, and now was prancing about in glee at having stolen such a lovely warm cloak.

Nasruddin looked over at the snoring Fatima, his beloved first wife of so many years, and whispered, “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll protect you — and my cloak!”

He flung the windows open, hoping the sound would scare the thief leaping in and out of the shadows in the backyard, but still the rascally character danced next to his apricot tree, flailing his arms wildly, now seeming to taunt Nasruddin.

He issued a warning: “Enough of your barbaric thievery! Return my fine cloak to me right now, or I’ll shoot you right there!” Still the man — perhaps it was a ghoul or a djinn! — seemed to sway and wave his arms as the wind blew sharply around him.

“All right, you scoundrel! You asked for it!” Nasruddin was so terrified and angry that the bow shook in his right hand as he placed his arrow shakily on the notch, pulled back the drawstring with his elbow akimbo — and closed his eyes tight.

He released the bow and ducked. The arrow hit something — he heard the sound of fabric ripping and a thud. Nasruddin squinted his ears, if such a thing can be done, listening for . . . the intruder . . . or anything.

As the breeze continued rustling the branches it became clear that the arrow had hit its target! Nasruddin peered over the edge of the window but, with the moon still darting in and out of the clouds, he could not see any movement near the apricot tree. He raised his bow triumphantly, silently praising God for protecting Fatima and his children from such an evil spirit, when suddenly he realized in horror — he’d just shot a man!

Nasruddin gasped, dropped the bow, shut and latched the windows, then ran downstairs and locked and barricaded the front door. Then he ran upstairs and seeing Fatima still sound asleep and snoring, he jumped under the quilt and pulled it around him tight, shivering like a little question mark scrawled in his bed until finally he fell asleep.

Fatima’s voice of course woke him the next morning, entirely too early, but not from beside him in bed. She was yelling for him from outside the locked windows. Nasruddin tumbled wearily out of bed and cautiously opened a window. Now he could hear Fatima’s familiar screeching voice and see clearly, as she stood beside the tree, what he’d shot the night before . . .

Fatima was cursing Nasruddin as she tried to pull the arrow from his cloak to release it from the branch where she had hung it. Nasruddin’s arrow had pinned the cloak right between the shoulders to the apricot tree.

Nasruddin waved his hands high above his head, dancing and shouting, “Praise God! God be praised!”

After struggling with the cloak, Fatima ended up tearing a rather large hole in it, leaving the arrow embedded in the tree. She stormed back to the house up to the window where Nasruddin was still praising God loudly.

Fatima yelled, “What are you saying ‘God be praised’ for? You ruined your best cloak!”

Nasruddin embraced and kissed his wife, then held her hands as he danced around the room. “But do you not see, my dear? If I had been wearing my most unfortunate cloak, I would have been shot through the heart and killed myself! Praise, praise God, I am saved!”

 

Excerpted from The Uncommon Sense of the Immortal Mullah Nasruddin

The Quilt Is Gone, the Fight Is Done

by rjs
Comments: Comments Off
Published on: January 16, 2014
A Mullah Nasruddin story

The Quilt Is Gone, the Fight Is Done

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One winter night, Mullah Nasruddin and his wife Fatima were sleeping soundly in their own beds, snuggled up under the covers and quilt, when the loud din of quarreling voices outside wakened them. It sounded like two thieves were drunk and arguing about something, but neither Nasruddin nor Fatima could make out quite what was the source of conflict.

After the noisy row had gone on for a while, Fatima urged her husband to get out of bed and investigate the matter. “They could be thieves,” she whimpered, pulling the bedsheets up close. “They could be terrorists.”

Yawning, Nasruddin agreed to check out the disturbance. He was far too sleepy to bother to dress in his turban and cloak, which would have shown the shouting hooligans that he was a village judge, a man not to be disturbed in the middle of a heavenly dream. Instead, Nasruddin wrapped the quilt that Fatima had painstakingly hand-stitched around his shoulders and trudged outside to investigate the commotion.

As Nasruddin stepped outside into the cool night air to confront the two boisterous men, they stopped their fighting and faced the Mullah. Before Nasruddin could even say, “Stop fighting, will you?” the two men set upon him with fists and shouts. One of the thieves grabbed Fatima’s quilt from off the Mullah’s back, spun him around, then tore off into the night with the other man, leaving Nasruddin naked and stupefied.

Finding himself shivering, Nasruddin dashed upstairs to the bedroom, where Fatima was awaiting his return. She asked, “Nasruddin, what happened to the two men? What were they arguing about at this time of night? And where did my beautiful handmade quilt go?”

Nasruddin could only sigh and reply, “They must have been fighting about your quilt, because as soon as they took it, they stopped fighting. Still, I’m glad to report, now that the quilt is gone, the fight is done.”

This story continues with “Thank God I Wasn’t in It”

Excerpted from The Uncommon Sense of the Immortal Mullah Nasruddin

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