This Reminds Me Of A Story

It is most difficult to see things that are not there but the obvious is even harder to observe. Do fish notice water? No, it is all around them. Is water important for fish? Certainly, it is. This common difficulty to notice the evident makes detecting the obvious  a vital art of masters: learn to marvel why some long held belief is so certain and look at it otherwise. Such trifles can change the world. This reminds me of a story:  It used to happen when Nasreddin was still forever young and his beard was still black and cheeky, before his pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca. Season after season, day in day out and even three or four times a day, he would ride his donkey through the toll gate up the valley. So often that you couldn't tell anymore whether he was coming or going, annoying like a buzzing fly. Time after time the customs officers would check his load, saddlebags and even his turban. They never found more than loads of hay. They knew there had to be someth

Some simpletons, too busy with what they want will importune you and then ask for a favour. To do better than this, when you petition think people! Care to understand them if you need their understanding. This reminds me of a story: Nasreddin was repairing the roof.  Not easy when you are beyond your first youth. A neighbour called him from the street. “Hoça!” “Yes” “ C ome down, I have something important to talk with you.” “Can’t wait?” “It’s urgent!” The Mullah climbed down from the roof with some pain. “What is it?” The neighbour whispered into his ear, confidentially : “Can you please lend me five silver akce?” “Come up with me.” said Nasreddin. The man worked his way up a creaky ladder after  the Hodja. This took some time, as Nasreddin was old and not so quick. Finally on the roof he asked again : “Can I have the money now?” Nasreddin leaned over and whispered confidentially into his ear: “I ’m so sorry, I do not carry my purse with me whe

When the whole world smells fish.. you better clean  your nose. Understanding these words will spare you much trouble and danger in your life. This reminds me of a story : How will be the people in the next town? Nasreddin was on his way home from saint Mecca . Midway on the sandy road between two cities he met a man. They greeted each other and sat down to chatter, as lonely travellers are so happy to do. "Tell me Hoca," asked the pilgrim, who looked tired and worried, "since you came that way you must know. How are the people in the city from where you come and where I happen to go?" The mullah inquired: "First tell me how were the people in the town you come from?" "They were despicable evil people. They were out to get me. I was lucky to escape them." "Well, my friend, they will be all the same in the city where you go."

Beware; nothing is impossible for the man who does not have to do it himself. Dictators, theorists, politicians gone astray from reality will come upon you with utopian nowhere places and reckless orders and doctrines, without care for your life or for the realities you live. But as an African proverb goes, "when the great lord passes, the wise peasant bows deeply and farts in silence". When faced with lunatic, dangerous commands, survive with unashamed make-believe. Under tyranny, public delusion is a way of life. This reminds me of a story: Some learned people say this story was about bright Birbal, the Hindu sage at King Akbar’s court. But I say for my purpose that it was about Nasreddin, at Tamerlane’s palaces in Samarkand. At that time Nasreddin still had the ear of Emir Timur, and enjoyed the luxury of speaking some truth from time to time. From the gold thrown to him by the master, our Mullah had built for himself a nice house, with a nice little g

There is nothing new in the world but for a newborn all the stories are new. For the newcomer to Nasreddin Hodja, the 111 stories that follow promise a discovery. As for Nasreddin’s old friends, they are a modest aide-mémoire. This booklet was mainly written for my imaginary grand children. I collected the traditional Hodja fables under this title because, to advise or teach, I do not like to tell one directly how to think or what to do. Instead, almost everything “reminds me of a story”. Often, it is a Nasreddin story. As I am a shameless thief of wisdom, my last concern is to be original. Of late, I care to plant some good seed, not to boast as when I was young: “Me! Me! Me!” These stories belong to the world, they were told for centuries and only the narration is mine. I worked hard to rewrite the folkloric gems in my own words, in this language which is not my mother tongue, in order to avoid the tyranny of other people’s copyrights. I want everyone to enjoy freely - as all kn