Soup of The Soup - A Sufi Tale

One evening Nasrudin Hodja and his wife were just sitting down to dinner when there came a knock on the door. The Hodja opened the door to find his good friend Hassan from the next village standing on the doorstep. In Hassan’s hands was a fine rabbit.

“Hodja,” said Hassan, “I have brought you a gift.” And he handed the rabbit to the Hodja.

This was indeed a fine gift. “Come in, come in!” said the Hodja. “We will cook the rabbit. We will make a pilaf. We will have a feast.”

And they did. The Hodja’s wife was a very fine cook. The rabbit and all that went with it was delicious. The Hodja told stories. Hassan laughed. And when Hassan had gone home, the Hodja was pleased to be able to say to his wife, “There is plenty of rabbit and plenty of rice left. We will have rabbit pilaf tomorrow.”

But the next evening, just as they were about to sit down to this fine meal, there was a knock at the door. When the Hodja opened the door, there stood a man he recognized as a neighbor of Hassan’s. The Hodja observed that he carried nothing in his hands.

“Greetings, Hodja,” he said. “I am a friend of Hassan from the village.”

Now, the Hodja knew the custom of hospitality. “Come in,” he said. “We were just about to eat our evening meal.”

The meal was very good, for the Hodja’s wife was indeed a good cook, but the Hodja did not tell quite so many stories. There was not as much laughter and the guest left soon after dinner.

The Hodja looked at the platters. “There are still the bones of the rabbit,” he said, “and plenty of rice and vegetables to make a fine soup.”

All the next day the Hodja’s house smelled of the wonderful soup that was cooking, and in the evening the Hodja and his wife sat down to eat it with good appetites. But just as they picked up their spoons, there was a knock at the door.

The Hodja opened the door, and found on the doorstep a man who looked faintly familiar. “I am a friend of the friend of Hassan from the village,” he said in a friendly voice.

The Hodja thought of how he had hoped to eat two bowls of that good soup which the man on the doorstep appeared to be smelling with pleasure. However, hospitality is a duty: so he said, “Come in. We were just about to eat our soup.”

The guest appeared to enjoy the soup very much, but the Hodja was unusually quiet and he did not object when the man left as soon as he had eaten. He looked into the soup pot and found one large spoonful of soup. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I will prepare the evening meal. I will take care of everything.”

The next day there were no good smells of cooking in the Hodja’s house and the Hodja and his wife did not sit down to eat at their accustomed time. But there came a knock on the door.

The Hodja flung open the door. Standing on the doorstep he saw a stranger, someone he had never seen before. But the man was smiling. “I am a friend of the friend of the friend of your friend Hassan,” he said.

“Indeed,” said the Hodja. “Well, you must come in and share my meal.”

“I would like that very much,” said the stranger. So the Hodja led him to the table. The man sniffed the air.

“Don’t worry,” said the Hodja. “I was just going to fetch the food.” He went into the kitchen and scooped the spoonful of soup from the bottom of the pot. He carefully divided it between two bowls, filled each bowl up with hot water from the kettle, and carried the bowls to the table. He set one in front of the stranger and one in front of himself. Then he sat down and smiled happily at the man.

The man gazed into his bowl. It contained a clear liquid with two grains of rice and a shred of carrot floating in it.

The Hodja spoke: “O friend of the friend of the friend of my friend Hassan, here is the soup of the soup of the bones of the rabbit.” The next night the Hodja and his wife sat down to eat alone, in peace.

A Calabash of Poi - A Tale from Hawaii

One of the disguises which Pele, the goddess of fire, was fond of assuming was that of an aged hag. In fact, it was hardly a disguise at all, for Pele was as old as the hills themselves; besides her quick tem-per and natural jealousy had furrowed her face with deep, hard lines, which a bitter disposition imprints upon a face, quite irrespective of its age. On this day Pele was intent upon a secret mission, and, taking a gnarled branch of the koa-tree for a cane, she trudged at a rather brisk pace down the mountain-side. Only on approaching two Hawaiian houses of varying pretensions did she slacken her speed and finally pause at the outer palisade of the first.

It was a sizable house, or hale, as Hawaiian houses go, perhaps fifty feet long with its side thatched with ti-leaves—a sign of rank. Its only window, a small aperture about a foot square, looked out on a carefully planted taro patch, while rows of tasseled cocoanut palms and fruit-laden banana plants made a pretty background to the setting.

Pele paused for a moment to make a mental summary of the growing crop, and then grasping her cane, hobbled to the threshold.

"Aloha," she said to the small group of people sitting within the door-way.

"Aloha," was the reply in a not over-cordial tone of voice.

Pele waited—apparently there was to be no invitation to enter or to refresh herself.

"I have walked many miles," she said finally, assuming a small and feeble voice. "I am very hungry. Perhaps you have as much as a calabash of pots for me."

"We are very sorry, but we have no poi," said the Hawaiian chief, for such was the master of the house. "Besides our evening meal is pau."

"Then, perhaps, a small piece of salted fish?"

"No, nor fish," was the short rejoinder.

"Then, at least, some ripe ohelo berries for I am parched with thirst?'

"Our berries are all green, as you can see for yourself, providing your eyes are not too dimmed by age."

Pele's eyes were far from dim! She suppressed with an effort the flashes of fire that ordinarily blazed in their black depths at a moment's provo-cation and, bowing low, made her way in silence to the gate. Passing a few steps further down the hard road, she entered a smaller and less thrifty garden and paused on the threshold of a small hut. The work of the day as well as the evening meal was over, and the family of bronzed-skinned boys and girls played about the man and woman who sat watching in rapt attention the last golden rays of the sun sinking in a riot of color behind the gentle slopes of Mauna Loa.

"Ah, I see your evening meal is past;" sighed Pele. "I am sorry for I am both tired and hungry, and had hoped for a little refreshment after a day's walk down the steep mountain."

"Neither fish nor awa have we," promptly said the poor fisherman, "but to such as we have you are most welcome."

Almost before he had concluded these few words, his wife had risen, motioned Pele to a place on the mat and set before her a large calabash of poi.

Pele did not wait for a further invitation but fell to eating with much relish. Dipping her fore-finger in the calabash, she raised it dripping with poi, waved her finger dexterously in the air wrapping the mucilaginous poi about it, and placed it in her mouth. She seemed to finish the entire contents in no time and, looking up, remarked:

"I am still hungry. Would it be too much to ask for another cal-abash?"

Again the woman arose and placed before her a second calabash of poi, not perhaps as large as the first but filled to the brim.

Again Pele emptied the calabash with great relish. Wishing to test the extent of their patience and generosity, she sighed as she finished the last mouthful, calling attention to the empty calabash in her lap.

This time a third calabash smaller than the second—but quite full, was placed before her.

Pele finished half of the third calabash, arose heavily to her feet, and, pausing before the chief, she uttered these words:

"When your neighbor plants taro, it shall wither upon its stem. His bananas shall hang as green fingers upon the stalk, and the cocoanuts shall fall upon his favorite pig. When you plant taro at night, you may pull it in the morning. Your cane shall mature over night and your bananas ripen in one day's sunshine. You may have as many crops as there are days in the year!"

Saying these words, Pele trudged out of the gate and was seen to disappear toward Ha-le-mau-mau in a cloud of flame.

When the astonished fisherman passed beyond the threshold of his hut on the following morning, yellow bananas hung on the new plants, the full grown taro stood ready to be pulled, and the cane-cuttings reached to the eaves of his house. Looking across at his rich and powerful neigh-bor, he saw that, indeed, the curse of Pele had already descended upon him. In place of the rich man's prosperous acres stood the sun-parched remnants of but yesterday's proud crop. "There," said Alec, the old half-breed guide, "Whether you believe in the ole lady Pele or not, don't you ever forget to be nice to the ole folks. It just might be Pele. You can't always tell."

Loosening The Stopper - A Jewish Tale

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev's grandchild married the grandchild of the famous rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi. “Now that we are related by this marriage,” said Rabbi Schneur Zalman, “let us join in performing a good deed. An innocent Jew is being held by the local authorities. Let us take up a collection, to give the officials the sum they demand for his release.”

“Excellent idea,” said Rabbi Levi Yitzhak. “But I ask one condition. Let us accept whatever donation is offered to us, no matter how small.”

The two men went door to door. Two such distinguished rabbis seldom visited these townspeople together, so most gave generously. At last, the two rabbis came to the home of a wealthy man. He greeted them politely, then reached in his pocket, drawing out a mere half-penny. To Rabbi Schneur Zalman's horror, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak thanked the man warmly, blessed him, and turned to leave.

When Rabbi Schneur Zalman had followed his companion outside, he could contain himself no longer. “Why should we accept that insultingly small amount from one who has so much!”

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak said, as they walked on, “I asked you to accept whatever we were given. Please be patient.”

Some time later, the rich man strode up behind them. “I am sorry,” he said. “Please accept more from me.” He gave them a silver coin, then turned and left. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak called after him, “You are a good and generous man!”

Rabbi Schneur Zalman fumed at Rabbi Levi Yitzhak. “He could afford a hundred times as much! Why must we bless this stinginess?”

“Please bear with me, honored relative.” They continued walking.

A short while later, the rich man caught up to them again. Out of breath, he said, “Will you forgive me for how little I gave you?” He held out a sack bulging with a hundred silver coins.

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak took the rich man's hand. “Yes, with all my heart,” he said. The rich man gave the coins and left, obviously relieved.

Now Levi Yitzhak turned to Rabbi Schneur Zalman. “May I tell you the story of that wealthy man?

“He has always given generously to those in need. But a week ago, a beggar approached him while he was meeting with a group of businessmen. Reluctant to interrupt the others to get his purse, the wealthy man reached into his pocket and gave the beggar the only coin he found there, a half-penny.

“The beggar was furious. This rich man was famous for giving silver coins. Why had he slighted him? The beggar threw the coin at the rich man, striking him in the face. In his pain, the wealthy man vowed to stop being so generous. From now on, he would give everyone a half-penny—no more!

“It is said that each step downward leads to another, honored relative. He was within his rights to offer the beggar only what he had. But he erred when he treated others the same way. Since that day, every one who approached him has angrily refused his paltry half-penny gifts. He found himself unable to offer more. “It is also said that each step upward leads to another. Once we accepted his half-penny, we loosened the stopper on his generosity. Each gift he gave made the next one possible. Now, our willingness to receive has restored him to his goodness.”

Deck of Cards

It was quiet that day, the guns, the mortars and the land mines for some reason hadn’t been heard. The young soldier knew it was Sunday, the holiest day of the week.

As he was sitting there, he got out an old deck of cards and laid them out across his bunk.

Just then an army sergeant came in and said, “Why aren’t you with the rest of the platoon?

The soldier replied, “I thought I would stay behind and spend some time with the Lord.”

The sergeant said, “Looks to me like you’re going to play cards.”

The soldier said, “No, sir. You see, since we are not allowed to have Bibles or other spiritual books in this country, I’ve decided to talk to the Lord by studying this deck of cards.”

The sergeant asked in disbelief, “How will you do that?”

“You see the Ace, Sergeant? It reminds me that there is only one God.
“The Two represents the two parts of the Bible, the Old and New Testaments.
“The Three represents the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.
“The Four stands for the four Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
“The Five is for the five virgins that were ten but only five of them were glorified.
“The Six is for the six days it took God to create the Heavens and Earth.
“The Seven is for the day God rested after making His Creation.
“The Eight is for the family of Noah and his wife, their three sons and their wives–the eight people God spared from the flood that destroyed the earth.
“The Nine is for the lepers that Jesus cleansed of leprosy. He cleansed ten, but nine never thanked Him.
“The Ten represents the Ten Commandments that God handed down to Moses on tablets made of stone.
“The Jack is a reminder of Satan, one of God’s first angels, who got kicked out of heaven for his sly and wicked ways and is now the joker of eternal hell.
“The Queen stands for the Virgin Mary.
“The King stands for Jesus, for He is the King of all kings.
“When I count the dots on all the cards, I come up with 365, one for every day of the year.
“There are a total of 52 cards in a deck; each is a week, 52 weeks in a year.
“The four suits represent the four seasons: Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter.
“Each suit has thirteen cards; there are exactly thirteen weeks in a quarter.
“So when I want to talk to God and thank Him, I just pull out this old deck of cards and they remind me of all that I have to be thankful for.”

The sergeant just stood there. After a minute, with tears in his eyes and pain in his heart, he said, “Soldier, may I borrow that deck of cards?”

Tetan Buri and Boka Buri - A Tale from Bangladesh

In Bangladesh almost every villager knows the folktale of the Tetan Buri (clever old woman) and the Boka Buri (the foolish old woman). Two old women chummed up together. One of them was very cunning and sharp while the other one was very foolish and credulous. They shared one common wrap (Kantha), one cow and a small piece of land.

The Tetan old woman suggested that the wrap will be used by her in the night and the Boka old woman would have it in the day. The other woman agreed. The result was that in the cold night the foolish old woman shivered while the clever one slept soundly with the wrap. Regarding the cow the clever one suggested that the front portion belonged to the foolish old woman and the hind part was hers. This was agreed to. The result was the foolish old woman had to feed the cow and give her water but the other one took all the milk. When there was paddy or sugarcane grown on the small piece of the land the arrangement was that the clever one would get the portion above the ground while the part below the soil would go to the goody goody old woman. This was also agreed to. The paddy or the maize went to the clever one while the goody one had the useless roots which she had to pull out and burn to make the land ready again.

The foolish old woman was practically starving and used to beg for a little food. One day she approached the barber of another village for some food. The barber (all barbers are very clever) asked why she was begging when she had a piece of land and a cow along with another old woman. Our goody goody old woman narrated the story. The barber smiled and told her to soak the wrap in water when handing it over to the other one in the night and not to give any fodder to the cow and rather [yell at] her in the front part. He further advised her to take out the roots when the paddy was young or the maize was not ready.

The advice had the result. The old woman shivered and shivered in the night. The cow used to kick her when she would try to milk her. The crops failed and she starved too. She saw that there are people who were more cunning. The villagers decided that there should be the arrangement which was more just to the two women.

Defending His Property - A Jeweish Tale

One day, an innkeeper came to Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev. "Rabbi," he said. "Is a man permitted to defend his property?"

The rabbi said, "Of course. What needs defending?"

"My inn," said the man. "So you'll give me your blessing?"

"That depends. Who are you defending it against?"

"Rabbi, the local peasant boys break into my kitchen at night, to steal the food that I keep for my customers."

"I see," said Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. "And how do you plan to defend yourself from them?"

"Rabbi, I've been at my wit's end. I've yelled at them when I saw them running off with my food. I even bought a guard dog. But they fed it! When I got up in the morning, the dog was eating the stolen meat they gave it. So I got rid of the useless dog. But now, I have no choice. I'm off to the city to buy a rifle. Please give me your blessing on my journey!"

The rabbi stroked his beard, thoughtfully. "The loss to you is serious. These boys seem determined to steal. But how will the rifle protect your property?"

"I'll fire it into the air; they'll hear it. And if I see one of them on my property, I'll point it at him. Nothing else will work with these ruffians, Rabbi. They only understand force!"

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak looked down for a moment. Then he spoke. "I can't bless this journey. Do you think that peasant boys can't get rifles, too—even more easily than Jews can? I'm afraid you're only encouraging them to become even more clever and violent."

The innkeeper's face grew red. "Then I'll go—without your blessing! A man has to defend his property!" He slammed the door behind him as he left.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak watched the man climb onto his wagon, pick up the reins, and begin to drive off. Suddenly, the rabbi ran out into the street and yelled, "Wait! I've changed my mind!"

The man stopped his horse, dismounted from the wagon, tied his horse to a tree, and returned to the rabbi.

The rabbi said, "I MAY give you my blessing—will you submit to a brief test?"

"What kind of a test?"

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak raised his arm and slapped the man on the face.

The man was incensed. "Why did you do that, Rabbi? You don't have to hit me!"

The rabbi beamed. "Ah! In that case, I owe you an apology."

The innkeeper rubbed his cheek.

Gently, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak put his hand on the man's chest. "You see, for a moment, I thought that YOU only understand force. But I was mistaken. You—the one who understands that violence isn't always necessary when talking is possible, who would never point a gun at a child —you, I give my blessing to."

The man put his hand over Rabbi Levi Yitzchak's hand, which still touched his chest. His face softened. "Thank you, Rabbi. I think I might have been a little mistaken, myself."

The man got on his wagon, and turned it around toward home.

Later that evening, when the moonless night provided a perfect cover for thieves and mischief-makers, the innkeeper heard a noise outside his inn.

Opening the door, he saw someone standing twenty paces from the inn, with a cloth sack at his side. "A thief," he thought. He strode toward the intruder. As he got closer, he saw that the thief was facing away from him. "Who are you," he said. "Get out of here!"

The figure turned to face him. The man gasped. "Rabbi! What are you doing here?"

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak said, "A man has to defend his property! So I came to help you, by standing guard." He lifted the sack, and showed the innkeeper the bread and cheese inside. "When the boys come, perhaps I can feed them and talk to them, the way they tamed your dog."

Speechless, the innkeeper just looked at the rabbi.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak put his arm on the man's shoulder. "But while I was standing here, I noticed what a beautiful night it is. Don't you think?" For a long time, the two stood there, looking at the vast night sky.

A Wise Head Is Better Than A Full Purse

There was once a young girl who lived with her father, a woodcutter. Their home was a tumbledown shack and a gap-toothed axe was the only tool they owned. A lame old horse and mule were their transport.

But, as wise folk say, a rich family's fortune is in its herds, a poor family's in its children.

And true enough, whenever the old woodcutter gazed upon his daughter, who was only nine, he forgot all his cares and woes. The girl's name was Aina-kizz and she was so clever that people came from miles around to ask her advice.

One day the woodcutter loaded his horse with a pile of logs and told the girl, "I am going to market and will be home by dusk. If I sell my logs I'll bring you a little present."

"May good luck be with you, Father," she replied. "But do be careful, for one man's gain at market is another's loss."

The woodcutter went on his way, arriving in time at the bazaar. He stood to one side beside his horse and awaited buyers for his wood. But no one came. As it was getting late, a rich bai came strutting through the market, showing off his silk robe and stroking his black beard. Catching sight of the poor man and his wood-laden horse, he called, "Hey, old fellow, what will you take for your logs?"

"A single tanga, sir."

"Will you sell your wood exactly as it is?" the bai asked with a sly grin.

The woodman nodded slowly, unsure of what he meant.

"Here's your coin," said the bai. "Bring your horse and follow me."

When they came to the bai's big house, the poor man went to unpack the logs from the horse's back. But the bai shouted in his ear, "Stop! I bought the wood ‘exactly as it is’—which means the horse belongs to me since it's carrying the wood. If you're not content, we'll go before the judge."

As wise folk say: just as a bad master can turn a steed into a useless nag, so a bad judge can turn right to wrong. And so it was.

Having heard the two complaints, the judge stroked his beard, glanced at the bai's silk robe and gave his verdict: the woodman had got his just desserts. It served him right for agreeing to the terms!

The rich man laughed in the woodman's face, and he, poor man, trudged wearily home to tell his tale to Aina-kizz.

"Never mind, Father, tomorrow I'll go to market," she said. "Who knows, I may be luckier than you."

Next day at dawn, she loaded up the mule with logs and, driving it along with her switch, made her way to the bazaar. There she stood beside the mule until the selfsame bai approached her.

"Hey, girl, what will you take for your wood?" he called. "Two tangas."

"And will you trade it exactly as it is?" he said.

"Certainly," she replied, "if you pay the money exactly as it is."

"Surely, surely," said the bai, holding out his hand to show her two gold coins. "Follow me."

The same thing happened to her as to her father. But she did not mind. As the bai smilingly paid her two coins, she stood her ground.

"Sir," she said, "you bought my wood just as it is and you have my mule together with the wood. But you gave your word to pay the price exactly as it is. So now I want your arm as well."

The bai was taken aback. His beard shook with rage as he cursed her soundly. But she did not yield at all. At last, they set off together to the judge. That worthy man heard the complaint, yet this time he could not help the bai—he had to pay two tangas for the wood and another fifty for his arm.

How the rich man regretted that he had bought the wood, the horse and the mule. Handing over the money before the judge, he told the girl, "You outwitted me this time, but a sparrow cannot match a hawk. I bet you cannot tell a bigger lie than I can; I'll put five hundred on it. You put the fifty I paid you and whichever lie the judge says is the bigger wins the bet. What do you say?"

"Done," said Aina-kizz.

Winking to the judge, the rich bai began his tale.

"One day, before I was born, I found three ears of corn in my pocket and tossed them through the window. Next morning my yard had become a field of corn so thick and tall it took riders ten days to find a way through. And then, by the by, forty of my best goats were lost in the corn. No matter how hard I searched, I could not find them. They had vanished without a trace.

"In late summer, when the corn was ripe, my laborers gathered the harvest in and the flour was ground. Rolls were baked and I ate one, all fresh and hot. And what do you think? Out of my mouth leaped one goat, followed by a second and a third.... Then, one by one, out came all forty beasts, bleating hard. How fat they had become—each one bigger than a four-year bull!"

When the bai fell silent, even the judge sat open-mouthed. But Aina-kizz did not turn a hair.

"Sir," she said, "with such wise men as you, lies can be truly grand. Pray, listen now to my humble tale." And she told her story.

"Once I planted a cotton seed in my garden. And, do you know, next day a cotton bush had grown right up to the clouds; it cast a shadow as far as three days' journey across the sands. When the cotton was ripe, I picked and cleaned it, and sold it at market. With the money I received I bought forty fine camels, loaded them with silks and bade my brother take the caravan to Samarkand.

"Off he went dressed in his best silk robe; but I had no news from him for three whole years. Only the other day did I hear he had been robbed and slain by a black-bearded bai. I gave up all hope of finding the villain, yet now, by chance, I have discovered him.

"It is you, bai, for you are wearing my brother's best silk robe!"

At these words, the smiles upon the two men's faces quickly dimmed. What was the judge to do? If he said the story was a whopping lie, the bai would lose five hundred gold coins; that was the bet. Yet if he said she spoke the truth ... that was even worse. She would claim compensation for her brother and, besides, for forty fine camels loaded with rich silks.

The bai roared like a wounded bull, "You lie, you lie! That's the biggest lie I've ever heard! Take your five hundred tangas, take my silk robe, only go and leave me in peace."

With a smile, Aina-kizz counted out the coins, wrapped them in the robe and walked back home.

Fearing for his daughter, the woodcutter was waiting anxiously at the door to greet her. How he hugged her to him, not even remarking on the missing mule.

"Father, I sold our mule with all the logs, exactly as it was."

"Oh, my poor child," he muttered, "so that hard-hearted bai has swindled you as well."

"But I received a fair price for the wood," she said quietly. And she handed him the silken robe.

"This is a handsome robe," he said sadly. "But what good is it to me? Without our horse and mule, we shall likely starve to death."

Thereupon, Aina-kizz unrolled the robe before her father's astonished gaze and the golden coins showered upon the floor. Then she told him the tale of her adventures in the town. How he laughed and cried in turn, listening to her tale. She ended the story thus: "Father, where the rich keep their fortune, so the poor keep their cunning. A wise head is better than a full purse."

The Secret of Growing Good Corn

There once was a farmer who grew award-winning corn. Each year he entered his corn in the state fair where it won a blue ribbon.

One year a newspaper reporter interviewed him and learned something interesting about how he grew it. The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbors.

"How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbors when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?" the reporter asked.

"Why sir," said the farmer, "didn't you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbors grow inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn."

So it is with our lives. If we are to grow good corn, we must help our neighbors grow good corn.

Wisdom

A great Japanese master received a university professor who came to enquire about wisdom. The master served tea.

He poured his visitor's cup full, and then kept on pouring. The professor watched the overflow until he could no longer restrain himself. 'It is overfull. No more will go in!'

'Like this cup,' the master said, 'you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you wisdom unless you first empty your cup?'