Hands are full

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

 

Hands are full

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

Once, Nasruddin went on a long trip, and Fatima insisted that he carry a weapon, so he left heavily armed. In one hand he held a huge sword, and in the other he clenched a pistol.
Unfortunately, on the road the Mullah encountered a thief who stopped and robbed him. Not even the Mullah’s pants were left him.
When he returned home and told Fatima what had happened to him, she exclaimed, “Dolt! You were armed to the teeth! Why in God’s name did you not do anything to defend yourself‽”
In his own defense, he exclaimed, “How could I‽ I had my hands full. If I had had my hands free, I would have strangled him! But eventually I gave him as much a fright as he gave me.”
“How did you manage to do that?” asked Fatima.
“Well, after he’d gone about half a mile, I yelled the nastiest, fiercest insults at him. There wasn’t a curse word known to man I didn’t threaten him with. I’m sure his ears are still burning.”

Excerpted from

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin
by Ron J. Suresha

now in print from Lethe Press

~

Putting out roots

by rjs
Categories: Announcements
Comments: Comments Off
Published on: November 24, 2014
A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

 

Putting out roots

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

Once Nasruddin observed a grove of trees and thought, Since those trees bear fruit, why shouldn’t I?
So the Mullah went to the field and buried himself up to his belly in theground. When night fell, the Mullah became cold and so he dug himself out and returned home.

The next day, when Fatima asked him how it went, he said, “It was okay at first. I was just about to put out roots when the cold killed them.”

 

Excerpted from

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin
by Ron J. Suresha

now in print from Lethe Press

Thanks to the following folks for hosting readings of EAOMN:

~ Saints + Sinners Literary Festival

~ OutWrite Literary Festival, Washington, DC

~ Matt and Provincetown Public Library

~ Donnie and Greg at Bureau of General Services / Queer Division

~ Vanessa and Bank Street Book Nook

~

 

 


Stuck in the mud

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

 

Stuck in the mud

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day, Nasruddin came home and said to Fatima, “My dear, why don’t you cook a nice pilaf. I feel very good today. Let’s have a nice evening.”

Fatima made a lovely pilaf for dinner, which they enjoyed greatly. After they cleaned up and were getting ready for bed, there was a knock at the door. Fatima answered it and discovered her neighbor, Setare, standing there, anxious to gossip about the news of the day.

“Our donkey had twins this morning,” shared Setare, walking right in. “But one of the little ones was born without a tail or ears. It seems so peculiar.” The women continued chatting for a while about this and that, and eventually the neighbor left.

When Fatima returned to bed, Nasruddin asked, “So what’s up with our neighbors, Setare and Hussein?”

Fatima replied, “Oh, don’t even ask. Their jenny-mule had twins this morning, but one of the little donkeys was born without a tail or ears. How weird.”

Hearing this, the Mullah became enraged, growling, “Oh, that’s just fucking lovely. Maybe twice a year, we decide to have a pleasant evening together — and then the neighbor’s donkey gives birth to twins, and it’s all ruined!”

“Mullah, calm down,” said Fatima, “it’s hardly of any consequence. Why should you get all bent out of shape about the neighbor’s deformed baby donkey?”

Nasruddin fumed, “Is it possible not to be upset about such a thing? Just think about this for a minute. Three years from now, the animal will be three years old. It’ll be taken by Hussein to the mountain to haul firewood, and one day the animal will likely get stuck in the mud of a swamp, and he won’t be able to move it. So naturally, Hussein’ll come to me to ask for help, and then since the donkey won’t have ears or a tail, there will be nothing at all to hold on to, to pull him out of the mud. What a horrid predicament we’ll no doubt find ourselves in then!”

Excerpted from

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin
by Ron J. Suresha

now in print from Lethe Press

~

 

 


No time to be sick

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

 

No time to be sick

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

Fatima was quite ill for several weeks, and the Mullah devotedly cared for her.
But after he had nursed his wife for all that time, he felt his strength fading and said to her, “My love! Stand up, or let me go eat something and wash myself!”
She started to cry, but the Mullah went away. She thought, This is no time be sick! Once he was gone, she rose hastily, swept the house, cooked the food, and prepared the beds. Finally Fatima, after having put everything in the house in order, finally collapsed back in her own bed.
When the Mullah returned and saw her passed out in bed, he clasped his trembling hands and ran to his wife’s side. Laying his head upon her abdomen, he shouted, “Oh, now she’s dead! My dear little boy, my dear little girl! Now you can no longer be born!”

 

Excerpted from

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin
by Ron J. Suresha

now in print from Lethe Press

~

 

 


Cow or donkey?

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

 

Cow or donkey?

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day, Fatima wanted milk for their children, so she nagged her husband, Mullah Nasruddin, to get a cow so they might have a steady source on hand.

“My dear,” countered Nasruddin, “I would gladly obtain for us a cow, but there is simply no room in the stable for one. It’s just large enough for my little donkey, Karakacan, and I want her to be comfortable.”

The donkey’s comfort, or lack thereof, hardly seemed rationale enough to avoid getting a cow, so Fatima pressed her husband with her request until finally he relented. He threw his leg over Karakacan’s back and rode to market and, after considerable deliberation and bargaining, he chose a healthy-looking bovine and led her home.

Nasruddin was still sure that his donkey would suffer greatly, so he took the time on his way home with the cow to acquaint Allah with his predicament. He knelt on his prayer rug and, after bowing his head, he turned up his hands in appeal to the Almighty.

“Oh Allah,” Mullah prayed, “Thou know that I love my little grey donkey, and that she won’t be at ease with a cow in the same stable. Dear Allah, if it be Thy will, please take the life of my cow, that my beloved little gray donkey, Karakacan, will be at peace.” Having left the matter in God’s hands, Nasruddin returned home, stabled and fed both animals, and went about the rest of his affairs.

The next morning, Mullah scurried out to the stable to see how his donkey managed overnight. To his shock, he found Karakacan had fallen down dead. “Ai vai,” he wailed, heartbroken at the loss of his longtime friend.

Fatima, hearing his cries, ran to the window and called out, “Mullah, what is the matter?”

“It is nothing,” Nasruddin muttered, then added under his breath bitterly, “nothing but my dear little donkey.”

After Fatima closed the window, Nasruddin fell to his knees once again in supplication to God. “Oh Allah, Thou art all-knowing and all-powerful. But can Thou not tell the basic difference between a cow and a donkey‽”

 

Excerpted from

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin
by Ron J. Suresha

now in print from Lethe Press

~

 

 


Short-term commitment

A Mullah Nasruddin / Nasreddin Hoca story

 

Short-term commitment

Mullah Nasruddin
Mullah Nasruddin

One day in the chai shop, Mali asked Nasruddin, “Why is it that you never speak your wife’s name?”

“Because I have no idea what it is,” said the Mullah.

“What‽ How long have you been married?”

“We’ve been married maybe twenty years, give or take a few.”

Jafar asked, “Mullah, you’re married now for two decades and you don’t know your wife’s name‽”

Nasruddin said, “When we were wed, by our parents’ arrangement, I had no intention of making a go at the marriage, so why should I learn her name?”

Mali said, “It’s Fatima, you dolt. You really can’t remember the year you married Fatima, your wife?”

“To tell the truth, I don’t remember exactly when we were wed,” Nasruddin replied. “As should be clear to you by now, it happened long before I had any sense whatsoever.”

 

Excerpted from

Extraordinary Adventures of Mullah Nasruddin
by Ron J. Suresha

now in print from Lethe Press

~

 

 


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

 

 


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.

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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