I had the upper hand
Sometimes, you can make a fool of yourself to let people find out how ridiculous they are. The least clever don’t understand, at first. But, slowly, it dawns on them too. This reminds me of a story:
Peace had finally broken out in Anatolia, so the hay market tea house in Aksehir was once again the setting for much bragging about military exploits. Listening to the group, you would have thought yourself to be in the company of legendary heroes and survivors, chosen to live and tell their tale by the miraculous decree of Allah, blessed be his name.
Abdul the hamal gave an account of the fearless way in which he, with incredible force, precipitated a huge block of stone from a hill, smashing to pieces no less than three chagatay archers.
Yusuf the barber slashed the air with his fuming chibook to show how he cut a vicious arab into two equal halves.
Mahmud the fat milkman shook the backgammon tavla illustrating how he used to strangle his enemies, two at a time.
After a while, Nasrudin grew tired of so much heroism and intervened:
“I had the upper hand in an encounter with ten of Timur’s fiercest soldiers.”
“Who will believe you Hoca? How did you do such a thing? You are no warrior.”
“I will tell you the whole story. I was quietly walking in the fields minding my own business.”
Here Hodja stopped for a moment as overcome with the emotion of memory. Then he sighed and continued:
“Suddenly, no less than ten fierce soldiers, of Timur’s own body guard, emerged from a bush and precipitated towards me, sword in hand. I ran for my life. But they caught me. I uttered my last prayer…”
“And then?” asked Yusuf, impatient.
“Oh, then? One of them recognised me as the fool who amused the Emir. And I had the last word in that matter. They all apologised for the mistake and escorted me back to the royal camp.”
Peace had finally broken out in Anatolia, so the hay market tea house in Aksehir was once again the setting for much bragging about military exploits. Listening to the group, you would have thought yourself to be in the company of legendary heroes and survivors, chosen to live and tell their tale by the miraculous decree of Allah, blessed be his name.
Abdul the hamal gave an account of the fearless way in which he, with incredible force, precipitated a huge block of stone from a hill, smashing to pieces no less than three chagatay archers.
Yusuf the barber slashed the air with his fuming chibook to show how he cut a vicious arab into two equal halves.
Mahmud the fat milkman shook the backgammon tavla illustrating how he used to strangle his enemies, two at a time.
After a while, Nasrudin grew tired of so much heroism and intervened:
“I had the upper hand in an encounter with ten of Timur’s fiercest soldiers.”
“Who will believe you Hoca? How did you do such a thing? You are no warrior.”
“I will tell you the whole story. I was quietly walking in the fields minding my own business.”
Here Hodja stopped for a moment as overcome with the emotion of memory. Then he sighed and continued:
“Suddenly, no less than ten fierce soldiers, of Timur’s own body guard, emerged from a bush and precipitated towards me, sword in hand. I ran for my life. But they caught me. I uttered my last prayer…”
“And then?” asked Yusuf, impatient.
“Oh, then? One of them recognised me as the fool who amused the Emir. And I had the last word in that matter. They all apologised for the mistake and escorted me back to the royal camp.”
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