Mulla Nasrudin, as everyone knows, comes from a country where fruit is
fruit, and meat is meat, and curry is never eaten. One day he was
plodding along a dusty Indian road, having newly descended from the
high mountains of Kafiristan, when a great thirst overtook him.
"Soon," he said to himself, "I must come across somewhere that good
fruit is to be had."

No sooner were the words formed in his brain than he rounded a corner
and saw sitting in the shade of a tree a benevolent-looking man, with
a basket in front of him.

Piled high in the basket were huge, shiny red fruits. "This is what I
need," said Nasrudin. Taking two tiny coppers from the knot at the end
of his turban, he handed them to the fruit-seller.

Without a word the man handed him the whole basket, for this kind of
fruit is cheap in India, and people usually buy it in smaller amounts.

Nasrudin sat down in the place vacated by the fruiterer, and started
to munch the fruits. Within a few seconds, his mouth was burning.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, fire was in his throat. The Mulla went
on eating.

An hour or two passed, and then an Afghan hillman came past. Nasrudin
hailed him. "Brother, these infidel fruits must come from the very
mouth of Sheitan!"

"Fool!" said the hillman. "Hast thou never heard of the chillis of
Hindustan? Stop eating them at once, or death will surely claim a
victim before the sun is down."

"I cannot move from here," gasped the Mulla, "until I have finished
the whole basketful."

"Madman! Those fruits belong in curry! Throw them away at once."

"I am not eating fruit any more," croaked Nasrudin, "I am eating my
money." (from, The Pleasantries of the Incredible Mulla Nasrudin, by
Idries Shah).



Was there a time when you stuck with something through to the end,
even after you realized it wasn't good for you, because you "paid for
it?" Of course, we may literally do this with food, but what about
belief systems: how often do we cling to a belief system, or ways of
seeing or doing things that clearly are not doing us any good (if they
ever did) because we "paid for it" in one way or another?

MN is sitting outside a cafe one day, when a youth comes along and
knocks off his hat, then runs off, laughing. MN picks up his hat, and
carries on drinking his tea. The following day, the same happens, and
the next. MN's companions eventually can't stand this performance,
and ask him whether he's going to do somenting about it. "That's not
the way this sort of thing works" he says.

The next day, when he gets to the cafe, this fierce warrior is sitting
in MN's place, so he finds a seat elsewhere. Along comes the youth,
and without a second glance or thought, as is now his habit, knocks
the warrior's hat flying. The warrior leaps to his feet, draws his
sword, and before the youth can move a muscle, slices his head clean
off.

Nasrudin the Hoja - A Dinner of Smells

Nasrudin the Hoja (or teacher) is a well-known and much-loved
folk hero throughout the Muslim world. Sometimes he seems foolish, but
really he is wise. Stories like this one are told from China to
Africa, and beyond.

Once, long ago, a very fine and expensive restaurant stood
on a busy street in a bustling market town.
One day, a poor man passed by this restaurant. He was
tired and hungry, for he had had nothing to eat all day. His
nostrils caught the smell of the delicious food being cooked
inside. He stopped and sniffed, smiled sadly, and began to
walk away.

But he did not get far. The owner of the restaurant came
storming out into the street.
"Come here!" he bellowed. "I saw that! You took the smell
of my food, and you'll have to pay for it!"
The poor man did not know what to do.
"I cannot pay!" he stammered. "I have no money!"
"No money!" shouted the restaurant owner. "We'll see
about that! You're coming with me to the Qadi!
A Qadi is a judge in a Muslim court. Naturally, he is very
powerful, and the poor man was frightened.
"Hmm," said the Qadi, when he had heard the story.
"Well, this is an unusual case. Let me think. Come back
tomorrow, and I'll pronounce the sentence."
What could the poor man do? He knew whatever sum
the Qadi demanded, payment would be impossible.

All night long he tossed and turned, unable to sleep for
worry. When dawn came he said his prayers and, tired and
dejected, made his way to the Qadi's court.
As he passed the mosque he spotted a familiar figure --
Nasrudin the Hoja. Suddenly, his heart lifted. For he knew
that Nasrudin was a clever man, who was sure to be able to
think of a way around the problem. He poured out his story,
and Nasrudin agreed to come to the court and speak for him.
The rich restaurant owner was already at the court,
chatting with the Qadi. The poor man saw that they were
friends, and feared the judgment would go against him.

He was right. The Qadi began heaping insults upon the
poor man as soon as he saw him, and ordered him to pay a
very large sum of money.

At once, Nasrudin stepped forward.
"My lord," he said to the Qadi. "This man is my brother.
Allow me to pay in his place."

Then the mullah took a small bag of coins from his belt an
held it next to the rich man's ear. He shook the bag, so that
the coins jingled.

"Can you hear that?" asked Nasrudin.
"Of course," the man replied, impatiently.

"Well, that is your payment," said the mullah. "My brother
has smelled your food, and you have heard his money. The
debt is paid."
And, in the face of such argument, the case was settled and
the poor man went free.