How Khoja Nasreddin helped the writer Leonid Solovyov free himself from Stalin’s camps. In the center of the world, or in the homeland of Nasreddin Khoja Was there really Khoja Nasreddin?

The famous hero of Central Asian folklore, Khoja Nasreddin, would not have received so much attention and reverence from the Russian-speaking public if it were not for Leonid Solovyov, his literary guide, the author of a dilogy about a cunning, resourceful and fair wanderer, who dealt much more successfully with the machinations and machinations of his enemies, avoiding unfair punishments than the writer himself.

Who is Khoja Nasreddin?

They began to mention Khoja Nasreddin starting from the 13th century - if he actually existed, it was at that time. No evidence that Nasreddin was real person, not currently, except perhaps an ancient grave in Turkey that is shown to tourists. True, the date of death is indicated there as 386 of the Hijra (Islamic calendar), while it is believed that Khoja died in 683 (corresponding to 1284 of the Gregorian calendar). It is possible, however, that this is one of those jokes that accompanied the hero all his life and continued after his death - write the date backwards, why not?

Still from the film "Nasreddin in Bukhara", 1943.

In the East there were numerous rumors about Khoja Nasreddin short stories, parables, anecdotes - it was this heritage that provided the cunning and tramp with centuries-old fame. There are 1,238 such stories recorded in Russian, but the main literary embodiment of this hero was the books of the Soviet writer Leonid Solovyov: “The Troublemaker” and “The Enchanted Wanderer,” which together make up “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin.”

It is interesting that in these works this character is shown as a rather young man - in the prime of his strength and vitality, while the traditional Nasreddin is an old man, bearing the honorary title “Khoja”, which was given to spiritual mentors and teachers. In the folklore of some peoples, for example, Azerbaijanis, he bears the name Molla Nasreddin - a respectful, honorable address is added to the name Nasreddin, also meaning “teacher”.
The reason why Khoja is depicted as young most likely lies in the very essence of this hero, and in the personality of the writer, Leonid Solovyov.

A tramp and rogue, brother of Ostap Bender, Ulenspiegel, like them, accompanied by a not very smart companion - in this case, a donkey, Nasreddin simply could not turn out to be elderly. In addition, with a high probability, when writing his works, Soloviev put his own traits into his most famous character.

Life path of Leonid Solovyov

Leonid Solovyov was born in 1906 in the city of Tripoli, Lebanon, where his parents were sent to serve. Both the father and mother of the future author of books about Nasreddin taught Russian in Arab schools of the Imperial Orthodox Palestine Society. The family did not live well; in 1909 she returned to Russia. In 1921, Solovyov found himself in Kokand, a city that would play a special role in subsequent works, and in 1923, the writer’s first articles began to appear in the newspaper Pravda Vostoka. Solovyov worked as a special correspondent for the newspaper until 1930, after which he came to Moscow, where he entered VGIK, the literary and screenwriting department.

Solovyov’s career was going uphill, articles were followed by short stories, then novellas, and in 1940 the novel “The Troublemaker” was published, which immediately became popular. highest degree popular in the Soviet Union. During the war, the writer worked as a correspondent, wrote essays, stories, scripts, and in 1946 he was arrested. The reason was obviously a denunciation, and Soloviev was sentenced to ten years in the camps for allegedly carrying out “anti-Soviet agitation and terrorist statements.”

"The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin", 1958 edition.

The first place of imprisonment was the Mordovian colony, where the writer managed to be freed from correctional labor on the condition of writing the second part of “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin.” The work continued until 1950, the story was written, but saw the light only in 1956, after Solovyov’s release. Two years before publication, he was released with all charges dropped.
The writer died at the age of 56.

Khoja Nasreddin - and Solovyov’s hoaxes

Khoja Nasreddin gained popularity not only due to his role as the hero of a picaresque novel; perhaps the main advantage of the dilogy is the style of narration, in the style of oriental legends, thanks to which the book seems to be a record of a folk epic and folklore. Meanwhile, the plot contains detailed and extremely reliable descriptions of the characters, which are fiction, a hoax performed by the author. For example, grandfather Turakhon, to whom many pages of the second part of the “Tale” are devoted, is not found in any other sources, and is apparently a figment of Solovyov’s imagination.

At the same time, some countries honor a congenial hero, Khidr (Khidr), whose purpose is also to guide people on the good path. In Turkey, there is also a holiday - Hydyrlez, it is celebrated in early May and is dedicated to the beginning of a new agricultural (pastoral) year. Thus, combining elements of oriental legends and artistic fiction, Soloviev makes the reader imbued with the spirit of the East, associating himself with Khoja Nasreddin, and his enemies, stupid khans and emirs, with his own opponents.

One can only guess what Leonid Solovyov’s contribution to the further development Khoja Nasreddin as a literary character who, unlike the Soviet writer, perhaps long ago gained immortality.

The life of another writer, who gave the world the adventures of a rogue and a merry fellow, was also interesting -

Nasreddin's favorite

Alternative descriptions

Pet

Donkey, hinny or mule

A person who does the minimum amount of work for maximum reward.

Beast of burden

Long-eared transport

Transport of Nasreddin

Asian "horse"

Donkey with Central Asian ornament

Hard-working stubborn man

Working hard ass

Hard worker donkey

Hardworking animal

Cargo livestock

Cattle with a bale on its back

Live Asian "truck"

Uncomplaining worker

Same donkey

Nasreddin's cattle

Shurik's eared transport

Donkey with an Asian twist

Donkey workaholic

Donkey that got plowed

. Asian "truck"

. "motor" of the cart

Skakun_Nasred-_din

Nasredin taught him to speak

Donkey harnessed to a cart

Domesticated African donkey

Stubborn

Nasreddin's horse

Animal of Nasreddin

Central Asian version of Winnie the Pooh's friend

Pet in the Middle East

Same as donkey

Donkey from Central Asia

Asian donkey

Donkey in the vastness of Central Asia

Ungulate pet

Donkey in Asia

. “looks for porridge from mother-in-law” (palindrome)

Donkey who moved to Central Asia

Working donkey

Transport of the cunning Khoja Nasreddin

Central Asian donkey

Hard working donkey

Donkey of Central Asian nationality

Khoja Nasreddin's horse

Eared stubborn workaholic

Donkey-worker

Asian brute

Central Asian pet

Cart engine

Hardworking donkey

Labor-loving donkey

Eared worker

Stubborn beast

He's an ass

Four-legged cart tractor

Donkey dragging a cart

Hardworking donkey

Working animal

Working donkey

What animal can be stubborn?

. "tractor" for a cart

What animal can kick?

What animal is harnessed to the cart?

Horse plus donkey

Diligent donkey

Eastern name for donkey

. "tractor" cart

Donkey or mule

Cross between a horse and a donkey

Pet, donkey or mule

A man who meekly performs the hardest work

Donkey and Regio hinny or mule

Hard-working stubborn man

. “Looking for porridge from his mother-in-law” (palind.)

. "Transport" Nasreddin

. Cart "tractor"

. "Tractor" for a cart

. Asian "truck"

. "looks for porridge from mother-in-law" (palindrome)

. "motor" of the cart

Asian "horse"

Live Asian "truck"

What kind of animal is harnessed to the cart?

What animal can kick?

What animal can be stubborn?

M. Tatarsk. Sib. orenb. Caucasian donkey; donkey, donkey donkey; donkey, donkey m. donkey foal; In some places, donkey is the name given to a hinny and a mule, even to a small horse called mashtak. Sometimes it’s a donkey, sometimes it’s an ishan, that is, it’s not all the same: sometimes it’s a donkey, sometimes it’s a Muslim cleric. Donkey, donkey, belonging to a donkey, related

Donkey wed. nationality

Wed. donkey

Another name for donkey

. "Horse" in a cart harness

Donkey harnessed to a cart

One day, when Khoja was sitting on the bank of the river, ten blind men approached him. They asked to be transferred to the other side. Molla agreed, but on the condition that each of them would give a quarter of a tanga.
He led nine blind men, and when he led the tenth, in the middle of the river the water picked up the blind man and carried him away.
The blind people realized what had happened and started shouting.
- Why are you making noise in vain? – Hodja shrugged, “Give me a quarter tanga less and that’ll be the end of it!”

One day, Khoja was robbed by robbers on the road. They took his donkey, took his money and started beating him.
Finally, Khoja could not stand it any longer and exclaimed:
- Why are you beating me? Did I not come on time, or did I bring little?

Khoja Nasreddin had a very good cow that gave a lot of milk. One day she fell ill and died. Khoja was distraught with grief.
Neighbors began to say that when Khoja’s beloved wife died a month ago, he did not grieve and was not killed.
“Of course,” Khoja answered this, “When my wife died, everyone consoled me and said: “Don’t cry, we will find you a new wife even better...” But it’s been two days since my cow died, and no one doesn’t come to me and console me: “Don’t cry, we’ll buy you a new cow that’s even better...” So what can I do now?

One day Khoja took grain to the mill. Standing in line, from time to time he poured grain from other people's bags into his own. The miller noticed this and asked:
“Shame on you, Molla, what are you doing?”
“Yes, I’m kind of crazy,” answered the embarrassed Khoja.
– If you are crazy, then why don’t you pour your grain into other people’s bags?
“Uh,” Khoja answered, “I said that I’m crazy, but I didn’t say that I’m a fool...

One night a thief broke into Khoja's house. Having searched the whole house and not finding anything, the thief lifted the old chest of drawers onto himself and left. Approaching the door of his house, he suddenly saw in horror that a sleepy Khoja was trailing behind him with a mattress and blanket.
- Where are you going? – the thief was confused.
- How to where? - Khoja answered in bewilderment, - aren’t we moving here?

One night a thief broke into Khoja's house. The wife woke up and began to push Khoja away.
“Pray that he finds at least something in our house,” Khoja muttered, turning over to his other side, “and it won’t be so difficult to take it away from him...”

Molla brought home a small piece of meat and asked his wife what could be cooked from it.
- All you want.
“Then get everything ready.”

One day one of Khoja’s relatives really pleased him with something.
“Ask me for whatever you want,” Khoja said without thinking.
The relative was so happy that he couldn’t think of anything to ask for.
“Give me until tomorrow to think about it,” he finally said.
Hoxha agreed. The next day, when a relative came to him with a request, Khoja replied:
– I promised you only one thing. You asked to be given until tomorrow. I gave. So what else do you want?

Once, while on the seashore, Khoja felt very thirsty and drank a little salt water.
The thirst, of course, not only did not subside, but, on the contrary, his throat became even more dry and nauseous. He walked forward a little and found the source fresh water. Having drunk enough, Khoja filled his skullcap fresh water, then carried it and poured it into the sea.
“Don’t foam and don’t rise,” he turned to the sea. “There’s no need to boast in front of people; try what real water should be like!”

While transporting a certain scientist across a stormy river, Nasreddin said something grammatically incorrect.
-Have you never studied grammar? - asked the scientist.
- No.
“So you’ve lost half your life.”
A few minutes later Nasreddin turned to his passenger:
– Have you ever learned to swim?
- No, what?
- So you have lost your whole life - we are drowning!

One day they began to ask Molla to give a sermon in the mosque. Nasreddin refused for a long time, but people did not lag behind. Finally, Molla climbed onto the minbar and addressed the believers with these words:
- Good people, do you know what I will talk about?
“No,” answered the listeners, “we don’t know.”
Nasreddin, angry, came down from the minbar and exclaimed:
- Since you are so ignorant, then there is no point in wasting time with you! - and went to his home.
The next day Nasreddin came to the mosque, climbed onto the minbar and addressed those gathered with the same question. The people consulted with themselves and answered with one voice:
- Of course we know.
“Well, if you know everything yourself,” said Nasreddin, “then there’s nothing to tell you.”
He left the minbar and went home, and the listeners decided to answer next time that some know what it is about, and others don’t, so that Nasreddin would still have to say something.
On the third day, Nasreddin again climbed onto the minbar and repeated his question.
The listeners shouted that some knew what he would talk about, while others did not.
Then Nasreddin realized that they wanted to deceive him, he was not taken aback and said:
- Wonderful. Let those who know tell those who don't.

One day, fellow villagers saw Mollu running with all his might.
- Where are you running? – one neighbor asked him.
“They say that my voice sounds pleasant from afar,” Molla answered as he ran.

Nasreddin's donkey has disappeared. He began to shout in the market:
“Whoever finds my donkey, I will give it along with a saddle, a saddle blanket and a bridle.”
“If you want to give everything as a reward,” they ask him, “then why search and spend so much effort?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but you just never experienced the joy of a find.”

A man came to Nasreddin’s house who wanted to become his student. It was cold in the house and while waiting for his wife to bring hot soup, Molla concentratedly blew on his hands. A beginner, knowing that every action of an enlightened Sufi has hidden meaning, asked him why he was doing this.
“To keep warm, of course,” he answered. Soon the meal was brought to them and Nasreddin blew on his soup.
- Why are you doing this, master? - asked the student
“To cool the soup, of course,” Molla answered.
After this, the student left Molla’s house because... could no longer trust a man who used the same means to achieve opposite results.

One day, some village boys decided to steal Khoja’s famous shoes. Seeing him walking along the road, they crowded under a tree and began to argue loudly whether Molla could climb this tree or not.
- What's so difficult about that? Of course I can,” said Khoja, who approached.
- But you can’t! – one of the guys answered.
“The tree is too high,” confirmed the second.
“You’re just bragging,” supported the third.
Hodja, without saying a word, took off his shoes, put them in his belt and walked up to the tree.
- Why do you take shoes with you? - the boys began to make noise.
– A true Sufi never knows where he will have to move in the next moment. I may never have to return to earth again. So, after all, it’s better to take them with you...

Hoxha once stated:
– I can see perfectly well in the dark.
- Okay, Molla, but if this is so, why do you always walk with a candle at night?
– So that others cannot collide with me.

Nasreddin was digging holes in the steppe. A passerby asked him:
- What are you doing here?
“Yes, I buried money in this steppe,” Nasreddin answered, “but no matter how hard I try, I can’t find it.”
– Didn’t you leave any marks? - asked a passerby.
- But of course! - Nasreddin answers. - When I buried the money, there was a shadow from a cloud in that place!

One day Khoja came into the shop. The owner came over to serve him. Nasreddin said: “First of all, the main thing.” Did you see me enter your shop?
- Certainly!
-Have you ever seen me before?
- Never in my life.
“So how do you know it’s me?”

One day a greedy and rich Qazi was drowning in a pond. Everyone crowded around the pond, stretched out their hands and shouted:
- Give me a hand! Give me a hand! - but the Kazi seemed not to have heard. Here Khoja Nasreddin passed by. Seeing what was the matter, he extended his hand to the kazi and said: Here!
He grabbed Hodja’s palm and within a minute was on the shore.
“The judge hears only if you say “na,” the wise Hodja explained his behavior to the audience.

One day, Khoja inadvertently boasted that he could teach his donkey to speak. Hearing about this, the Emir ordered to pay Khoja 1000 tanga with the condition that he show him the talking donkey after a while. At home, Khoja’s wife began to cry and be upset:
- And why did you deceive the Emir, why did you take the money! When he realizes that you deceived him, he will throw you in prison!
“Calm down, wife,” Nasreddin replied, “and better hide the money.” I gave myself a twenty-year sentence. During this time, either the donkey will die, or the Emir...

One day Khoja lost his donkey. Having spent the whole day searching, the annoyed Khoja made a solemn oath to Allah that if “this damned donkey” was found, he would immediately sell it for 1 tanga. And then he saw his donkey.
The next day at the market everyone saw Khoja standing with his donkey and cat. When asked what he was doing here, Nasreddin replied that he was selling his donkey for 1 tanga and his cat for 100, but only together...

One person, about to take a ritual bath in the river, asked Khoja Nasreddin:
– What do the hadiths say – which way should I turn during ablution? Towards Mecca or towards Medina?
“Turn towards your clothes so that the thieves don’t steal them...” Khoja answered him.

One day Molla was eating raisins. A friend comes up to him and asks:
- Molla, what are you eating?
“So...” answered Molla.
– That is, how “so”? What kind of answer is this?
- I'm keeping it short.
- So how short?
– You ask me what I eat. If I say “kishmish”, you will say: “Give it to me too.” I will say: “I won’t give it.” You will ask: “Why?”, and I will answer: “So...”. That’s why I say briefly in advance: “So...”.

One day, a famous chef treated Nasreddin to fried liver. Khoja liked this dish so much that he asked the cook for the recipe and carefully wrote it down on a piece of paper. After which he went to the market and bought two pounds of fresh liver.
On the way home, a large bird snatched the liver from his hands and flew away.
“Well, you probably have some meat,” Khoja said ironically, looking after her. – But, tell me please: what will you do without a prescription?

One day, a neighbor came to Nasreddin and asked him for ten-year-old vinegar. Hoxha refused.
– But you have ten-year-old vinegar! - the neighbor was offended.
“You’re a strange man,” Khoja replied, “do you think vinegar would last me ten years if I gave it to everyone who asked?”

One day, one man climbed a tall tree and could not get down to the ground. The villagers deliberated for a long time and finally decided to call Khoja Nasreddin, famous for his wisdom. Without saying a word, Khoja threw the rope up to the poor fellow and ordered him to tie it around his waist. He did it. After which, Khoja strongly pulled his end, so that the man ended up on the ground with a broken leg.
Everyone began to reproach Nasreddin for acting so stupidly and carelessly.
“I don’t understand anything,” Hodja shrugged, “this method always works when you need to pull someone out of a well...

Khoja Nasreddin climbed onto someone else's melon tree and quickly began collecting watermelons in a bag. The owner of the melon plant caught him doing this.
- What are you doing here? – he shouted terribly.
- Friend, you won’t believe it - this morning there was such a strong wind that I was torn off the ground and thrown onto your melon patch.
- Okay, but who picked all these watermelons then?
“I grabbed onto them so that the wind wouldn’t carry me further...
- Okay, but who put them in your bag then?
- I swear by Allah, when you approached, I was just standing and thinking about this question...

One day, wanting to tease Khoja, his wife said:
- Khoja, you are so ugly that it will be woe to you if our future child looks like you...
“It’s nothing,” answered Khoja Nasreddin, “woe will be to you if the child does not look like me...

Hodja was given an ugly bride. When he got dressed in the morning and was about to go out, his wife, trying on the burqa in front of the mirror and coyly, said:
- Effendi, which of your relatives can I show my open face and which can’t?
- Show your face to anyone you want, but not to me! - Khoja exclaimed...

Khoja got married. A week later his child was born. The next day, Khoja brought a writing instrument into the house and placed it all at the head of the cradle. They began to ask him: “Efendi, why did you do this?”
“A child who has completed a nine-month journey in seven days,” Khoja noted, “will go to school in another month...

A friend of Khoja Nasreddin once came to him to consult about a matter. Having told him everything, the friend at the end asked: “Well, how? Am I wrong?”
Khoja remarked: “You’re right, brother, you’re right...” The next day, the enemy, who knew nothing about this, also came to Khoja. And he also told him the matter, of course, in a light favorable to himself.
"Well, Khoja, what do you say? Am I wrong?" - he exclaimed. And Khoja answered him: “Of course, you’re right...”
By chance, Nasreddin’s wife heard both of these conversations and, intending to shame her husband, exclaimed:
“Effendi, how can both the plaintiff and the defendant be right at the same time?”
Khoja calmly looked at her and said: “Yes, wife, and you’re right too...”

Khoja walked with a friend past the minaret and the friend asked:
– How do they make them, I wonder?
- Don’t you know? Oh you! - Khoja noted. – It’s very simple: they turn the wells out...

One day, in the company of friends, Khoja began to complain about his old age.
“True, this did not affect my strength at all,” he suddenly noticed, “I am selenium the same as many years ago.”
- How did you know that? - they asked him.
– We have had a huge stone in our yard for a long time. So, when I was a child, I couldn’t lift it, in my youth I couldn’t lift it either, and I still can’t...

When Khoja Nasreddin's gate was stolen, he came to the mosque, took off the door and put it on his shoulders.
- What are you doing? - exclaimed the local mall.
“Allah knows everything and can do everything,” Khoja answered. So let him give me back my door, then I'll give him mine.

One day Molla was walking to a neighboring village and was very tired.
- Oh, Allah! - he prayed, - send me a horse so that I can get home on it!
At that moment someone jumped on his back.
“You’ve been my Allah for sixty years, and you still don’t understand a damn thing about my requests,” Khoja muttered.

One day Khoja, being a molla, went to the village. During a sermon in the mosque, Khoja noticed that the righteous are in the fourth heaven. When he was leaving the mosque, an old woman came up to him and said:
– You said that the righteous are in the fourth heaven. What do they eat and what do they drink there?
- Oh, you impudent one! - Molla got angry - She asks what the righteous in heaven eat and drink! I’ve been living in your village for a month now, and no one will ask me what I eat here!

One day a certain righteous dervish-melami said to Nasreddin:
- Khoja, is your occupation in this world really just buffoonery and there is nothing virtuous and perfect in you?
- Well... what is perfect about you, dervish? - Khoja answered.
“I have many talents,” he answered, “and my virtues are countless.” Every night I leave this mortal world and fly up to the limits of the first sky; I soar in the heavenly abodes and contemplate the wonders of the kingdom of heaven.
- Isn’t there a heavenly breeze blowing across your face at this time? - Khoja noted.
- Yes Yes! – the dervish happily picked up.
“So, this is the fan - the tail of my long-eared donkey...” Nasreddin smiled.

One day, a thief tore off Khoja Nasreddin’s hat and ran away. Khoja immediately went to the nearest cemetery and began to wait.
- What are you doing? - people asked him, - after all, the thief ran in a completely different direction!
“Nothing,” Khoja answered them coolly, “no matter where he runs, sooner or later he will still come here...

It was the Emir's custom to punish everyone who appeared in his bad dream. As soon as Khoja found out about this, he quickly collected his simple belongings and ran away to his village. Some people began to tell him: “Dear Nasreddin! Only you can get along with the Emir. Your fellow countrymen will only benefit from this. Why did you leave everything and come here?”
Khoja replied: “When he is awake, by the grace of Allah, I can take appropriate measures against his tyranny; but if he rages in his sleep, this is no longer in my power!”

The emir ordered Molla to make an inscription on the ring that would support him in misfortune and hold him back in joy.
The next day Molla came to the Emir and silently handed him a ring with the inscription: “This too shall pass”...

Molla, who was always afraid of death, lying on his deathbed did not stop joking and laughing.
“Molla,” they asked him, “you were so afraid of death, where has your fear gone now?”
“I was afraid to get into such a situation,” Molla answered, “but now what should I be afraid of?”

Nasreddin crossed the border every day with his donkey, loaded with baskets of straw. Since everyone knew that he was a smuggler, the guards searched him from head to toe every time. They searched Nasrudin himself, examined the straw, immersed it in water, and even burned it from time to time, but they could never find anything.
Many years later, one of the guards met the retired Khoja in a teahouse and asked:
“Now you have nothing to hide, Nasreddin.” Tell me what you were carrying across the border when we couldn't catch you?
“Donkey,” answered Nasreddin.

Khoja ran with all his might, shouting ezan. When they asked him why, he answered: “I want to know how far my voice carries…”

One day, Nasreddin, returning home late in the evening, saw a group of horsemen approaching him. His imagination immediately took over. He imagined that these were robbers who were going to rob him or sell him into slavery.
Nasreddin started to run, climbed over the cemetery fence and climbed into an open grave. People interested in his behavior - ordinary travelers - followed him. They found the grave where he lay trembling, waiting to see what would happen.
“What are you doing here, in this grave?” the people asked. – Is there anything we can help you with?
“The fact that you can ask a question does not mean that you will receive a satisfactory answer to it,” answered Khoja, who understood what had happened. - It's all too complicated. The point is that I am here because of you, and you are here because of me.

Nasreddin once read in a book that if a person has a small forehead and his beard is longer than two fists, then this person is a fool. He looked in the mirror and saw that his forehead was small. Then he took his beard in his fists and discovered that it was much longer than necessary.
“It’s not good if people guess that I’m a fool,” he said to himself and decided to shorten his beard.
But there were no scissors at hand. Then Nasreddin simply stuck the protruding end of his beard into the fire. It flared up and burned Nasreddin’s hands. He pulled them back, the flames burned his beard and mustache and severely burned his face. When he recovered from his burns, he wrote in the margins of the book:
"Proven in practice."

Once the Emir asked Nasreddin:
– Listen, who do you respect most in the world?
- Those who spread a rich dastarkhan in front of me and do not skimp on the treat.
– I invite you to a treat tomorrow! – Timur immediately cried out.
“Well, then I’ll start respecting you too from tomorrow!”

One day the Emir decided to force all the inhabitants of Bukhara to tell only the truth. For this purpose, a gallows was placed in front of the city gates. Everyone entering was interviewed by the chief of the guard. If the person, in his opinion, was telling the truth, then he was allowed through. Otherwise, they were hanged.
A large crowd had gathered in front of the gate. No one dared even come close. Nasreddin boldly went to the chief of the guard.
- Why are you going to the city? - they asked him sternly.
“I’m going to be hanged on this gallows,” Nasreddin answered.
“You’re lying!” exclaimed the chief of the guard.
“Then hang me.”
“But if we hang you, then your words will become true.”
“That’s just it,” Hodja smiled, “it all depends on the point of view...

One day Molla Nasreddin tried grape vodka and became completely drunk. The neighbor began to reproach Nasreddin.
“I’m not drunk at all,” said Khoja, moving his tongue with difficulty. “I’m not even a little drunk, and I’ll prove it to you.” Look, do you see this cat coming through the door? So, he only has one eye!
“You’re even more drunk than I thought,” said the neighbor. - This cat is coming out!

A respected man came to Mulla Nasreddin. He was worried, he was the father of a beautiful daughter. He was extremely worried. He said:
– Every morning she feels slightly unwell, I have been to all the doctors, but they say that everything is fine, nothing to worry about. What to do?
Nasreddin closed his eyes, thinking about the problem, then opened them and asked:
– Do you give her milk before bed?
- Yes! – the man answered.
Nasreddin said:
“Well, then I know what’s the matter.” If you give milk to a child, he spends the whole night turning from left to right, right to left, and as a result the milk becomes curd. Then the cottage cheese turns into cheese, the cheese turns into butter, the butter becomes fat, the fat becomes sugar, and the sugar turns into alcohol - and naturally, she has a hangover in the morning!

At one party, Nasreddin took a bunch of grapes and put it whole in his mouth.
“Molla,” they tell him, “they eat grapes one berry at a time.”
– What you eat one berry at a time is called eggplant.

When Hoxha was building a house, he ordered the carpenter to nail the floor boards to the ceiling and the ceiling boards to the floor. The carpenter asked what it was for, and Khoja explained to him:
“I’m getting married soon, and when a person gets married, everything in the house goes upside down, and I take measures in advance.”

After the death of his wife, Nasreddin married a widow. Nasreddin always praised his deceased wife, and the new wife always praised her deceased husband. One day they were lying in bed and praising their former spouses. Suddenly Nasreddin pushed his wife with all his might and threw her to the floor. The wife was offended and went to complain to her father. The father-in-law began to ask Nasreddin for an answer, and he said:
- It is not my fault. There were four of us in bed: me, my former wife, she and her former husband. It became crowded - so she fell.

Nasreddin was walking through the bazaar and saw a merchant who was selling an old saber for 300 tenge.
- Tell me, why is such an old saber so expensive for you? After all, they don’t give more than 100 for a new one?
- This is not a simple saber. It belonged to the legendary Timur. When he directed it at enemies, it lengthened three times!
Nasreddin said nothing, but went home and soon returned with an old poker. Sitting down near the saber seller, he began to sell his poker for 1000 tenge.
- Why are you asking so much money for a regular old poker? – the saber merchant asked him.
“This is not an ordinary poker,” Nasreddin answered. “When my wife points it at me, it lengthens tenfold!”

Khoja was asked:
– When will the end of the world come?
– Which doomsday? - Khoja noted.
- How many doomsdays are there? – the questioner was surprised.
“If my wife dies,” Khoja answered, “it will be a small doomsday, and I die, it will be a great doomsday...

One day Molla was walking to a neighboring village. On the way he bought a watermelon. He cut it, ate half of it, threw the other half on the road and said to himself:
“Let anyone who sees this watermelon think that a bek passed here.”
He walked a little, came back, picked up the thrown half, ate it and said:
“Let them think that the bek had a servant who ate this half.”
He walked a little more, regretted it, returned again, picked up the crusts and ate them, saying:
“Let them think that the bek also had a donkey.”

Nasreddin walks around the room and scatters handfuls of rice flour.
- What are you doing? – His wife asked.
- I'm scattering the tigers.
- But there are no tigers here!
- Certainly. Isn’t it true, what an effective remedy!

One day Khoja Nasreddin was sitting on the bank of a river and splashing a stick in the water.
- What are you doing over there? – a passer-by asked him.
- Kumis.
- But that’s not how they make kumys!
- I know. But what if something happens?

One day a passer-by saw Khoja Nasreddin sitting on the river bank and washing a live cat.
- Hey, Khoja! What are you doing? Cats die from water!
- Go, go, don’t bother me.
A passer-by passed by. He returns after some time and paints a different picture. Nasreddin is sitting on the shore, and a dead cat is lying next to him.
- Eh, I told you that cats die from water...
“You understand a lot,” Nasreddin interrupted him. – When I washed the cat, she was still alive. She died when I started squeezing her...

Nasreddin says to his son:
- Bring the food, then close the door.
- Let me close the door first, and then bring the food...

Nasreddin was asked:
– How old were you when you first got married?
– I don’t remember exactly, because by that time I had not yet gained my mind!

Nasreddin came home for dinner and brought a friend with him. The wife began to grumble that there was nothing to eat at home, etc. Khoja tried to object, but his wife immediately hit him on the forehead with a ladle so that the poor fellow’s head swelled up.
“Don’t be too upset, friend,” his friend tried to calm him down. “When I tell my wife something wrong at home, she grabs me by the beard and almost pushes my head into the oven.”
Khoja straightened up proudly:
“I’m not the kind of man who allows himself to be grabbed by the beard!”

Nasreddin got married. During the wedding feast, the guests were served pilaf. In the confusion, they completely forgot to invite the groom to the dostarkhan, and he sat in the corner, hungry and offended. The moment has come to lead the groom to the bride, to the wedding bed.
“Please, Efandi,” his friends turned to him.
- Will not go! Whoever ate pilaf should go to the bride! – Nasreddin answered gloomily.

Nasreddin and his wife sat down to eat. The wife took a sip of the hot soup, and tears came to her eyes.
- Why are you crying? - asks Nasreddin.
- Yes, I remembered that my late mother loved this soup very much, she could not restrain herself and began to cry.
Then Nasreddin took a sip of soup, and tears began to flow from him too.
Wife says:
- Why are you crying?
“I also remembered your late mother, who gave me such a fool.”

Once Khoja Nasreddin took grain to the mill. His wife tied his bag, but along the way it came untied, and more than once. By the time Nasreddin reached the mill, he had to tie the bag ten times. Nasreddin returned and began to scold his wife:
- Well, you tied the bag! I had to stop and re-tie as many as ten times.

One day the Emir said to Nasreddin:
“I need an astrologer, but we can’t find the right one.” Can't you be an astrologer?
“I can,” Nasreddin answered, “but only with my wife.”
- How so? – Timur asked.
“It has long been the case that my opinion never agrees with the opinion of my wife.” For example, if in the evening, looking at the clouds, I say: “Tomorrow it will rain,” then she, looking at the clouds, will definitely say: “It won’t rain.” After that, each of us stands firmly on our own, and we would rather die than give in to each other. And for several years now - I have noticed this myself - either her words or mine have come true. And nothing else happens. Therefore, I can only be an astrologer together with my wife.

Why do you snore while sleeping? – the wife pestered Nasreddin.
- Why are you lying? – he snapped. “Last time, when you said that I snore, I didn’t close my eyes for two nights in a row, but I still didn’t hear a single sound.” You're just talking shit about me.

Nasreddin's wife was very ugly. One evening he looked at her face for a long time.
“Why did you suddenly start looking at me?” she asks.
– Today I looked for a long time at one very beautiful woman and no matter how hard he tried to take his gaze away from her, he could not. So I decided to atone for my sin and look at you as much as I looked at her...

Nasreddin once asked his student:
- Tell me what is heavier: a pound of cotton wool or a pound of iron?
– In my opinion, the weight of both is the same.
- Yes, son. Your answer seems to be true, but my wife proved to me yesterday that a pound of iron is much heavier than a pound of cotton wool.

Nasreddin stood on the shore of the reservoir and sighed loudly. A friend asked what he was sighing about.
“Don’t you know,” Khoja answered, “that my first wife drowned in this pond?”
- But you married again to a beautiful and rich woman? Why grieve?
“That’s why I sigh because she doesn’t like to swim.”

One day Nasreddin went to his garden, lay down there under a pear tree and fell asleep. Then a friend came with the news that Khoja’s mother had died. Nasrudin's son brought him into the garden, pushed his father aside and said:
- Get up, father, a neighbor brought the news that your mother has died.
“Oh,” said Nasreddin, “how terrible it is!” And it will be even more terrible tomorrow when I wake up!
With these words, he turned on his other side and began to snore.

Nasreddin's daughter was wooed by a man from a neighboring village. The matchmakers and matchmakers put the bride on a camel and set off. Khoja looked after the caravan for a long time, then he screamed and set off in pursuit. An hour and a half later, sweating and out of breath, he caught up with the caravan. Having pushed the women aside, Nasreddin pushed his way to his daughter and said:
“I almost forgot to tell you the most important thing, my daughter.” When you sew, do not forget to tie the end of the thread into a knot, otherwise the thread will jump out of the eye and the needle will be left without a thread.

Nasreddin's daughter came crying to her father and began to complain that her husband had beaten her pretty badly. Nasreddin immediately grabbed the stick, hit it hard and said:
- Go tell your husband that if he beat my daughter, then I took it out on his wife.

Nasreddin had a wife who had already outlived three husbands before him. One day, the sick Khoja was lying in oblivion. My wife sat next to me and kept wailing: “Who are you leaving me for?”
Nasreddin could not stand it, he opened one eye and whispered with his last strength:
- On the fifth fool!

I’ve been trying to make halwa for several years now, but still nothing works,” Nasreddin said. When I had flour, there was no butter, and if I had butter, there was no flour.
“Really, in such a time you couldn’t get both butter and flour?” - they asked him.
- When there was butter and flour, I myself was not there.

One day Khoja entered a haggler's shop. Without turning around, he went straight to the counter and began to eat halva. The seller immediately attacked him:
- Hey, by what right do you eat halva for free from a devout Muslim?
So speaking, he began to beat Khoja. And he calmly replied:
“Not only is the halva great, but they also force you to treat yourself to it with punches!”

Once, at the bazaar, Khoja saw a fat teahouse owner shaking some beggar tramp, demanding payment from him for lunch.
- But I just smelled your pilaf! - the tramp made excuses.
– But the smell also costs money! - the fat man answered him.
“Wait, let him go - I’ll pay you for everything,” with these words Khoja Nasreddin approached the teahouse owner. He let the poor guy go. Khoja took several coins out of his pocket and shook them over the teahouse owner's ear.
- What is this? – he was amazed.
“Whoever sells the smell of dinner gets the jingle of coins,” Khoja answered calmly...

At one wedding, Nasreddin found himself next to a stranger who greedily grabbed handfuls of sugar, candies and all sorts of sweets and stuffed them into his pockets.
“It’s me, son,” he justified himself, looking at Nasreddin. – Gifts from a wedding feast are especially pleasant for children, aren’t they?
Then suddenly Nasreddin poured a full kettle of hot tea into his pocket.
- Uh, what are you doing, my dear! - the greedy guest screamed.
– When your son eats so many sweets, he will undoubtedly want to drink!

One day Nasreddin was chewing toffee. When it was time to go to lunch, he took the toffee out of his mouth and stuck it to the tip of his nose.
- Why are you doing it? - they asked him.
“It’s good when your property is in front of your eyes,” Nasreddin answered.

Whatever they asked Molla, he would give it the next day. When asked why he does this, Khoja replied:
– I do it so that they better feel the value of the thing I give.

One acquaintance asked Nasreddin for money for short term.
“I can’t give you money,” Nasreddin answered. “But, as a friend, I can give you any time.”

When Nasrudin was visiting, fried beans were brought after dinner. Although Nasreddin showed considerable diligence during dinner, he also attacked the beans furiously.
“If you lean on beans like that,” the owner of the house told him, “you may get indigestion, and then die in no time.”
Without ceasing to eat beans, Nasreddin replied:
– If I die, in the name of Allah, take care of my family...

One hot summer day, a neighbor invited Molla to visit. Sweet syrup was served in a large jug. The owner gave the molla a teaspoon, and took a whole ladle for himself and began scooping syrup from the jug. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep up with him. And every time the owner scoops it up, he exclaims with delight:
- Oh, I'm dying!
In the end, Nasreddin threw the teaspoon and snatched the ladle from the owner:
- Neighbour! Be a man - let me die at least once!

Nasreddin says to his stingy neighbor:
- Why don’t you ever invite me to visit?
- Because you have an enviable appetite. Before you have time to swallow one piece, you are already stuffing the second into your mouth.
“If you invite me to visit,” Nasreddin suggested, “I give you my word that between two sips I will perform two rakats of prayer.”

Molla had a very stingy neighbor. Molla noticed that for several days in a row the cook brought fried chicken to the miser at lunchtime, but the miser ate only stale bread and did not touch the chicken. The cook kept taking the untouched chicken back. Molla watched this for two weeks and finally said:
- This chicken is happy! Her real life began after death.

Once upon a time, Khoja came to visit the village imam.
– What do you want: sleep or drink? - asked the imam.
Seeing that the imam did not stutter about food, Khoja said:
“Before I got here, I slept at the spring.”

Nasreddin stayed at the bazaar until nightfall. It’s a long way from home, and he decided to spend the night with a friend. The owners had already had dinner and were going to bed when the Hodja came to them. His friend made him a good bed and went to sleep in another room. Nasreddin tossed and turned in bed for a long time, but hunger did not give him peace. Unable to bear it, Khoja knocked on his friend’s door.
- What's happened? - he asked.
- Yes, it’s low in my head. Let me put a couple of flatbreads under my head, otherwise I just can’t sleep.

Nasreddin went to work for a rich but very stingy man. Chowder was served for lunch. Finding that there was nothing in it except a circle of carrots, Nasreddin stood up and began to undress.
- Friend, what are you doing? – the stingy one was surprised.
- Don't interfere. I want to dive into the bowl and see if there is a piece of meat at the bottom.

One day Molla came to visit one of his friends. He didn’t have lunch, so he put butter and honey in front of Molla. Molla, having eaten all the butter, pulled the honey towards him and began to eat it without bread.
“Molla, don’t eat honey alone,” said the owner, “it will burn your heart.”
“Only Allah knows which of us has a burning heart right now,” Molla answered.

Nasreddin sat at the gate and devoured fried chicken with appetite. A neighbor came up and asked:
- Listen, Khoja, your chicken is very tasty, give me a piece too.
- I can not! I would give it with great pleasure, but the chicken is not mine, but my wife’s.
- But I see you are eating!
“What should I do,” Nasreddin answers, “if my wife told me to eat it.”

One day a man who never repaid his debts came to the mall and said:
- I come to you with a request.
Nasreddin immediately realized that he had come to ask for money, and hastened to answer:
- Whatever you ask, I will fulfill everything, but I also have one request for you - first you fulfill mine, and then I will fulfill yours.
- Say please.
- I beg you, don’t ask me for money!

A guest came to Nasreddin. After dinner, the guest says to Nasreddin:
– In our city they serve grapes after dinner.
“But here we consider this reprehensible,” Nasreddin objected.

One of the Molla’s close friends came to visit him from his village. Entering the courtyard, he began to beat his donkey:
- I wish you could die! - he shouted. “No matter what I loaded onto you, you didn’t want to carry it!” You embarrassed me in front of my dearest friend!
“Don’t hit him,” Nasreddin said. “Just as he didn’t bring anything here, he won’t take anything away from here.”

Nasreddin had a fight with his wife and went to bed. The wife looked in the mirror and, deciding that Nasreddin was sleeping, said:
- This is what he brought me to...
And she began to cry quietly. Nasreddin heard all this and also began to cry.
- What happened to you? - asks the wife.
And Nasreddin answers:
– I mourn my bitter fate. You only had to look at yourself once and you burst into tears. How do I feel? I see you all the time, and I don’t know when it will end. How can I not cry?

At night, thieves got into Nasreddin’s place. No matter how much they searched, they found nothing except the chest. The chest was very heavy, the thieves barely dragged it to some ruins. When they finally tore off the lid of the chest, they saw Nasreddin in it, covering his face with his hands.
- Why are you hiding your face?
– I hid from shame for my poverty...

Nasreddin was once met by a friend who had not seen him for a long time.
- Well how are you?
“Everything is fine,” says Nasreddin. – With all the money I had, I bought wheat. I took the entire harvest that came out to the mill. From all the flour that came out, I baked bread. And all the bread that came out is in my stomach.

Nasreddin's mother-in-law fell ill. Relatives gathered and began asking about her health. He replied:
“They say she’s still alive.” But if it is the will of Allah, he will soon die.

They come running to Nasreddin and say:
- Trouble, Khoja, your mother-in-law was washing clothes by the river and drowned. They still can't find her!
Nasreddin ran to the river and began to look above the place where his mother-in-law was washing.
- What are you doing, Khoja? - people asked. - After all, she was carried down!
- Eh, you don’t know my mother-in-law. She was so stubborn that she always did everything the other way around. And under the water she swam, I think, not down, but up.

One day someone came to Khoja and said:
- Maybe you know when the end of the world will happen?
- Which? – Nasreddin asked.
- What is this? Are there several doomsdays?
- Two. When your wife dies, it’s big, and when you die, it’s small.

Khoja Nasreddin is asked:
– Why did you divorce your wife?
“There was no life left, I drove my donkey harder than I did.” Do this for her, bring this, then take it out, wash it, sweep it, rearrange it. I don’t remember when and with friends in a teahouse last time rested...
- As if you don’t chase your donkey?
- Yes, but at least I feed him...

Nasreddin heard that the servant of a wealthy, respected citizen had died and went to express his condolences. On the way, he learned that the rich man himself had died and returned back.
- Why did you come back halfway? - they ask Nasreddin.
“After all, I went to curry favor with the rich man.” Who should I curry favor with now?

O. BULANOVA

There is probably not a single person who has not heard of Khoja Nasreddin, especially in the Muslim East. His name is remembered in friendly conversations, in political speeches, and in scientific disputes. They are remembered for various reasons, or even for no reason at all, simply because Khoja has been in all conceivable and inconceivable situations in which a person can find himself: he deceived and was deceived, he was cunning and got out, he was immensely wise and a total fool.

For so many years he joked and mocked human stupidity, self-interest, self-righteousness, and ignorance. And it seems that stories in which reality goes hand in hand with laughter and paradox are almost not conducive to serious conversations. If only because this person is considered a folklore character, fictional, legendary, but not historical figure. However, just as seven cities argued for the right to be called the homeland of Homer, so three times as many nations are ready to call Nasreddin theirs.

Nasreddin was born in the family of the venerable Imam Abdullah in the Turkish village of Horto in 605 AH (1206) near the city of Sivrihisar in the province of Eskisehir. However, dozens of villages and cities in the Middle East are ready to argue about the nationality and place of birth of the great cunning man.

In a maktab, a Muslim elementary school, little Nasreddin asked his teacher, the domullah, tricky questions. The domulla simply could not answer many of them. Nasreddin then studied in Konya, the capital of the Seljuk Sultanate, lived and worked in Kastamonu, then in Aksehir, where he eventually died.

Turkish history professor Mikail Bayram conducted extensive research, the results of which showed that full name the real prototype of Nasreddin is Nasir ud-din Mahmud al-Khoyi, he was born in the city of Khoy in the Iranian province of West Azerbaijan, was educated in Khorasan and became a student of the famous Islamic figure Fakhr ad-din al-Razi.

The Caliph of Baghdad sent him to Anatolia to organize resistance to the Mongol invasion. He served as a qadi, an Islamic judge, in Kayseri and later became a vizier at the court of Sultan Kay-Kavus II in Konya. He managed to visit a huge number of cities, became acquainted with many cultures and was famous for his wit, so it is quite possible that he was the first hero of funny or instructive stories about Khoja Nasreddin.

True, it seems doubtful that this educated and influential person rode around on a modest donkey and quarreled with his grumpy and ugly wife. But what a nobleman cannot afford is quite accessible to the hero of funny and instructive anecdotes, isn’t it?

However, there are other studies that suggest that the image of Khoja Nasreddin is a good five centuries older than is commonly believed in modern science.

An interesting hypothesis was put forward by Azerbaijani scientists. A number of comparisons allowed them to assume that the prototype of Nasreddin was the famous Azerbaijani scientist Haji Nasireddin Tusi, who lived in the 13th century. Among the arguments in favor of this hypothesis is, for example, the fact that in one of the sources Nasreddin is called by this name - Nasireddin Tusi.

In Azerbaijan, Nasreddin is called Molla - perhaps this name, according to researchers, is a distorted form of the name Movlan, which belonged to Tusi. He had another name - Hassan. This point of view is also confirmed by the coincidence of some motifs from the works of Tusi himself and anecdotes about Nasreddin (for example, ridicule of fortune tellers and astrologers). The ideas are interesting and not without persuasiveness.

Thus, if you start looking in the past for a person similar to Nasreddin, it will very soon become clear that his historicity borders on legendary. However, many researchers believe that the traces of Khoja Nasreddin should be looked for not in historical chronicles and burial crypts, which, judging by his character, he did not want to get into, but in those parables and anecdotes that the peoples of the Middle East told and are still telling and Central Asia, and not only them.

Folk tradition portrays Nasreddin as truly multifaceted. Sometimes he appears as an ugly, unsightly man in an old, shabby robe, in the pockets of which, alas, there are too many holes for anything to be stored there. Why, sometimes his robe is simply greasy with dirt: long travels and poverty take their toll. Another time, on the contrary, we see a person with a pleasant appearance, not rich, but living in abundance. In his house there is a place for holidays, but there are also dark days. And then Nasreddin sincerely rejoices at the thieves in his house, because finding something in empty chests is real luck.

Khoja travels a lot, but it is not clear where his home is: in Akshehir, Samarkand, Bukhara or Baghdad? Uzbekistan, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Armenia (yes, that too!), Greece, Bulgaria are ready to shelter him. His name is inclined to different languages: Khoja Nasreddin, Jokha Nasr-et-din, Mulla, Molla (Azerbaijani), Afandi (Uzbek), Ependi (Turkmen), Nasir (Kazakh), Anasratin (Greek). Friends and students are waiting for him everywhere, but there are also plenty of enemies and ill-wishers.

The name Nasreddin is spelled differently in many languages, but they all go back to the Arabic Muslim personal name Nasr ad-Din, which translates as “Victory of the Faith.” They address Nasreddin differently in parables different nations- this can be the respectful address “hoja”, and “molla”, and even the Turkish “effendi”. It is characteristic that these three addresses - Khoja, Molla and Efendi - are in many ways very similar concepts.

Compare for yourself. “Khoja” in Farsi means “master”. This word exists in almost all Turkic languages, as well as in Arabic. At first it was used as the name of the family of descendants of Islamic Sufi missionaries in Central Asia, representatives of the “white bone” class (Turkic “ak suyuk”). Over time, “Khoja” became an honorary title, especially the Islamic spiritual mentors of Ottoman princes or teachers of Arabic literacy in the mekteb, as well as noble men, merchants or eunuchs in ruling families.

Mulla (mollah) has several meanings. For Shiites, a mullah is the leader of a religious community, a theologian, and an expert in interpreting issues of faith and law (for Sunnis, these functions are performed by the ulema). In the rest of the Islamic world, more general meaning, as a respectful title, can have the following meanings: “teacher”, “assistant”, “owner”, “defender”.

Efendi (afandi, ependi) (this word has Arabic, Persian, and even ancient Greek roots) means “one who can (in court) defend himself.” This is an honorary title for noble persons, a polite address with the meanings “master”, “respected”, “lord”. Usually followed the name and was given mainly to representatives of the scientific professions.

But let's return to the reconstructed biography. Khoja has a wife, a son and two daughters. The wife is a faithful interlocutor and an eternal opponent. She is grumpy, but sometimes much wiser and calmer than her husband. His son is completely different from his father, and sometimes he is just as cunning and troublemaker.

Khoja has many professions: he is a farmer, a merchant, a doctor, a healer, he even makes a living as a theft (most often unsuccessfully). He is a very religious person, so his fellow villagers listen to his sermons; he is fair and knows the law well, so he becomes a judge; he is majestic and wise - and now the great emir and even Tamerlane himself want to see him as his closest adviser. In other stories, Nasreddin is a stupid, narrow-minded person with many shortcomings and is sometimes even considered an atheist.

It seems that Nasreddin is a manifestation of human life in all its diversity, and everyone can (if they want) discover their own Nasreddin.

We can conclude that Khoja Nasreddin is like a different outlook on life, and if some circumstances cannot be avoided, no matter how hard you try, then you can always learn something from them, become a little wiser, and therefore much freer from these very circumstances! Or maybe at the same time it will be possible to teach someone else... or teach someone a lesson. Nasreddin will definitely not rust.

For the Arab tradition, Nasreddin is not an accidental character. It’s no secret that every fable or anecdote about him is a storehouse of ancient wisdom, knowledge about the path of man, his purpose and ways of achieving true existence. And Hoxha is not just an eccentric or an idiot, but one who, with the help of irony and paradox, is trying to convey high religious and ethical truths.

We can make a bold conclusion that Nasreddin is a real Sufi! Sufism is an internal mystical movement in Islam that developed along with official religious schools. However, the Sufis themselves say that this movement is not limited to the religion of the prophet, but is the grain of any genuine religious or philosophical teaching. Sufism is the desire for Truth, for the spiritual transformation of man; this is a different way of thinking, a different way of looking at things, free from fears, stereotypes and dogmas. And in this sense, real Sufis can be found not only in the East, but also in Western culture.

The image of Khoja Nasreddin, according to Idris Shah, is an amazing find of the Sufis. Khoja does not lecture or rant; there is nothing far-fetched in his antics. Someone will laugh at them, and someone will learn something and realize something thanks to them. Stories live their own lives, wandering from one people to another, Khoja travels from anecdote to anecdote, the legend does not die, wisdom lives on.

In the East there is a legend that says that if you tell seven stories about Khoja Nasreddin in a special sequence, then the person will be touched by the light of eternal truth, bestowing extraordinary wisdom and power. How many there were who, from century to century, studied the legacy of the great mockingbird, one can only guess.

Generations succeeded generations, fairy tales and anecdotes were passed on from mouth to mouth throughout all the teahouses and caravanserais of Asia, the inexhaustible folk imagination added to the collection of stories about Khoja Nasreddin more and more new parables and anecdotes that spread over a vast territory. The themes of these stories have become part of the folklore heritage of several peoples, and the differences between them are explained by the diversity of national cultures. Most of them depict Nasreddin as a poor villager and have absolutely no references to the time of the story - their hero could live and act in any time and era.

For the first time, stories about Khoja Nasreddin were subjected to literary treatment in 1480 in Turkey, being recorded in a book called “Saltukname”, and a little later, in the 16th century, by the writer and poet Jami Ruma Lamiya (died in 1531), the following manuscript with stories about Nasreddin dates back to 1571. Later, several novels and stories were written about Khoja Nasreddin (“Nasreddin and his wife” by P. Millin, “Cherry pit rosary” by Gafur Gulyam, etc.).

Well, the 20th century brought stories about Khoja Nasreddin to the silver screen and theater stage. Today, stories about Khoja Nasreddin have been translated into many languages and have long become part of the world literary heritage. Thus, 1996-1997 was declared by UNESCO as the International Year of Khoja Nasreddin.

Main feature literary hero Nasreddin - to emerge victorious from any situation with the help of words. Nasreddin, masterfully using his words, neutralizes any defeat. Hoxha's frequent techniques are feigned ignorance and absurd logic.

The Russian-speaking reader knows the stories about Khoja Nasreddin not only from collections of parables and anecdotes, but also from the wonderful novels by Leonid Solovyov “The Troublemaker” and “The Enchanted Prince”, combined into “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin”, also translated into dozens of foreign languages.

In Russia, the “official” appearance of Khoja Nasreddin is associated with the publication of “History of Turkey” by Dmitry Cantemir (the Moldavian ruler who fled to Peter I), which included the first historical anecdotes about Nasreddin (Europe became acquainted with him much earlier).

The subsequent, unofficial existence of the great Khoja is shrouded in fog. Once, leafing through a collection of fairy tales and fables collected by folklorists in Smolensk, Moscow, Kaluga, Kostroma and other regions in the 60-80s of the last century, researcher Alexey Sukharev found several anecdotes that exactly repeated the stories of Khoja Nasreddin. Judge for yourself. Thomas says to Erema: “I have a headache, what should I do?” Erema answers: “When my tooth hurt, I pulled it out.”

And here is Nasreddin's version. “Afandi, what should I do, my eye hurts?” – Nasreddin’s friend asked. “When I had a toothache, I couldn’t calm down until I pulled it out. Perhaps you should do the same, and you will get rid of the pain,” Hoxha advised.

It turns out there is nothing unusual about this. Similar jokes can be found, for example, in the German and Flemish legends about Till Eulenspiegel, in Boccaccio’s “Decameron,” and in Cervantes’ “Don Quixote.” Other peoples have similar characters: Cunning Peter - among the southern Slavs; In Bulgaria, there are stories in which there are simultaneously two characters competing with each other (most often - Khoja Nasreddin and Cunning Peter, which is associated with Turkish yoke In Bulgaria).

The Arabs have very similar character Jokha, among the Armenians - Pulu-Pugi, among the Kazakhs (along with Nasreddin himself) - Aldar Kose, among the Karakalpaks - Omirbek, among the Crimean Tatars - Akhmet-akay, among the Tajiks - Mushfiki, among the Uyghurs - Salay Chakkan and Molla Zaydin, among the Turkmen – Kemine, among Ashkenazi Jews – Hershele Ostropoler (Hershele from Ostropol), among Romanians – Pekale, among Azerbaijanis – Molla Nasreddin. In Azerbaijan, the satirical magazine “Molla Nasreddin”, published by Jalil Mammadkulizadeh, was named after Nasreddin.

The article uses materials from the Bolshoi Soviet Encyclopedia(article “Khoja Nasreddin”), from the book “Good Jokes of Khoja Nasreddin” by Alexei Sukharev, from the book “Twenty-Four Nasreddins” (Compiled by M.S. Kharitonov)

Khoja Nasreddin is a folklore character of the Muslim East and some peoples of the Mediterranean and the Balkans, the hero of short humorous and satirical miniatures and anecdotes, and sometimes everyday tales. There are frequent statements about its existence in real life in specific locations (eg Aksehir, Türkiye).

At the moment, there is no confirmed information or serious reasons to talk about the specific date or place of Nasreddin’s birth, so the question of the reality of the existence of this character remains open.

In the territory of Muslim Central Asia and the Middle East, in Arabic, Persian, Turkish, Central Asian and Chinese literature, as well as in the literature of the peoples of Transcaucasia and the Balkans, there are many popular jokes and short stories about Khoja Nasreddin. The most complete collection of them in Russian contains 1238 stories.

The literary character of Nasreddin is eclectic and combines the syncretic image of a sage and a simpleton at the same time.

This internally contradictory image of an anti-hero, a tramp, a freethinker, a rebel, a fool, a holy fool, a sly, a rogue and even a cynic philosopher, a subtle scholar-theologian and a Sufi, is clearly transferred from several folklore characters and ridicules human vices, misers, bigots, hypocrites, bribe-taking judges and mullahs

Often finding himself on the verge of violating generally accepted norms and concepts of decency, his hero, nevertheless, invariably finds an extraordinary way out of the situation.

The main feature of the literary hero Nasreddin is to emerge victorious from any situation with the help of words. Nasreddin Effendi, masterfully using his words, neutralizes any defeat. Hoxha's frequent techniques are feigned ignorance and absurd logic.

An integral part of Nasreddin’s image has become the donkey, which appears in many parables either as main character, or as a companion of Hoxha.

The Russian-speaking reader is most familiar with Leonid Solovyov’s dilogy “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin,” which consists of two novels: “The Troublemaker” and “The Enchanted Prince.” This book has been translated into dozens of languages around the world.

Similar characters among other peoples: Cunning Peter among the southern Slavs, Jokha among the Arabs, Pulu-Pugi among the Armenians, Aldar Kose among the Kazakhs (along with Nasreddin himself), Omirbek among the Karakalpaks, also found in the epic of the Kazakhs (especially the southern ones) due to the similarity of languages and cultures, Akhmet-akai among the Crimean Tatars, Mushfike among the Tajiks, Salay Chakkan and Molla Zaydin among the Uyghurs, Kemine among the Turkmens, Till Eulenspiegel among the Flemings and Germans, Hershele from Ostropol among Ashkenazi Jews.

Both three hundred years ago and today, jokes about Nasreddin are very popular among children and adults in many Asian countries.

Several researchers date the appearance of anecdotes about Khoja Nasreddin to the 13th century. If we accept that this character existed in reality, then he lived in the same 13th century.

The prominent Russian Turkologist, Academician V. A. Gordlevsky, believed that the image of Nasreddin came from the jokes created by the Arabs around the name Juhi and passed on to the Seljuks, and later to the Turks as its extension.

Other researchers are inclined to believe that both images have only a typological similarity, explained by the fact that almost every nation in folklore has a popular witty hero endowed with the most contradictory properties.

The first anecdotes about Khoja Nasreddin were recorded in Turkey in Saltukname, a book dating back to 1480 and a little later in the 16th century by the writer and poet "Jami Ruma" Lamia (d. 1531).

Later, several novels and stories were written about Khoja Nasreddin (“Nasreddin and his wife” by P. Millin, “Cherry seed rosary” by Gafur Gulyam, etc.).

In Russia, anecdotes about Hoxha first appeared in the 18th century, when Dmitry Cantemir, the Moldavian ruler who fled to Peter I, published his “History of Turkey” with three “historical” anecdotes about Nasreddin.

In the Russian tradition, the most common name is Khoja Nasreddin. Other options: Nasreddin-effendi, molla Nasreddin, Afandi (Efendi, Ependi), Anastratin, Nesart, Nasir, Nasr ad-din.

In eastern languages, there are several different versions of the name Nasreddin, all of which boil down to three main ones:
* Khoja Nasreddin (with variations in the spelling of the name “Nasreddin”),
* Mulla (Molla) Nasreddin,
* Afandi (effendi) (Central Asia, especially among the Uighurs and Uzbekistan).

The Persian word "hoja" (Persian waga "master") exists in almost all Turkic and Arabic. In the beginning, it was used as the name of the family of descendants of Islamic Sufi missionaries in Central Asia, representatives of the “white bone” class (Turkic “ak suyuk”). Over time, “khoja” became an honorary title, especially the Islamic spiritual mentors of Ottoman princes or teachers of Arabic literacy in the makteb, as well as noble men, merchants or eunuchs in ruling families.

The Arabic Muslim personal name Nasreddin translates to "Victory of the Faith."

Mulla (molla) (Arabic al-mullaa, Turkish molla) has several meanings. Among Shiites, a mullah is the leader of a religious community, a theologian, and an expert in interpreting issues of faith and law (among Sunnis, these functions are performed by the ulema).

In the rest of the Islamic world, in a more general sense, as a respectful title, it can mean: “teacher”, “helper”, “owner”, “protector”.

Efendi (afandi, ependi) (Arabic Afandi; Persian from ancient Greek aphthentes “one who can (in court) defend himself”) - an honorary title for noble persons, polite address, with the meanings “master”, “respected”, "Mr." Usually followed the name and was given mainly to representatives of the scientific professions.

The most developed and, according to some researchers, classic and original is the image of Khoja Nasreddin, which still exists in Turkey.

According to the documents found, a certain Nasreddin actually lived there at that time. His father was Imam Abdullah. Nasreddin was educated in the city of Konya, worked in Kastamonu and died in 1284 in Aksehir, where his grave and mausoleum (Hoca Nasreddin turbesi) remain to this day.

On the tombstone there is most likely an erroneous date: 386 Hijra (i.e. 993 AD). Perhaps it is incorrect because the Seljuks appeared here only in the second half of the 11th century. It has been suggested that the great joker has a “difficult” grave, and therefore the date should be read backwards.

Other researchers dispute these dates. K. S. Davletov dates the origin of the image of Nasreddin to the 8-11 centuries. There are also a number of other hypotheses.

Monuments
* Uzbekistan, Bukhara, st. N. Khusainova, building 7 (as part of the Lyabi-Khauz architectural ensemble)
* Russia, Moscow, st. Yartsevskaya, building 25a (next to Molodezhnaya metro station) - opened on April 1, 2006, sculptor Andrey Orlov.
* Türkiye, region Sivrihisar, village Hort

There is probably not a single person who has not heard of Khoja Nasreddin, especially in the Muslim East. His name is remembered in friendly conversations, in political speeches, and in scientific disputes. They remember it for various reasons, or even for no reason at all, simply because Khoja has been in all conceivable and inconceivable situations in which a person can find himself: he deceived and was deceived, he was cunning and got out, he was immensely wise and a total fool...

And for almost a thousand years he has been joking and mocking human stupidity, self-interest, complacency, and ignorance. And it seems that stories in which reality goes hand in hand with laughter and paradox are almost not conducive to serious conversations. If only because this person is considered a folklore character, fictional, legendary, but not a historical figure. However, just as seven cities argued for the right to be called the homeland of Homer, so three times as many nations are ready to call Nasreddin theirs.

Scientists different countries they are searching: did such a person really exist and who was he? Turkish researchers believe that this person is historical, and insisted on their version, although they did not have much more grounds than scientists of other nations. They just decided that's it, that's all. Quite in the spirit of Nasreddin himself...

Not long ago, information appeared in the press that documents were found that mentioned the name of a certain Nasreddin. By comparing all the facts, you can bring them together and try to reconstruct the biography of this person.

In a maktab, a Muslim elementary school, little Nasreddin asked his teacher, the domullah, tricky questions. The domulla simply could not answer many of them.

Nasreddin then studied in Konya, the capital of the Seljuk Sultanate, lived and worked in Kastamonu, then in Aksehir, where he eventually died. His grave is still shown in Aksehir, and the annual International festival Khoja Nasreddin.

There is even more confusion regarding the date of death. It can be assumed that if a person was born in an unknown place, then he died in an unknown place. However, there is a grave and even a mausoleum - in the area of the Turkish city of Aksehir. And even the date of death is indicated on the gravestone of the tomb - 386 AH (993). But, as noted by the prominent Russian Turkologist and academician V.A. Gordlevsky, for a number of reasons, “this date is absolutely unacceptable.” Because it turns out that Khoja died two hundred years before his birth! It was suggested, Gordlevsky writes, that for such a joker as Nasreddin, the grave inscription should be read not like people’s, but backwards: 683 AH (1284/85)! In general, somewhere in these centuries our hero got lost.

Researcher K.S. Davletov dates the origin of the image of Nasreddin to the 8th-11th centuries, the era of Arab conquests and the struggle of peoples against the Arab yoke: “If we look for a period in the history of the East that could serve as the cradle of the image of Khoja Nasreddin, which could give rise to such a magnificent artistic generalization, then, of course, , we can only dwell on this era.”

It is difficult to agree with the categorical nature of such a statement; The image of Nasreddin, as it came down to us, took shape over centuries. Among other things, K.S. Davletov refers to “vague” information that “during the time of Caliph Harun al-Rashid, there lived a famous scientist Mohammed Nasreddin, whose teaching turned out to be contrary to religion. He was sentenced to death and pretended to be crazy to save himself. Under this mask he then began to ridicule his enemies.”

Turkish professor-historian Mikail Bayram conducted extensive research, the results of which showed that the full name of the real prototype of Nasreddin is Nasir ud-din Mahmoud al-Khoyi, he was born in the city of Khoy in the Iranian province of West Azerbaijan, was educated in Khorasan and became a student of the famous Islamic figure Fakhr ad-din ar-Razi. The Caliph of Baghdad sent him to Anatolia to organize resistance to the Mongol invasion. He served as a qadi, an Islamic judge, in Kayseri and later became a vizier at the court of Sultan Kay-Kavus II in Konya. He managed to visit a huge number of cities, became acquainted with many cultures and was famous for his wit, so it is quite possible that he was the first hero of funny or instructive stories about Khoja Nasreddin.

True, it seems doubtful that this educated and influential man would ride around on a modest donkey and quarrel with his grumpy and ugly wife. But what a nobleman cannot afford is quite accessible to the hero of funny and instructive anecdotes, isn’t it?

However, there are other studies that suggest that the image of Khoja Nasreddin is a good five centuries older than is commonly believed in modern science.

Academician V.A. Gordlevsky believed that the image of Nasreddin came out of the jokes created by the Arabs around the name Juhi, and passed on to the Seljuks, and later to the Turks as its extension.

In Azerbaijan, Nasreddin is called Molla - perhaps this name, according to researchers, is a distorted form of the name Movlan, which belonged to Tusi. He had another name - Hasan. This point of view is also confirmed by the coincidence of some motifs from the works of Tusi himself and anecdotes about Nasreddin (for example, ridicule of fortune tellers and astrologers). The ideas are interesting and not without persuasiveness.

Thus, if you start looking in the past for a person similar to Nasreddin, it will very soon become clear that his historicity borders on legendary. However, many researchers believe that the traces of Khoja Nasreddin should be looked for not in historical chronicles and burial crypts, which, judging by his character, he did not want to get into, but in those parables and anecdotes that were told and are still told by twenty-three peoples The Middle East and Central Asia, and not only them.

Khoja travels a lot, but it is not clear where his home is: in Akshehir, Samarkand, Bukhara or Baghdad? Uzbekistan, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Armenia (yes, that too!), Greece, Bulgaria are ready to shelter him. His name is declined in different languages: Khoja Nasreddin, Jokha Nasr-et-din, Mulla, Molla (Azerbaijani), Afandi (Uzbek), Ependi (Turkmen), Nasyr (Kazakh), Anasratin (Greek). Friends and students are waiting for him everywhere, but there are also plenty of enemies and ill-wishers.

The name Nasreddin is spelled differently in many languages, but they all go back to the Arabic Muslim personal name Nasr ad-Din, which translates as “Victory of the Faith.” Nasreddin is addressed differently in the parables of different peoples - this can be the respectful address “khoja”, “molla”, and even the Turkish “effendi”.

It is characteristic that these three addresses - Khoja, Molla and Efendi - are in many ways very similar concepts. Compare for yourself. "Khoja" in Farsi means "master". This word exists in almost all Turkic languages, as well as in Arabic. At first it was used as the name of the family of descendants of Islamic Sufi missionaries in Central Asia, representatives of the “white bone” class (Turkic “ak suyuk”). Over time, “khoja” became an honorary title, especially the Islamic spiritual mentors of Ottoman princes or teachers of Arabic literacy in the mekteb, as well as noble men, merchants or eunuchs in ruling families.

Mulla (mollah) has several meanings. Among Shiites, a mullah is the leader of a religious community, a theologian, and an expert in interpreting issues of faith and law (among Sunnis, these functions are performed by the ulema). In the rest of the Islamic world, in a more general sense, as a respectful title, it can mean: “teacher”, “helper”, “owner”, “protector”.

Efendi (afandi, ependi) (this word has Arabic, Persian, and even ancient Greek roots) means “one who can (in court) defend himself”). This is an honorary title for noble persons, a polite address with the meanings of “master”, “respected”, “master”. Usually followed the name and was given mainly to representatives of the scientific professions.

It seems that Nasreddin is a manifestation of human life in all its diversity, and everyone can (if they want) discover their own Nasreddin. There is more than enough for everyone, and there will still be some left over! If Hodja were to live in our time, he would probably drive a Mercedes, work part-time at a construction site, beg in subway passages... and all this at the same time!

We can conclude that Khoja Nasreddin is like a different outlook on life, and if certain circumstances cannot be avoided, no matter how hard you try, then you can always learn something from them, become a little wiser, and therefore much freer from these very circumstances! Or maybe at the same time it will be possible to teach someone else... or teach someone a lesson. Well, since life itself hasn’t taught us anything! He will definitely not rust behind Nasreddin, even if the devil himself is in front of him.

For the Arab tradition, Nasreddin is not an accidental character. It is no secret that every fable or anecdote about him is a storehouse of ancient wisdom, knowledge about the path of man, about his purpose and ways of achieving true existence. And Hoxha is not just an eccentric or an idiot, but one who, with the help of irony and paradox, is trying to convey high religious and ethical truths. We can make a bold conclusion that Nasreddin is a real Sufi!

Sufism is an internal mystical movement in Islam that developed along with official religious schools. However, the Sufis themselves say that this movement is not limited to the religion of the prophet, but is the grain of any genuine religious or philosophical teaching. Sufism is the desire for Truth, for the spiritual transformation of man; this is a different way of thinking, a different way of looking at things, free from fears, stereotypes and dogmas. And in this sense, real Sufis can be found not only in the East, but also in Western culture.

The mystery that shrouds Sufism, according to its followers, is not connected with any special mysticism and secrecy of the teaching, but with the fact that there have not been so many sincere and honest seekers of truth in all centuries. “To be in the world but not of the world, to be free from ambition, greed, intellectual arrogance, blind obedience to custom or awe of superiors - this is the ideal of the Sufi,” wrote Robert Graves, an English poet and scientist.

In our age, accustomed to sensations and revelations, these truths pale in comparison to stories of mystical miracles and global conspiracy, but these are exactly what the sages talk about. And with them Nasreddin. The truth is not somewhere around the corner, it is here, hidden behind our habits and attachments, behind our selfishness and stupidity. The image of Khoja Nasreddin, according to Idris Shah, is an amazing find of the Sufis. Khoja does not lecture or rant; there is nothing far-fetched in his antics. Someone will laugh at them, and someone will learn something and realize something thanks to them. Stories live their own lives, wandering from one people to another, Khoja travels from anecdote to anecdote, the legend does not die, wisdom lives on. Truly the best way it was difficult to find for its transmission!

Khoja Nasreddin constantly reminds us that we are limited in our understanding of the essence of things, and therefore in our assessment of them. And if someone was called a fool, there is no point in being offended, because for Khoja Nasreddin such an accusation would be the highest of praises! Nasruddin is the greatest teacher, his wisdom has long crossed the boundaries of the Sufi community. But few people know Khoja like this. In the East there is a legend that says that if you tell seven stories about Khoja Nasreddin in a special sequence, then the person will be touched by the light of eternal truth, bestowing extraordinary wisdom and power. How many there were who, from century to century, studied the legacy of the great mockingbird, one can only guess. A whole life can be spent searching for this magical combination, and who knows if this legend is not another joke of the incomparable Hoxha?

The main feature of the literary hero Nasreddin is to emerge victorious from any situation with the help of words. Nasreddin, masterfully using his words, neutralizes any defeat. Hoxha's frequent tricks are feigned ignorance and the logic of the absurd.

The Russian-speaking reader knows the stories about Khoja Nasreddin not only from collections of parables and anecdotes, but also from the wonderful novels by Leonid Solovyov “The Troublemaker” and “The Enchanted Prince,” combined into “The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin,” also translated into dozens of foreign languages.

The subsequent, unofficial existence of the great Khoja is shrouded in fog. Judge for yourself. Once, leafing through a collection of fairy tales and fables collected by folklorists in Smolensk, Moscow, Kaluga, Kostroma and other regions in the 60-80s of the last century, researcher Alexey Sukharev found several anecdotes that exactly repeated the stories of Khoja Nasreddin. Judge for yourself. Thomas says to Erema: “I have a headache, what should I do?” Erema answers: “When my tooth hurt, I pulled it out.”

And here is Nasreddin's version. “Afandi, what should I do, my eye hurts?” - a friend asked Nasreddin. “When I had a toothache, I couldn’t calm down until I pulled it out. Perhaps you should do the same, and you will get rid of the pain,” Hoxha advised.

It turns out there is nothing unusual about this. Similar jokes can be found, for example, in the German and Flemish legends about Till Eulenspiegel, in Boccaccio's Decameron, and in Cervantes' Don Quixote. Other peoples have similar characters: Cunning Peter - among the southern Slavs; in Bulgaria there are stories in which there are simultaneously two characters competing with each other (most often - Khoja Nasreddin and Cunning Peter, which is associated with the Turkish yoke in Bulgaria).

The Arabs have a very similar character Jokha, the Armenians have Pulu-Pugi, the Kazakhs (along with Nasreddin himself) have Aldar Kose, the Karakalpaks have Omirbek, the Crimean Tatars have Akhmet-akay, the Tajiks have Mushfiqi, the Uyghurs have Salay Chakkan and Molla Zaydin, among the Turkmens - Kemine, among Ashkenazi Jews - Hershele Ostropoler (Hershel of Ostropol), among the Romanians - Pekale, among the Azerbaijanis - Molla Nasreddin. In Azerbaijan, the satirical magazine “Molla Nasreddin”, published by Jalil Mammadkulizadeh, was named after Nasreddin.

Of course, it is difficult to say that stories about Khoja Nasreddin influenced the appearance of similar stories in other cultures. In some places this is obvious to researchers, but in others it is not possible to detect visible connections. But it’s hard not to agree that there is something extraordinarily important and attractive in this. Knowing nothing about Nasreddin, we also know nothing about ourselves, about those depths that are reborn in us, whether we live in Samarkand of the 14th century or in a modern European city. Truly, the immeasurable wisdom of Khoja Nasreddin will outlive us all, and our children will laugh at his tricks just as our grandfathers and great-grandfathers once laughed at them. Or maybe they won’t... As they say in the East, everything is the will of Allah!

Of course, there will definitely be someone who will say that Nasreddin is incomprehensible or simply outdated. Well, if Khoja had happened to be our contemporary, he would not have been upset: you can’t please everyone. Yes, Nasreddin did not like to be upset at all. The mood is like a cloud: it came and flew away. We are upset only because we are losing what we had. But it’s worth thinking: do we really have that much? There is something wrong when a person determines his dignity by the amount of accumulated property. After all, there are things that you can’t buy in a store: intelligence, kindness, justice, friendship, resourcefulness, wisdom, finally. Now, if you have lost them, then there is something to be upset about. Otherwise, Khoja Nasreddin has nothing to lose, and this is perhaps his most important lesson.

So what, after all, in the end? At the moment, there is no confirmed information or serious reasons to talk about the specific date or place of Nasreddin’s birth, so the question of the reality of the existence of this character remains open. In a word, whether Khoja was born or not, lived or didn’t live, died or didn’t die, it’s not very clear. Complete bewilderment and incident. And don't laugh or cry - just shrug your shoulders. Only one thing is known for certain: many wise and instructive stories about Khoja Nasreddin have reached us. Therefore, in conclusion, a few of the most famous ones.

Once at the bazaar, Khoja saw a fat teahouse owner shaking a beggar tramp, demanding payment from him for lunch.
- But I just smelled your pilaf! - the tramp justified himself.
- But the smell also costs money! - the fat man answered him.
“Wait, let him go - I’ll pay you for everything,” with these words Khoja Nasreddin approached the teahouse owner. He let the poor guy go. Khoja took several coins out of his pocket and shook them over the teahouse owner's ear.
- What is this? - he was amazed.
“Whoever sells the smell of dinner gets the jingle of coins,” Khoja answered calmly.

The following story, one of my favorites, is given in the book by L.V. Solovyov’s “Troublemaker” and in the film “Nasreddin in Bukhara” based on the book.

Nasreddin says that he once made a bet with the emir of Bukhara that he would teach his donkey theology so that the donkey would know him no worse than the emir himself. This requires a purse of gold and twenty years of time. If he does not fulfill the terms of the dispute, his head is off his shoulders. Nasreddin is not afraid of the inevitable execution: “After all, in twenty years,” he says, “either the Shah will die, or I, or the donkey will die. And then go figure out who knew theology better!”

Even Leo Tolstoy quotes an anecdote about Khoja Nasreddin.

Nasreddin, for a small fee, promises one merchant to make him fabulously rich through magic and sorcery. To do this, the merchant had only to sit in the sack from dawn to dusk without food or drink, but most importantly: during all this time he must never think about the monkey, otherwise everything would be in vain. It’s not hard to guess whether the merchant has become fabulously rich...

The article uses materials from the Great Soviet Encyclopedia (article “Khoja Nasreddin”), from the book “Good Jokes of Khoja Nasreddin” by Alexei Sukharev, from the book “Twenty-Four Nasreddins” (Compiled by M.S. Kharitonov)

Leonid Solovyov: The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin:

TROUBLE TROUBLE

CHAPTER FIRST

Khoja Nasreddin celebrated the thirty-fifth year of his life on the road.

He spent more than ten years in exile, wandering from city to city, from one country to another, crossing seas and deserts, spending the night as necessary - on the bare ground near a meager shepherd’s fire, or in a cramped caravanserai, where in the dusty darkness until the morning camels sighing and itching and their bells tinkling dully, or in a steamy, smoky teahouse, among the water-carriers, beggars, drivers and other poor people lying side by side, with the onset of dawn filling the market squares and narrow streets of the cities with their piercing cries. Often he managed to spend the night on soft silk pillows in the harem of some Iranian nobleman, who just that night went with a detachment of guards to all the teahouses and caravanserais, looking for the tramp and blasphemer Khoja Nasreddin in order to impale him... Through the bars The window showed a narrow strip of sky, the stars were turning pale, the early morning breeze rustled lightly and gently through the leaves, and on the windowsill cheerful turtle doves began to coo and preen their feathers. And Khoja Nasreddin, kissing the tired beauty, said:

It's time. Farewell, my incomparable pearl, and do not forget me.

Wait! - she answered, closing her beautiful hands around his neck. -Are you leaving completely? But why? Listen, this evening, when it gets dark, I will send the old woman for you again. - No. I have long forgotten the time when I spent two nights in a row under the same roof. I have to go, I'm in a hurry.

Drive? Do you have any urgent business in another city? Where are you going to go?

Don't know. But it’s already dawn, the city gates have already opened and the first caravans have set off. Do you hear the camel bells ringing! When this sound reaches me, it’s like genies are possessing my feet, and I can’t sit still!

Leave if so! - the beauty said angrily, trying in vain to hide the tears glistening on her long eyelashes. - But tell me your name before goodbye.

Do you want to know my name? Listen, you spent the night with Khoja Nasreddin! I am Khoja Nasreddin, a troublemaker and a sower of discord, the same one about whom heralds shout every day in all squares and bazaars, promising a great reward for his head. Yesterday they promised three thousand tomans, and I even thought about selling my own head for such a good price. You laugh, my star, well, give me your lips one last time. If I could, I would give you an emerald, but I don’t have an emerald - take this simple white stone as a souvenir!

He pulled on his torn robe, burned in many places by sparks from road fires, and walked away slowly. Outside the door, a lazy, stupid eunuch in a turban and soft shoes with turned up toes snored loudly - a careless guardian of the main treasure in the palace, entrusted to him. Further on, stretched out on carpets and felts, the guards snored, resting their heads on their naked scimitars. Khoja Nasreddin tiptoed past, and always safely, as if he had become invisible for the time being.

And again the white rocky road rang and smoked under the brisk hooves of his donkey. Above the world in blue sky the sun was shining; Khoja Nasreddin could look at him without squinting. Dewy fields and barren deserts, where camel bones half-covered with sand, green gardens and foamy rivers, gloomy mountains and green pastures, heard the song of Khoja Nasreddin. He drove further and further, without looking back, without regretting what he left behind and without fear of what lay ahead.

And in the abandoned city the memory of him remained forever alive.

The nobles and mullahs turned pale with rage when they heard his name; water carriers, teamsters, weavers, coppersmiths and saddlers, gathering in teahouses in the evenings, told each other funny stories about his adventures, from which he always emerged victorious; the languid beauty in the harem often looked at the white pebble and hid it in a mother-of-pearl casket, hearing the steps of her master.

Ugh! - said the fat nobleman and, puffing and snuffling, began to take off his brocade robe. - We are all completely exhausted with this damned tramp Khoja Nasreddin: he has outraged and stirred up the entire state! I received a letter today from my old friend, the respected ruler of the Khorasan region. Just think - as soon as this tramp Khoja Nasreddin appeared in his city, the blacksmiths immediately stopped paying taxes, and the tavern owners refused to feed the guards for free. Moreover, this thief, a desecrator of Islam and the son of sin, dared to climb into the harem of the Khorasan ruler and dishonor his beloved wife! Truly, the world has never seen such a criminal! I regret that this despicable ragamuffin did not try to penetrate my harem, otherwise his head would have stuck out on a pole in the middle of the main square a long time ago!

The beauty was silent, smiling secretly - she was both funny and sad. And the road kept ringing and smoking under the donkey’s hooves. And the song of Khoja Nasreddin sounded. For ten years he visited everywhere: in Baghdad, Istanbul and Tehran, in Bakhchisaray, Etchmiadzin and Tbilisi, in Damascus and Trebizond, he knew all these cities and a great many others, and everywhere he left his memory.

Now he was returning to his hometown, to Bukhara-i-Sherif, to Noble Bukhara, where he hoped, hiding under someone else’s name, to take a little rest from his endless wanderings.

CHAPTER TWO

Having joined a large merchant caravan, Khoja Nasreddin crossed the Bukhara border and on the eighth day of the journey he saw in the dusty darkness the familiar minarets of the great, glorious city.

The caravan men, exhausted by thirst and heat, shouted hoarsely, the camels quickened their pace: the sun was already setting, and they had to hurry to enter Bukhara before the city gates were closed. Hodja Din rode at the very tail of the caravan, shrouded in a thick, heavy cloud of dust; it was native, sacred dust; it seemed to him that it smelled better than the dust of other, distant lands. Sneezing and clearing his throat, he said to his donkey:

Well, we're finally home. I swear by Allah, good luck and happiness await us here.

The caravan approached the city wall just as the guards were closing the gates. “Wait, in the name of Allah!” - shouted the caravan bashi, showing a gold coin from a distance. But the gates had already closed, the bolts fell with a clang, and sentries stood on the towers near the cannons. A cool wind blew, the pink glow faded in the foggy sky and the thin crescent of the new moon was clearly visible, and in the twilight silence from all the countless minarets the high, drawn-out and sad voices of the muezzins rushed, calling Muslims to evening prayer.

The merchants and caravan drivers knelt down, and Khoja Nasreddin and his donkey slowly walked away to the side.

These merchants have something to thank Allah for: they had lunch today and are now going to dinner. And you and I, my faithful donkey, have not had lunch and will not have dinner; If Allah wants to receive our gratitude, then let him send me a bowl of pilaf, and you a sheaf of clover!

He tied the donkey to a roadside tree, and he lay down next to it, right on the ground, putting a stone under his head. A shining plexus of stars opened in the dark transparent sky to his eyes, and every constellation was familiar to him: so often in ten years he saw the open sky above him! And he always thought that these hours of silent wise contemplation made him richer than the richest, and although the rich man eats on golden dishes, he must certainly spend the night under a roof, and he is not given the opportunity at midnight, when everything is quiet, to feel the flight of the earth through blue and cool starry fog...

Meanwhile, in the caravanserais and teahouses adjacent to the outside of the battlemented city wall, fires lit under large cauldrons and sheep bleated pitifully as they were dragged to slaughter. But the experienced Khoja Nasreddin prudently settled for the night on the windward side so that the smell of food would not tease or disturb him. Knowing the Bukhara customs, he decided to save his last money to pay the toll at the city gates in the morning.

He tossed and turned for a long time, but sleep still did not come to him, and the cause of insomnia was not hunger at all. Khoja Nasreddin was tormented and tormented by bitter thoughts, even the starry sky could not console him today.

He loved his homeland, and there was no greater love in the world for this cunning, merry fellow with a black beard on his copper-tanned face and sly sparkles in his clear eyes. The farther from Bukhara he wandered in a patched robe, a greasy skullcap and torn boots, the more he loved Bukhara and yearned for it. In his exile, he always remembered the narrow streets where the cart, as it passed, harrowed clay fences on both sides; he remembered tall minarets with patterned tile caps, on which the fiery sparkle of dawn burns morning and evening, ancient, sacred elm trees with huge stork nests blackened on the branches; he remembered the smoky teahouses above the ditches, in the shade of babbling poplars, the smoke and fumes of the taverns, the colorful bustle of the bazaars; he remembered the mountains and rivers of his homeland, its villages, fields, pastures and deserts, and when in Baghdad or Damascus he met a compatriot and recognized him by the pattern on his skullcap and the special cut of his robe, Khoja Nasreddin’s heart sank and his breathing became difficult.

When he returned, he saw his homeland even more miserable than in the days when he left it. The old emir was buried long ago. The new emir managed to completely ruin Bukhara in eight years. Khoja Nasreddin saw destroyed bridges on the roads, poor crops of barley and wheat, dry irrigation ditches, the bottom of which was cracked from the heat. The fields were wild, overgrown with weeds and thorns, the gardens were dying of thirst, the peasants had neither bread nor livestock, beggars sat in lines along the roads, begging for alms from the same beggars as themselves. The new emir placed detachments of guards in all villages and ordered the residents to feed them for free, founded many new mosques and ordered the residents to complete their construction - he was very pious, the new emir, and twice a year he made sure to go to worship the ashes of the most holy and incomparable Sheikh Bogaeddin, tomb which rose near Bukhara. In addition to the previous four taxes, he introduced three more, established a toll for crossing each bridge, increased trade and judicial duties, minted counterfeit money... Crafts fell into decline, trade was destroyed: Khoja Nasreddin was greeted sadly by his beloved homeland.

...Early in the morning, the muezzins began singing again from all the minarets; the gates opened and the caravan, accompanied by the dull ringing of bells, slowly entered the city.

Outside the gate, the caravan stopped: guards blocked the road. There were a great many of them - shod and barefoot, clothed and half naked, who had not yet managed to get rich in the emir's service. They pushed, shouted, argued, distributing the profit among themselves in advance. Finally, a toll collector came out of the teahouse - fat and sleepy, in a silk robe with greasy sleeves, shoes on his bare feet, with traces of intemperance and vice on his swollen face. Glancing at the merchants with a greedy glance, he said:

Greetings, merchants, I wish you good luck in your trading affairs. And know that there is an order from the emir to beat with sticks to death anyone who conceals even the smallest amount of goods!

The merchants, overcome with embarrassment and fear, silently stroked their dyed beards. The collector turned to the guards, who had been dancing in place for a long time with impatience, and moved his thick fingers. It was a sign. The guards rushed towards the camels with a whoop and howl. In the crush and haste, they cut through hair lassos with sabers, noisily ripped open bales, threw brocade, silk, velvet, boxes of pepper, tea and amber, jugs with precious rose oil and Tibetan medicines onto the road.

The merchants lost their tongues from horror. Two minutes later the inspection ended. The guards lined up behind their leader. Their robes were bristling and puffing out. The collection of duties for goods and for entry into the city began. Khoja Nasreddin had no goods; he was charged only an entry fee.

Where did you come from and why? - asked the collector. The scribe dipped a quill pen into the inkwell and prepared to write down Khoja Nasreddin’s answer.

I came from Ispagan, oh blessed sir. My relatives live here in Bukhara.

“Yes,” said the collector. - You are going to visit your relatives. So you have to pay a guest fee.

But I’m not going to visit my relatives,” Khoja Nasreddin objected. - I'm traveling on important business.

On business! - the collector cried, and a sparkle flashed in his eyes. - So you are going to visit and at the same time on business! Pay the guest fee, business fee and donate for the decoration of mosques for the glory of Allah, who saved you from the robbers on your journey.

“It would be better if he saved me now, and I would somehow protect myself from the robbers,” thought Khoja Nasreddin, but remained silent: he managed to calculate that in this conversation every word cost him more than ten tanga. He untied his belt and, under the predatory gaze of the guards, began counting out the entry fee, the visitor fee, the business fee and the donation for decorating the mosques. The collector glanced menacingly at the guards, they turned away. The scribe, buried in a book, quickly creaked his pen.

Khoja Nasreddin paid and wanted to leave, but the collector noticed that there were still a few coins left in his belt.

Wait,” he stopped Khoja Nasreddin. - And who will pay the duty for your donkey? If you are going to visit relatives, then your donkey is going to visit relatives.

“You’re right, oh wise chief,” Khoja Nasreddin humbly answered, untying his belt again. “My donkey really has a great many relatives in Bukhara, otherwise our emir with such orders would have fallen from the throne a long time ago, and you, oh venerable one, would have been impaled for your greed!”

Before the collector came to his senses. Khoja Nasreddin jumped on the donkey and, setting it off at full speed, disappeared into the nearest alley. “Hurry, hurry! - he said. - Speed up, my faithful donkey, speed up, otherwise your master will pay another fee - with his own head!

Khoja Nasreddin’s donkey was very smart, he understood everything: with his long ears he heard the roar and confusion at the city gates, the screams of the guards and, without understanding the road, he rushed so that Khoja Nasreddin, clasping his neck with both hands and raising his legs high, could barely hold on in the saddle. A whole pack of dogs rushed after him, barking hoarsely; those they met huddled against the fences and looked after them, shaking their heads.

Meanwhile, at the city gates, the guards searched the entire crowd, looking for the daring freethinker. The merchants, grinning, whispered to each other:

Here is an answer that would honor even Khoja Nasreddin himself!..

By noon the whole city knew about this answer; The sellers at the bazaar told the story in a whisper to the buyers, who passed it on, and everyone said: “These are words worthy of Khoja Nasreddin himself!”

And no one knew that these words belonged to Khoja Nasreddin, that he himself, the famous and incomparable Khoja Nasreddin, was now wandering around the city, hungry, penniless, looking for relatives or old friends who would feed him and shelter him for the first time.

CHAPTER THREE

He found neither relatives nor old friends in Bukhara. He didn’t even find his father’s house in which he was born and grew up, playing in the shady garden, where on clear autumn days yellowing leaves rustled in the wind, ripe fruits fell to the ground with a dull, as if distant thud, birds whistled in thin voices, sun spots trembled on the fragrant grass, hardworking bees hummed, collecting the last tribute from fading flowers, the water secretly hummed in the ditch, telling the boy its endless, incomprehensible tales... Now this place was a wasteland: hillocks, potholes, tenacious thistles, sooty bricks, floating remains of walls, pieces of decayed reed mats; Khoja Nasreddin did not see a single bird or bee here! Only from under the stones on which he tripped suddenly a long oily stream flowed out and, glinting dimly in the sun, disappeared again under the stones - it was a snake, lonely and scary resident deserted places forever abandoned by man.

With his eyes downcast, Khoja Nasreddin stood in silence for a long time; grief squeezed his heart.

He heard a rattling cough behind him and turned around.

An old man, bent over with need and worries, walked along the path through the wasteland. Khoja Nasreddin stopped him:

Peace be upon you, old man, may Allah send you many more years of health and prosperity. Tell me, whose house used to stand on this wasteland?

Here stood the house of the saddlemaker Shir-Mamed,” the old man answered. - I once knew him well. This ShirMamed was the father of the famous Khoja Nasreddin, about whom you, traveler, have probably heard a lot.

Yes, I heard something. But tell me, where did this saddlemaker Shir-Mamed, the father of the famous Khoja Nasreddin, go, where did his family go?

Hush, my son. There are thousands and thousands of spies in Bukhara - they can hear us, and then we will not end up in trouble. You probably came from afar and don’t know that in our city it is strictly forbidden to mention the name of Khoja Nasreddin, people are sent to prison for this. Lean closer to me and I'll tell you.

Khoja Nasreddin, hiding his excitement, bent low towards him.

“It was under the old emir,” the old man began. - A year and a half after the expulsion of Khoja Nasreddin, a rumor spread through the bazaar that he had returned, was secretly living in Bukhara and composing mocking songs about the emir. This rumor reached the emir's palace, the guards rushed to look for Khoja Nasreddin, but could not find him. Then the emir ordered to seize Khoja Nasreddin’s father, two brothers, uncle, all distant relatives and friends and torture them until they told where Khoja Nasreddin was hiding. Glory to Allah, he sent them so much courage and firmness that they were able to remain silent, and our Khoja Nasreddin did not fall into the hands of the emir. But his father, the saddlemaker Shir-Mamed, fell ill after torture and soon died, and all relatives and friends left Bukhara, hiding from the emir’s wrath, and no one knows where they are now. And then the emir ordered to destroy their homes and uproot their gardens in order to destroy the very memory of Khoja Nasreddin in Bukhara.

Why were they tortured? - Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed; tears flowed down his face, but the old man saw poorly and did not notice these tears. - Why were they tortured? After all, Khoja Nasreddin was not in Bukhara at that time, I know this very well!

Nobody knows this! - answered the old man. - Khoja Nasreddin appears wherever he wants and disappears when he wants. He is everywhere and nowhere, our incomparable Khoja Nasreddin!

With these words, the old man, groaning and coughing, wandered on, and Khoja Nasreddin, covering his face with his hands, walked up to his donkey.

He hugged the donkey, pressed his wet face to his warm, fragrant neck: “You see, my good, my faithful friend,” said Khoja Nasreddin, “I have no one left close to me, only you are a constant and unchanging companion in my wanderings.” And, as if feeling the grief of its owner, the donkey stood still, without moving, and even stopped chewing the thorn, which remained hanging on his lips.

But an hour later, Khoja Nasreddin strengthened his heart, the tears dried on his face. "Nothing! - he cried, slapping the donkey hard on the back. - Nothing! I have not yet been forgotten in Bukhara, I am known and remembered in Bukhara, and we will be able to find friends here! And now we will compose such a song about the emir that he will burst with anger on his throne, and his stinking intestines will stick to the decorated walls of the palace! Forward, my faithful donkey, forward!”

CHAPTER FOUR

It was a stuffy and quiet afternoon. Road dust, stones, clay fences and walls - everything was hot, breathing a lazy heat, and the sweat on Khoja Nasreddin’s face dried up before he could wipe it away.

Khoja Nasreddin excitedly recognized familiar streets, teahouses and minarets. Nothing has changed in ten years in Bukhara, the same mangy dogs dozed by the ponds, and a slender woman, bending over and holding her veil with a dark hand with painted nails, plunged a narrow ringing jug into the dark water. And still the gates of the famous Mir-Arab madrasah were tightly locked, where, under the heavy arches of their cells, learned ulemas and mudarris, who had long forgotten the color of spring foliage, the smell of the sun and the sound of water, were composing thick books in the glory of Allah, with eyes burning with a dark flame, proving the need extermination to the seventh generation of all those who do not profess Islam. Khoja Nasreddin kicked the donkey with his heels while passing this terrible place.

But where can you have lunch? Khoja Nasreddii tied his belt for the third time since yesterday.

We need to come up with something,” he said. - Let's stop, my faithful donkey, and think. And here, by the way, is a teahouse!

Having unbridled the donkey, he let him collect the half-eaten clover from the hitching post, and he himself, picking up the hem of his robe, sat down in front of the irrigation ditch, in which water, thick with clay, flowed, gurgling and foaming at the incursions. “Where, why and where does this water flow from - she doesn’t know and doesn’t think about it,” Khoja Nasreddin thought sadly. - I also don’t know my path, my rest, my home. Why did I come to Bukhara? Where will I go tomorrow? And where can I get half tanga for lunch? Am I going to be hungry again? Damned toll collector, he robbed me completely and still had the shamelessness to talk to me about robbers!

At that moment he suddenly saw the culprit of his misfortunes. The toll collector himself arrived at the teahouse. Two guards were leading an Arabian stallion, a handsome bay horse with a noble and passionate fire in his dark eyes, by the bridle. He, bending his neck, impatiently moved his thin legs, as if he was disgusted to carry the fat carcass of the picker.

The guards respectfully unloaded their boss, and he entered the teahouse, where the teahouse owner, trembling with servility, seated him on silk pillows, brewed him the best tea separately, and handed him a thin bowl of Chinese workmanship. “He gets a good reception for my money!” - thought Khoja Nasreddin.

The tea picker filled his throat with tea and soon dozed off on the pillows, filling the teahouse with sniffles. eating, snoring and smacking. All the other guests switched to whispers in their conversations, afraid to disturb his sleep. The guards sat over him - one on the right, and the other on the left - and drove away the annoying flies with twigs until they were sure that the collector was fast asleep; then they winked at each other, unbridled the horse, threw him a sheaf of clover and, taking a hookah with them, went into the depths of the teahouse, into the darkness, from where a minute later the sweet smell of hashish wafted towards Khoja Nasreddin: the guards were freely indulging in vice. “Well, it’s time for me to get ready! - Hodja Nasreddin decided, remembering the morning adventure at the city gates and fearing that the guards, at an uneven hour, would recognize him. - But where can I get half a tanga? O almighty fate, which has rescued Khoja Nasreddin so many times, turn your favorable gaze on him!” At this time they called out to him:

Hey you, you ragamuffin!

He turned around and saw on the road a covered, richly decorated cart, from where, parting the curtains, a man in a large turban and an expensive robe looked out.

And before this man - a rich merchant or nobleman - uttered the next word. Khoja Nasreddin already knew that his call for happiness did not go unanswered: happiness, as always, turned its favorable gaze to him in difficult times.

“I like this stallion,” the rich man said arrogantly, looking over Khoja Nasreddin and admiring the handsome bay Arabian. - Tell me, is this stallion for sale?

“There is no horse in the world that is not for sale,” Khoja Nasreddin answered evasively.

“You probably don’t have a lot of money in your pocket,” the rich man continued. - Listen carefully. I don’t know whose stallion this is, where it came from or who it belonged to before. I'm not asking you about this. It’s enough for me that, judging by your dusty clothes, you came to Bukhara from afar. That's enough for me. Do you understand?

Khoja Nasreddin, overwhelmed with jubilation and admiration, nodded his head: he immediately understood everything and even much more than the rich man wanted to tell him. He was thinking about only one thing: lest some stupid fly crawl into the toll collector's nostril or throat and wake him up. He was less worried about the guards: they continued to enthusiastically indulge in vice, as evidenced by the clouds of thick green smoke pouring out of the darkness.

But you yourself understand,” the rich man continued arrogantly and importantly, “that it is not appropriate for you to ride such a horse in your torn robe.” It would even be dangerous for you, because everyone would ask themselves the question: “Where did this beggar get such a beautiful stallion?” - and you could easily end up in jail.

You are right, O high-born! - Khoja Nasreddin humbly answered. - The horse is really too good for me. I’ve been riding a donkey all my life in my torn robe and don’t even dare to think about mounting such a horse.

The rich man liked his answer.

It is good that, despite your poverty, you are not blinded by pride: a poor man should be humble and modest, for lush flowers are inherent in the noble almond, but not inherent in the wretched thorn. Now answer me - do you want to get this wallet? There are exactly three hundred tangas in silver.

Still would! - Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed, internally growing cold, because the harmful fly nevertheless crawled into the nostril of the toll collector: he sneezed and moved. - Still would! Who would refuse to receive three hundred tangas in silver? It's like finding a wallet on the road!

Well, let’s say you found something completely different on the road,” the rich man answered with a subtle smile. - But I agree to exchange what you found on the road for silver. Get your three hundred tangas.

He handed Khoja Nasreddin a heavy wallet and signaled to his servant, who, scratching his back with a whip, silently listened to the conversation. The servant walked towards the stallion. Khoja Nasreddin managed to notice that the servant, judging by the grin on his flat, pockmarked face and restless eyes, was a notorious rogue, completely worthy of his master. “Three rogues on one road are too many, it’s time for one to get out!” - decided Khoja Nasreddin. Praising the piety and generosity of the rich man, he jumped on the donkey and kicked it so hard with his heels that the donkey, despite all its laziness, immediately took off into a gallop.

Turning around, Khoja Nasreddin saw that a pockmarked servant was tying a bay Arabian stallion to a cart.

Turning around again, he saw that the rich man and the toll collector were pulling each other's beards, and the guards were trying in vain to separate them.

A reasonable person does not interfere in someone else's quarrel. Khoja Nasreddin twisted and swerved along all the alleys until he felt safe. He pulled on the reins, holding back the donkey's gallop.

Wait, wait,” he began. - Now we have nowhere to rush...

Suddenly he heard nearby the alarming, interrupted clatter of hooves.

Hey! Go ahead, my faithful donkey, go ahead, help me out! - Hodja Nasreddin shouted, but it was too late: a horseman jumped out from around the bend onto the road.

It was a pockmarked servant. He rode a horse drawn from a cart. Swinging his legs, he rushed past Khoja Nasreddin and, abruptly reining in his horse, placed it across the road.

Skip it a kind person, - Khoja Nasreddin said meekly. - On such narrow roads you need to drive along, not across.

Yeah! - the servant answered with gloating in his voice. - Well, now you can’t escape the underground prison! Do you know that this nobleman, the owner of the stallion, tore out half of my master’s beard, and my master broke his nose until it bled. Tomorrow you will be dragged to the emir's court. Truly, your fate is bitter, O man!

What are you saying?! - Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed. - Why could these respectable people quarrel so much? But why did you stop me - I cannot be a judge in their dispute! Let them figure it out themselves somehow!

Enough chatting! - said the servant. - Turn it back. You'll have to answer for this stallion.

What stallion?

Are you still asking? The same one for whom you received a purse of silver from my master.

“I swear by Allah, you are mistaken,” Khoja Nasreddin replied. - The stallion has nothing to do with it. Judge for yourself - you heard the whole conversation. Your master, a generous and pious man, wanting to help the poor man, asked: Do I want to receive three hundred tanga in silver? - and I replied that, of course, I want to. And he gave me three hundred tanga, may Allah prolong the days of his life! But first he decided to test my modesty and my humility in order to make sure that I deserved the reward. He said: “I’m not asking whose stallion this is or where it comes from,” wanting to check whether I would not call myself the owner of this stallion out of false pride. I remained silent, and the generous, pious merchant was pleased with this. Then he said that such a stallion would be too good for me, I completely agreed with him, and he was again pleased. Then he said that I found something on the road that could be exchanged for silver, hinting at my zeal and firmness in Islam, which I gained in my wanderings in holy places. And then he rewarded me, so that with this pious deed it would be easier in advance for himself to cross into heaven across the afterlife bridge, which is lighter than a hair and thinner than the edge of a sword, as he says holy quran. In my first prayer, I will inform Allah about your master’s pious deed, so that Allah will prepare the railings for him on this bridge in advance.

The servant thought for a moment, then said with a sly grin, which made Khoja Nasreddin feel somehow uneasy:

You are right, O traveler! And how come I didn’t immediately realize that your conversation with my master had such a virtuous meaning! But if you have already decided to help my master cross the afterlife bridge, then it is better that there are railings on both sides. It will come out stronger and more reliable. I, too, would be happy to pray for my master, so that Allah would put railings on the other side as well.

So pray! - Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed. - Who's stopping you? You even have to do it. Doesn’t the Koran command slaves and servants to pray daily for their masters, without demanding any special reward...

Wrap up the donkey! - the servant said rudely and, touching the horse, pressed Khoja Nasreddin to the fence. - Come on, hurry up, don’t make me waste my time!

Wait,” Khoja Nasreddin hastily interrupted him. - I haven't said everything yet. I was going to recite a prayer of three hundred words, according to the number of tangas I received. But now I think I can get by with a prayer of two hundred and fifty words. The railings on my side will only be a little thinner and shorter. And you will read a prayer of fifty words, and the all-wise Allah will be able to cut out a railing on your side from the same logs.

How so? - the servant objected. - So my railings will be five times shorter than yours?

But they will be in the very dangerous place! - Khoja Nasreddin added with liveliness.

No! I don't agree with such short railings! - the servant said decisively. - This means that part of the bridge will be unfenced! I turn pale and break out in a cold sweat at the thought of the terrible danger threatening my master! I figure we should both say one hundred and fifty word prayers so that the railings are the same on both sides. Well, let them be thin, but on both sides. And if you don’t agree, then I see in this a malicious intent against my master - that means you want him to fall off the bridge! And now I’ll call people, and you’ll go straight to the underground prison!

Thin railings! - Khoja Nasreddin cried in rage, feeling as if a slight stirring of the wallet in his belt. - In your opinion, it is enough to fence this bridge with twigs! Understand that the railing on one side must certainly be thicker and stronger, so that the merchant has something to grab onto if he stumbles and falls!

The truth itself speaks through your lips! - the servant exclaimed joyfully. - Let them be thicker on my part, and I will not spare the labor and read a prayer of two hundred words!

Don't you want three hundred? - Khoja Nasreddin said angrily.

They argued for a long time on the road. The rare passers-by who heard snippets of conversation bowed respectfully, mistaking Khoja Nasreddin and the pockmarked servant for pious pilgrims returning from worshiping holy places.

When they parted, Khoja Nasreddin’s wallet was half lighter: they agreed that the bridge leading to paradise should be fenced for the merchant on both sides with railings of exactly the same length and strength.

Farewell, traveler, said the servant. - Today you and I have done a pious deed.

Farewell, kind, devoted and virtuous servant, so concerned about the salvation of his master’s soul. I will also say that in a dispute you will probably not yield even to Khoja Nasreddin himself.

Why did you remember him? - the servant became wary.

Yes so. “I had to say something,” Khoja Nasreddin answered, thinking to himself: “Hey!.. Yes, this seems to be no ordinary bird!”

Maybe you are some distant relative of him? - asked the servant. - Or do you know any of his relatives?

No, I've never met him. And I don't know any of his relatives.

I’ll tell you in your ear,” the servant leaned in the saddle, “I am a relative of Khoja Nasreddin.” I him cousin. We spent our childhood years together.

Khoja Nasreddin, having finally strengthened his suspicions, did not answer anything. The servant leaned towards him from the other side:

His father, two brothers and uncle were killed. You probably heard, traveler?

Khoja Nasreddin was silent.

What an atrocity on the part of the emir! - the servant exclaimed in a hypocritical voice.

But Khoja Nasreddin was silent.

All Bukhara viziers are fools! - the servant suddenly said, trembling with impatience and greed, for there was a large reward from the treasury for the capture of freethinkers.

But Khoja Nasreddin stubbornly remained silent.

And our blessed emir himself is also a fool! - said the servant. - And it is still unknown whether there is Allah in the sky or whether he does not exist at all.

But Khoja Nasreddin was silent, although the poisonous answer had long been hanging on the very tip of his tongue. The servant, deceived in his hopes, hit the horse with a whip with a curse and disappeared around the bend in two leaps. Everything was quiet. Only the dust, kicked up by the hooves, curled and turned golden in the still air, pierced by slanting rays.

“Well, I finally found a relative,” Khoja Nasreddin thought mockingly. “The old man did not lie to me: there really were more spies in Bukhara than flies, and we must be careful, because the old saying says that the offending tongue is cut off along with the head.”

He rode like this for a long time, now gloomy at the thought of his half-empty wallet, now smiling at the memory of the fight between the toll collector and the arrogant rich man.

CHAPTER FIVE

Having reached the opposite part of the city, he stopped, entrusted his donkey to the care of the teahouse owner, and without wasting time, he went to the tavern.

It was cramped, smoky and steamy, there was noise and din, the stoves were burning hot, and their flames illuminated the sweaty cooks, naked to the waist. They were in a hurry, shouting, pushing each other and handing out slaps to the cooks, who, with crazy eyes, rushed around the entire tavern, increasing the crush, hubbub and commotion. Huge cauldrons, covered with wooden dancing circles, gurgled, rich steam thickened under the ceiling, where swarms of countless flies hovered with a buzz. In the gray smoke, oil hissed furiously, oil splashed, the walls of the heated braziers glowed, and the fat, dripping from the spits onto the coals, burned with a blue, stuffy fire. Here they prepared pilaf, fried shish kebab, cooked tripe, baked pies stuffed with onions, peppers, meat and fat tail fat, which, melted in the oven, came through the dough and boiled with small bubbles. Khoja Nasreddin found a place with great difficulty and squeezed in so tightly that the people whom he squeezed with his back and sides grunted. But no one was offended or said a word to Khoja Nasreddin, and he himself was certainly not offended. He always loved the hot crowd of market taverns, all this discordant hubbub, jokes, laughter, screams, jostling, friendly snorting, chewing and slurping of hundreds of people who, after a whole day of hard work, have no time to understand the food: indestructible jaws will grind everything - and the veins , and cartilage, and the tinned belly will accept everything, just give it so that there is a lot and it’s cheap! Khoja Nasreddin also knew how to eat thoroughly: without a break, he ate three bowls of noodles, three bowls of pilaf, and finally two dozen pies, which he finished with force, true to his rule of never leaving anything in the bowl, since the money was paid anyway.

Then he crawled towards the exit, and when, working as hard as he could with his elbows, he finally got out into the air, he was all wet. His limbs became weak and tired, as if he had just been in a bathhouse, in the hands of a burly washer. With a sluggish step, heavy from food and heat, he quickly made his way to the teahouse, and when he got there, he ordered himself some tea and blissfully stretched out on the felts. His eyelids closed, quiet pleasant thoughts floated in his head: “I have a lot of money now; It would be nice to put them into circulation and open some kind of workshop - a pottery shop or a saddle shop; I know these crafts. I really have to stop wandering around. Am I worse and more stupid than others, can’t I have a kind, beautiful wife, can’t I have a son whom I could carry in my arms? I swear by the beard of the prophet, this loud-mouthed boy will turn out to be a notorious rogue, I will try to impart my wisdom to him! Yes, it’s decided: Khoja Nasreddin is changing his troubled life. First I have to buy a potter or saddlery..."

He started doing calculations. A good workshop cost at least three hundred tanga, but he had one hundred and fifty. With curses he remembered the pockmarked servant:

“May Allah strike this robber with blindness, he took from me exactly the half that is now missing to begin with!”

And luck again rushed to his aid. “Twenty tanga!” - someone suddenly said, and following these words, Khoja Nasreddin heard the clatter of bones thrown onto a copper tray.

On the edge of the platform, right next to the hitching post where the donkey was tied, people were sitting in a tight ring, and the teahouse owner stood above them, looking over their heads.

"A game! - Khoja Nasreddin guessed, raising himself on his elbow. - We need to look at least from afar. Of course, I won’t play myself: I’m not such a fool! But why not look smart person for fools?

He stood up and approached the players.

Foolish people! - he said in a whisper to the teahouse owner. - They risk the last in the hope of gaining more. And didn't Mohammed forbid Muslims money games? Thank God, I am freed from this destructive passion... How lucky, however, this red-haired player is: he wins for the fourth time in a row... Look, look - he won for the fifth time! O madman! He is seduced by the false ghost of wealth, while poverty has already dug a hole in his path. What?... He won for the sixth time!.. I have never seen a person so lucky. Look, he's betting again! Truly, there is no limit to human frivolity; He can’t win in a row! This is how people die, believing in false happiness! This redhead should be taught a lesson. Well, let him just win for the seventh time, then I myself will bet against him, although in my heart I am an enemy of all money games and would have banned them long ago if I were the emir!..

The red-haired player rolled the dice and won for the seventh time.

Khoja Nasreddin decisively stepped forward, separated the players and sat in the ring.

“I want to play with you,” he said to the lucky one, took the dice and quickly, with an experienced eye, checked them from all sides.

Khoja Nasreddin responded by taking out his wallet, putting twenty-five tangas in his pocket just in case, and pouring out the rest. The silver rang and sang on the copper tray. The players greeted the bet with a slight, excited roar: the big game was about to begin.

Red took the bones and shook them for a long time, not daring to throw them. Everyone held their breath, even the donkey stretched out his muzzle and pricked up his ears. All that was heard was the clatter of bones in the red-haired player's fist - nothing more. And from this dry knock a languid weakness entered Khoja Nasreddin’s stomach and legs. And the red-haired man kept shaking, holding the sleeve of his robe, and could not make up his mind.

Finally he threw. The players leaned forward and immediately leaned back, sighing all at once, with one chest. The redhead turned pale and groaned through clenched teeth.

There were only three points on the dice - a sure loss, because a two is thrown as rarely as a twelve, and everything else was good for Khoja Nasreddin.

Shaking the bones in his fist, he mentally thanked the fate that had been so favorable to him that day. But he forgot that fate is capricious and fickle and can easily change if it is too bothered. She decided to teach the self-confident Khoja Nasreddin a lesson and chose a donkey as her weapon, or rather its tail, decorated at the end with thorns and burrs. Turning his back to the players, the donkey swung his tail, touched his owner's hand, the dice jumped out, and at the same moment the red-haired player, with a short, strangled cry, fell onto the tray, covering the money with himself.

Khoja Nasreddin threw out two points.

He sat for a long time, petrified, silently moving his lips - everything swayed and swam before his frozen gaze, and a strange ringing was in his ears.

Suddenly he jumped up, grabbed a stick and began to bludgeon the donkey, running after him around the hitching post.

Damned donkey, oh son of sin, oh stinking creature and disgrace of everything living on earth! - Hodja Nasreddin shouted. “Not only are you playing dice with your master’s money, but you’re also losing!” May your vile skin peel off, may Almighty Allah send you a pit on the way so that you break your legs; When will you finally die and I will get rid of the contemplation of your vile face?!

The donkey roared, the players laughed, and loudest of all was the red-haired one, who finally believed in his happiness.

Let’s play again,” he said when Khoja Nasreddin, tired and out of breath, threw away the stick. - Let's play again: you have twenty-five tangas left.

At the same time, he put his left leg forward and moved it slightly as a sign of disdain for Khoja Nasreddin.

Well, let's play! - Khoja Nasreddin answered, deciding that now it doesn’t matter: where one hundred and twenty tangas are lost, there is no point in regretting the last twenty-five.

He threw it carelessly, without looking, and won.

For all! - the red-haired man suggested, throwing his loss on the tray.

And Khoja Nasreddin won again.

But the red-haired man did not want to believe that happiness had turned its back on him:

He said this seven times in a row, and lost all seven times. The tray was full of money. The players froze - only the sparkle in their eyes testified to the internal fire that was devouring them.

You cannot win in a row if the devil himself does not help you! - the red-haired man cried. - You must lose someday! Here on the tray of your money is one thousand six hundred tangas! Do you agree to take another shot at everything? Here is the money that I have prepared to buy goods for my shop at the market tomorrow - I bet this money against you!

He took out a small spare wallet filled with gold.

Place your gold on the tray! - cried the heated Khoja Nasreddin.

Never before has there been such a big game in this teahouse. The teahouse owner forgot about his long-boiled kumgan, the players were breathing heavily and intermittently. The red-haired one threw the dice first and immediately closed his eyes - he was afraid to look.

Eleven! - everyone shouted in unison. Khoja Nasreddin realized that he was dead: only twelve could save him.

Eleven! Eleven! - the red-haired player repeated in frantic joy. - You see - I have eleven! You lose! You lose!

Khoja Nasreddin, feeling cold, took the bones and was about to throw them, but suddenly stopped.

Turn around! - he said to the donkey. - You managed to lose on three points, now manage to win on eleven, otherwise I will immediately take you to the knacker!

He took the tail of a donkey in his left hand and hit himself with this tail on his right hand, in which the bones were clutched.

A general scream shook the teahouse, and the teahouse owner himself grabbed his heart and sank to the floor in exhaustion.

There were twelve points on the dice.

The redhead's eyes rolled out of their sockets and glazed over his pale face. He slowly stood up and exclaimed:

“Oh, woe is me, woe!” - Staggered out of the teahouse.

And they say that since then he was no longer seen in the city: he fled into the desert and there, terrible, covered with wild hair, wandered in the sands and thorny bushes, constantly exclaiming: “Oh, woe is me, woe!” - until he was finally eaten by jackals. And no one felt sorry for him, because he was a cruel and unjust man and caused a lot of harm, beating gullible simpletons.

And Khoja Nasreddin, having put the won wealth into his saddlebags, hugged the donkey, kissed him firmly on the warm nose and treated him to delicious, fresh flatbreads, which the donkey was quite surprised by, because just five minutes before he had received something completely different from his master.

CHAPTER SIX

Mindful wise rule that it is better to stay away from people who know where your money is, Khoja Nasreddin did not linger in the teahouse and went to the market square. From time to time he looked around to see if he was being followed, for there was no sign of virtue on the faces of the players and even the teahouse owner himself.

He was happy to go. Now he can buy any workshop, two workshops, three workshops. That's what he decided to do. “I will buy four workshops:

Pottery, saddlery, tailor's and shoemaking, and I will put two craftsmen in each, and I myself will only receive money. In two years I will be rich, I will buy a house with fountains in the garden, I will hang golden cages with songbirds everywhere, I will have two or even three wives and three sons from each ... "

He plunged headlong into the sweet river of dreams. Meanwhile, the donkey, not feeling the reins, took advantage of the owner’s thoughtfulness and, encountering a bridge on the way, did not walk along it, like all the other donkeys, but turned to the side and, taking a running start, jumped straight over the ditch. “And when my children grow up, I will gather them and say...” Khoja Nasreddin thought at that time. - But why am I flying through the air? Did Allah really decide to turn me into an angel and give me wings?”

At that same second, the sparks that fell from his eyes convinced Khoja Nasreddin that he had no wings. Flying out of the saddle, he plopped onto the road, two fathoms ahead of the donkey.

When he stood up, groaning and groaning, all covered in dust, the donkey, affectionately moving his ears and maintaining the most innocent expression on his muzzle, approached him, as if inviting him to take his place in the saddle again.

O you, sent to me as punishment for my sins and for the sins of my father, grandfather and great-grandfather, for, I swear by the correctness of Islam, it would be unjust to punish a person so severely for his own sins alone! - Khoja Nasreddin began, his voice trembling with indignation. - Oh, you despicable cross between a spider and a hyena! O you who...

But then he stopped short, noticing some people sitting nearby in the shadow of a dilapidated fence.

The curses froze on the lips of Khoja Nasreddin.

He understood that a person who finds himself in a ridiculous and disrespectful position in front of others must laugh loudest at himself.

Khoja Nasreddin winked at those sitting and smiled widely, showing all his teeth at once.

Hey! - he said loudly and cheerfully. - Well, I had a nice flight! Tell me how many times I turned over, otherwise I didn’t have time to count it myself. Oh, you little naughty girl! - he continued, good-naturedly patting the donkey with his palm, while his hands were itching to give him a good whipping, - oh, you naughty little thing! I have him like this: you just gape a little, and he’ll definitely do something!

Khoja Nasreddin burst into cheerful laughter, but was surprised to notice that no one echoed him. Everyone continued to sit with their heads down and their faces gloomy, and the women holding babies in their arms cried quietly.

“Something is wrong here,” Khoja Nasreddin said to himself and came closer.

Listen, venerable old man,” he turned to the gray-bearded old man with a haggard face, “tell me what happened?” Why don’t I see smiles, don’t hear laughter, why do women cry? Why are you sitting here on the road in the dust and heat, isn’t it better to sit at home in the cool?

It’s good for those who have a home to sit at home,” the old man answered mournfully. - Oh, passerby, don’t ask - the grief is great, but you still won’t be able to help. Here I am, old and decrepit, now praying to God to send me death as soon as possible.

Why such words! - Khoja Nasreddin said reproachfully. - A person should never think about this. Tell me your grief and don’t look at how poor I look. Maybe I can help you.

My story will be short. Just an hour ago, the moneylender Jafar walked down our street, accompanied by two emir’s guards. And I am a debtor to the moneylender Jafar, and tomorrow morning my debt expires. And now I am expelled from my home, in which I have lived my whole life, and I no longer have a family and there is no corner where I could lay my head... And all my property: house, garden, livestock and vineyards will be sold tomorrow by Jafar.

How much do you owe him? - asked Khoja Nasreddin.

A lot, passerby. I owe him two hundred and fifty tanga.

Two hundred and fifty tangas! - Khoja Nasreddin exclaimed. - And a person wishes himself to die because of some two hundred and fifty tangas! Well, well, stand still,” he added, turning to the donkey and untying the saddle bag. - Here, venerable old man, two hundred and fifty tanga, give it to this moneylender, kick him out of your house and live out your days in peace and prosperity.

Hearing the ringing of silver, everyone perked up, but the old man could not utter a word and only thanked Khoja Nasreddin with his eyes, in which tears sparkled.

“You see, you still didn’t want to talk about your grief,” said Khoja Nasreddin, counting out the last coin and thinking to himself: “Nothing, instead of eight craftsmen, I’ll hire only seven, that’s enough for me!”

Suddenly a woman sitting next to the old man threw herself at the feet of Khoja Nasreddin and held out her child to him with a loud cry.

Look! - she said through sobs. - He is sick, his lips are dry and his face is burning. And he will die now, my poor boy, somewhere on the road, for I was kicked out of my home.

Khoja Nasreddin looked at the child’s emaciated, pale face, at his transparent hands, then looked around at the faces of those sitting. And when he peered into these faces, crisscrossed with wrinkles, crumpled by suffering, and saw the eyes, dimmed by endless tears, it was as if a hot knife stabbed into his heart, an instant spasm seized his throat, and the blood rushed into his face in a hot wave. He turned away.

“I’m a widow,” the woman continued. “My husband, who died six months ago, owed the moneylender two hundred tanga, and according to the law, the debt transferred to me.

The boy is really sick,” said Khoja Nasreddin. - And you shouldn’t keep him in the sun at all, because the sun’s rays thicken the blood in the veins, as Avicenna says, which, of course, is not good for the boy. Here's two hundred tangas for you, come home quickly, put a lotion on his forehead; Here's another fifty tanga for you so you can call a doctor and buy medicine.

I thought to myself: “We can get by just fine with six craftsmen.”

But a huge bearded mason fell at his feet, whose family was to be sold into slavery tomorrow for a debt of four hundred tavga to the moneylender Jafar... “Five masters, of course, is not enough,” thought Khoja Nasreddin, untying his bag. Before he had time to tie it, two more women fell to their knees in front of him, and their stories were so pitiful that Khoja Nasreddin, without hesitation, provided them with money sufficient to pay off the moneylender. Seeing that the remaining money was barely enough to support three masters, he decided that in this case it was not worth getting involved with the workshops, and with a generous hand began to distribute money to the rest of the debtors of the moneylender Jafar.

There were no more than five hundred tanga left in the bag. And then Khoja Nasreddin noticed another person aside who did not ask for help, although grief was clearly written on his face.

Hey, listen! - Khoja Nasreddin called. - Why are you sitting here? After all, you have no debt to the moneylender?

“I owe him,” the man said dully. “Tomorrow I myself will go in chains to the slave market.”

Why have you been silent until now?

O generous, beneficent traveler, I do not know who you are. Is it the saint Bogaeddin who came out of his tomb to help the poor, or Harun al-Rashid himself? I didn’t turn to you only because you’ve already spent a lot without me, and I owe the most - five hundred tangas, and I was afraid that if you give it to me, there won’t be enough for the old men and women.

“You are fair, noble and conscientious,” said the touched Khoja Nasreddin. “But I am also fair, noble and conscientious, and I swear you will not go to the slave market in chains tomorrow.” Hold the floor!

He poured out every last tanga of money from his saddlebag. Then the man, holding the hem of his robe with his left hand, hugged Khoja Nasreddin with his right hand and fell in tears to his chest.

Khoja Nasreddin looked around at all the rescued people, saw the smiles, the blush on their faces, the sparkle in their eyes.

“And you really flew off your donkey,” the huge bearded mason suddenly said, laughing, and everyone laughed at once - the men in rough voices, and the women in thin voices, and the children smiled, stretching out their little hands to Khoja Nasreddin, and he himself laughed the loudest .

ABOUT! - he said, writhing with laughter, - you still don’t know what kind of donkey he is! This is such a damn donkey!..

No! - interrupted a woman with a sick child in her arms. - Don't talk about your donkey like that. This is the smartest, most noble, most precious donkey in the world; there has never been and never will be an equal to it. I agree to look after him all my life, feed him selected grain, never bother him with work, clean him with a hair comb, comb his tail with a comb. After all, if this incomparable donkey, like a blooming rose, filled with only virtues, had not jumped over the ditch and thrown you out of the saddle, O traveler, who appeared before us like the sun in the darkness, you would have passed by without noticing us, but We wouldn't dare stop you!

“She’s right,” the old man said thoughtfully. - We largely owe our salvation to this donkey, who truly adorns the world and stands out like a diamond among all other donkeys.

Everyone began to loudly praise the donkey and vying with each other to push him cakes, fried corn, dried apricots and peaches. The donkey, swatting away the annoying flies with his tail, calmly and importantly accepted the offerings, but still blinked his eyes at the sight of the whip, which Khoja Nasreddin was secretly showing him.

But time passed as usual, the shadows lengthened, the red-legged storks, screaming and flapping their wings, descended into the nests, from where the eagerly open beaks of the chicks reached out to meet them.

Khoja Nasreddin began to say goodbye.

Everyone bowed and thanked him:

Thank you. You understand our grief.

“I still wouldn’t understand,” he answered, “if just today I myself lost four workshops where eight of the most skilled craftsmen worked for me, a house and a garden in which fountains flowed and golden cages with songbirds hung on the trees. I still wouldn’t understand!

The old man mumbled with his toothless mouth:

I can't thank you enough, traveler. This is the only thing I took with me when I left the house. This is the Koran, the holy book; take it, and may it be your guiding fire in the sea of life.

Khoja Nasreddin treated the holy books without any respect, but, not wanting to offend the old man, he took the Koran, put it in a saddle bag and jumped into the saddle.

Name, name! - everyone shouted in unison. - Tell us your name so that we know whom to thank in our prayers.

Why do you need to know my name? True virtue does not need glory, as for prayers, then Allah has many angels who inform him of pious deeds... If the angels are lazy and careless and sleep somewhere on soft clouds, instead of keeping count of all the pious and all the blasphemous affairs on earth, then your prayers will still not help, for Allah would be simply stupid if he took people at their word without demanding confirmation from trusted persons.

One of the women suddenly gasped quietly, followed by the second, then the old man, perked up, stared wide-eyed at Khoja Nasreddin. But Khoja Nasreddin was in a hurry and did not notice anything.

Farewell. May peace and prosperity be upon you.

Accompanied by blessings, he disappeared around a bend in the road.

Those remaining were silent, one thought shone in their eyes.

The old man broke the silence. He said soulfully and solemnly:

Only one person in the whole world can commit such an act, and only one person in the world knows how to talk like that, and only one person in the world carries within himself such a soul, the light and warmth of which warms all the unfortunate and disadvantaged, and this person is he, ours. ...

Shut up! - the second one quickly interrupted. - Or have you forgotten that fences have eyes, stones have ears, and many hundreds of dogs would rush in his wake.

I’d rather have my tongue torn out than say his name out loud anywhere! - said the woman with a sick child in her arms.

“I will be silent,” exclaimed the second woman, “for I would rather die myself than accidentally give him a rope!”

So everyone said, except the bearded and powerful mason, who was not distinguished by his sharp mind and, listening to the conversations, could not understand why dogs should run in the footsteps of this traveler if he was not a butcher or a seller of boiled tripe; if this traveler is a rope walker, then why is his name so forbidden to be spoken out loud, and why does the woman agree to die rather than give her savior a rope, so necessary in his craft? Here the mason became completely confused, began to snore heavily, sighed noisily and decided not to think any more, for fear of going crazy.

Meanwhile, Khoja Nasreddin had gone far away, and the emaciated faces of the poor stood before his eyes; he remembered the sick child, the feverish blush on his cheeks and his lips parched in the heat; he remembered the gray hair of the old man, thrown out of his home, and rage rose from the depths of his heart.

He could not sit in the saddle, jumped off and walked next to the donkey, kicking away the stones that came under his feet.

Well, wait, moneylender, wait! - he whispered, and an ominous fire flared up in his black eyes. - We will meet, and your fate will be bitter! And you, Emir,” he continued, “tremble and turn pale, Emir, for I. Khoja Nasreddin, in Bukhara! O despicable leeches, sucking the blood from my unfortunate people, O greedy hyenas and stinking jackals, you will not bliss forever and the people will not suffer forever! As for you, moneylender Jafar, then may my name be covered with shame forever and ever if I do not get even with you for all the grief that you cause to the poor!

You have read the text of Leonid Solovyov's story: The Tale of Khoja Nasreddin: Troublemaker.

Classics of literature (satire and humor) from a collection of stories and works by famous authors: writer Leonid Vasilyevich Solovyov. .................

All day the sky was covered with a gray veil. It became cool and deserted. The dull, treeless steppe plateaus with burnt-out grass were depressing. Feeling sleepy...

A TRF post, the Turkish equivalent of our traffic police, appeared in the distance. I instinctively prepared for the worst, because I know from past driving experience that meetings with such services do not bring much joy.

I have never encountered Turkish “road masters” yet. Are they the same as ours? Just in case, in order not to give the traffic police time to come up with an excuse to find fault with us, we stopped ourselves and “attacked” them with questions, remembering that the best defense is an attack.

But, as we were convinced, the “climate” here is completely different, and the local “traffic cops,” in whom drivers are accustomed to seeing their eternal opponents, were not at all going to stop us and were not at all opponents of motorists. Quite the contrary.

The police kindly answered our questions, gave a lot of advice and generally showed a keen interest in us and especially in our country. Just a few minutes of conversation convinced me: these are simple, selfless and kind guys who conscientiously fulfill their official duty, which at the same time does not prevent them from being responsive, cheerful and smiling. The hospitable policemen invited us to their post to drink a glass of tea and continue the conversation there...

After this fleeting meeting, it seemed to me that the sky seemed to brighten, and became warmer, and nature smiled... And as if the shadow of that cheerful man who, according to the Turks, once lived here, flashed by.

We were approaching the city of Sivrihisar. The surrounding area is very picturesque - rocky mountains bristling towards the sky with sharp teeth. From a distance I mistook them for ancient fortress walls. Apparently, the city was named “Sivrihisar”, which translated means “fortress with pointed walls”. At the entrance to the city, to the left of the highway, we unexpectedly saw a monument: an old man in a wide-brimmed hat was sitting on a donkey, stabbing a long stick into a globe on which was written: “Dyunyanin merkezi burasydyr” (“The center of the world is here”).

I was waiting for this meeting and therefore I immediately guessed: this is the legendary Nasreddin Khoja...

I remembered a joke. Nasrudin was asked a treacherous question that seemed impossible to answer: “Where is the center of the Earth’s surface?” “Here,” Khoja answered, sticking his stick into the ground. If you don’t believe me, you can be convinced that I’m right by measuring the distances in all directions...”

But why is this monument installed here? We turn into the city and at the hotel, which is called “Nasreddin-Khoja”, we learn that, it turns out, one of the neighboring villages is no more, no less the birthplace of the Turks’ favorite.

This piqued our curiosity even more. We immediately go to the indicated village. Today it is also called Nasreddin-Khoja. And at the time when Nasreddin was born there, her name was Khortu.

Three kilometers from the highway leading to Ankara, a roadside sign forced us to turn sharply to the southwest.

Along the main street of the village there are whitewashed blank end walls of adobe houses, painted with color paintings and illustrations for jokes about Nasreddin. On the central square, which, like the main street in this small village, can only be called that way, there is a small monument. There is an inscription on the pedestal indicating that Nasreddin was born here in 1208 and lived until he was 60 years old. Died in 1284 in Aksehir...

The headman showed us a narrow, crooked street where one car could not pass; that’s where Nasreddin’s house was. The huts huddle closely, huddled together. Walls without windows that had grown into the ground, as if blind elders had been crushed by the unbearable weight of time, were powdered with whitewash, which, contrary to their aspirations, did not hide their age, but, on the contrary, revealed wrinkles even more. The same pitiful and pitiful crooked doors and gates were askew and wrinkled from old age and illness... Some houses had two floors; the second floors hung like bony loggias over the crooked steep streets.

Nasreddin’s home differs from others in that the house was not built right outside the gate, near the “red line,” but in the depths of a tiny courtyard “patch,” at the rear border of the site. Squeezed on both sides by neighbors, the dilapidated house, built of rough stones, nevertheless contained several small rooms and an open veranda on the second floor. On the lower floor there are utility rooms and for the traditional personal transport of the East - the constant donkey. In an empty courtyard without a single tree, only the antediluvian axle from a cart with wooden solid crooked wheels was preserved.

No one has lived in the house for a long time, and it has fallen into complete disrepair. However, they say that as a sign of grateful memory to the glorious Nasreddin, a new, solid house worthy of him will be built in the main square in his native village. Otherwise, the villagers are ashamed that their illustrious fellow countryman has such a wreck... And, probably, they will hang a memorial plaque on that house with the inscription: “Nasreddin Khoja was born and lived here.”

Such a neglected appearance of his house surprised us a lot: the popularity of Nasreddin Khoja had reached truly global proportions. As his popularity grew, so did the number of applicants who considered Nasreddin their fellow countryman. Not only the Turks, but also many of their neighbors in the Middle East, the Caucasus, and Central Asia consider him “theirs”...

Nasreddin’s grave is located in the city of Aksehir, about two hundred kilometers south of his native village. It is curious that the date of death on the gravestone of the crafty, merry fellow and joker is believed to be deliberately indicated in a humorous spirit, in his manner backwards (as Nasreddin Khoja often rode his donkey) that is, 386, instead of 683, which corresponds to 1008 according to our chronology. But... it turns out that he died before he was born! True, this kind of “inconsistency” does not bother fans of their favorite hero.
I asked the residents of Nasreddin-Khoja if any of the descendants of the Great Joker were left here by chance. It turned out there are descendants. Less than five minutes had passed before the neighbors, without hesitation, introduced us to the direct descendants of Nasreddin, whom we photographed against the backdrop of the historical home...

Khoja Nasreddin met the thirty-fifth year of his life on the way. He spent more than ten years in exile, wandering from city to city, from one country to another, crossing seas and deserts, spending the night as necessary - on the bare ground near a meager shepherd's fire, or in a cramped caravanserai, where in the dusty darkness they sigh and itch until the morning camels and their bells tinkling dully, or in a steamy, smoky teahouse, among the lying water-carriers, beggars, drivers and other poor people, who at dawn fill the market squares and narrow streets of the cities with their piercing cries. Often he managed to spend the night on soft silk pillows in the harem of some Iranian nobleman, who just that night went with a detachment of guards to all the teahouses and caravanserais, looking for the tramp and blasphemer Khoja Nasreddin in order to impale him. ". Through the window bars a narrow strip of sky was visible, the stars were turning pale, the pre-dawn breeze was lightly and gently rustling through the leaves, on the windowsill cheerful turtle doves began to coo and preen their feathers. And Khoja Nasreddin, kissing the tired beauty, said: “It’s time. Farewell, my incomparable pearl, and do not forget me.” “Wait!” she answered, closing her beautiful hands on his neck. “Are you leaving completely? But why? Listen, this evening, when it gets dark, I will send the old woman for you again.” “No. I have long forgotten that time.” , when I spent two nights in a row under one roof. I have to go, I’m in a hurry. - Go? Do you have any urgent business in another city? Where are you going to go? - I don’t know. But it’s already dawn, the city gates have already opened The first caravans set off. Do you hear the camels' bells ringing! When this sound reaches me, it’s like genies are possessing my legs, and I can’t sit still! - Leave, if so! — the beauty said angrily, trying in vain to hide the tears glistening on her long eyelashes. “At least tell me your name in parting.” - Do you want to know my name? Listen, you spent the night with Khoja Nasreddin! I am Khoja Nasreddin, the troublemaker and the sower of discord, the same one about whom the heralds shout every day in all the squares and bazaars, promising a great reward for his head. Yesterday they promised three thousand tomans, and I even thought about selling my own head myself for such a good price. You laugh, my star, well, give me your lips for the last time. If I could, I would give you an emerald, but I don’t have an emerald - take this simple white stone as a souvenir! He pulled on his torn robe, burnt in many places by sparks from road fires, and walked away slowly. Outside the door, a lazy, stupid eunuch in a turban and soft shoes with turned up toes snored loudly - a careless guardian of the main palace of the treasure entrusted to him. Further on, the guards were snoring, stretched out on carpets and felts, with their heads resting on their naked scimitars. Khoja Nasreddin tiptoed past, and always safely, as if he had become invisible for the time being. And again the white rocky road rang and smoked under the tamped hooves of his donkey. Above the world, the sun was shining in the blue sky; Khoja Nasreddin could look at him without squinting. Dewy fields and barren deserts, where camel bones half-covered with sand, green gardens and foamy rivers, gloomy mountains and green pastures, heard the song of Khoja Nasreddin. He rode further and further, without looking back, without regretting what he had left behind and without fear of what lay ahead. In the abandoned city, Yu A's memory remained forever alive. The nobles and mullahs turned pale with rage when they heard his name; water carriers, drivers, weavers, coppersmiths and saddlers, gathering in the evening in teahouses, told each other funny stories of his adventures, from which he always emerged victorious; the languid beauty in the harem often looked at the white pebble and hid it in a mother-of-pearl casket, hearing the steps of her master. - Ugh! - said the fat nobleman and, puffing and puffing, began to take off his brocade robe. - We are all completely exhausted with this damned tramp Khoja Nasreddin: he has outraged and stirred up the whole state! Today I received a letter from my old friend, the respected ruler of the Khorasan region. Just think - as soon as this tramp Khoja Nasreddin appeared in his city, the blacksmiths immediately stopped paying taxes, and the tavern owners refused to feed the guards for free. Moreover, this thief, a desecrator of Islam and the son of sin, dared to climb into the harem of the Khorasan ruler and dishonor his beloved wife! Truly, the world has never seen such a criminal! I regret that this despicable ragamuffin did not try to penetrate my harem, otherwise his head would have been stuck on a pole in the middle of the main square a long time ago! The beauty was silent, smiling secretly - she was both funny and sad. And the road kept ringing and smoking under the donkey’s hooves. The song of Khoja Nasreddin sounded. For ten years he visited everywhere: in Baghdad, Istanbul and Tehran, in Bakhchisaray, Etchmiadzin and Tbilisi, in Damascus and Trebizond, he knew all these cities and a great many others, and everywhere he left his memory. Now he was returning to his hometown, to Bukhara-i-Sherif, to Noble Bukhara, where he hoped, hiding under an assumed name, to take a little rest from his endless wanderings.