No Oblivion｜The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin: Disturber of the Peace

crafty joker with a black beard

Hello,

I’m starting a series of letters dedicated to the books that I love. In addition, these books are hanging somewhere on the scale of “fairly unpopular” to “completely unknown”. Some of them are written in a different language, and the translation is lost in the depths of the Babylon Library, that is Amazon. Some of them have never been translated at all. In the case of the latter, I will try to do them justice by translating the bits that affirm my standing: these books should be read, remembered, and loved. I am calling this series “No Oblivion”.

Sidenote: You might think that it’s too similar to

M. E. Rothwell

‘s brilliant The Books That Made Us, but it’s not, or maybe it is, but it’s still worth doing.

M. E. Rothwell

, how about a collab?

And I cannot think of a better representative, better first entry in this series than "The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin” by Leonid Solovyov.

In our times, it would probably be classified as a young adult novel - the main hero is a brave Robin Hood-type character who fights for justice and love. But its style and contents are closer to swashbuckling adventures like “The Three Musketeres” or “Treasure Island” than to “Harry Potter” or “Hunger Games”, albeit with an Eastern twist. It is an “old school young adult”, a book that originally was written for adults, and since then, humanity grew up a little. So it’s themes are in their core adult themes, and in addition to fighting for justice and love, we will immediately see another feeling: a longing for a home once lost. Upon re-reading the book recently, this one struck deep. In fact, one of the first paragraphs of the book is this:

He loved his homeland, and there was no greater love in the world for this crafty joker with a black beard on his copper-tanned face and sly sparks in his clear eyes. The further he wandered from Bukhara in his patched robe, dirty skullcap, and torn boots, the more he loved Bukhara and pined for it. Throughout his exile he always remembered the narrow streets where the carts scrape the clay fences on either side as they pass; he remembered the tall minarets with ornate tiled caps, burning with fiery brightness of the sun every morning and evening, and ancient, sacred elms with giant nests of storks hanging on the branches; he remembered the smoky chaikhanas¹ build over the aryks² in the shade of rustling poplars, the smoke and soot of the cookhouses, the speckled commotion of the bazaars; he remembered the mountains and rivers of his homeland, its settlements, fields, pastures, and deserts; and when, in Baghdad or in Damascus, he met a fellow countryman, recognizing him by the pattern on his skullcap or the particular cut of his robe, Hodja Nasreddin's heart skipped a beat and he felt short of breath.

And so, the book starts with Hodja Nasreddin walking into his hometown of Bukhara for the first time in many years.

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***This is a long post that might be truncated in emails. I highly recommend opening this in your browser (by clicking on the title) to read the whole 4,000-word post without interruption.***

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But wait. Who is Hodja Nasreddin? The book treats him as a well-known hero. The book assumes that we heard about him. And in fact, many people did.

First of all, “hodja” is not a name at all. It is a title recognized in many countries of the Middle East, Central and Southern Asia, meaning “sir", “master", “learned man”, or, generally, “respected gentleman”. It also might have something to do with “hajji”, an honorific title given to a Muslim person who has successfully completed the pilgrimage to Mecca. So, the name is Nasreddin. Although it is not just Nasreddin. I will quote from Wikipedia because it is exhaustive, and I don’t want to make a mistake:

Many peoples of the Near, Middle East, South Asia and Central Asia claim Nasreddin as their own (e.g., Turks, Afghans, Iranians, and Uzbeks). His name is spelt in a wide variety of ways: Nastradin, Nasrudeen, Nasrudin, Nasruddin, Nasriddin, Nasr ud-Din, Nasredin, Nasiruddin, Naseeruddin, Nasr Eddin, Nastradhin, Nasreddine, Nastratin, Nusrettin, Nasrettin, Nostradin, Nastradin (lit.: Victory of the Deen) and Nazaruddin. It is sometimes preceded or followed by a title or honorific used in the corresponding cultures: "Hoxha", "Khwaje", "Koja", "Hodja", "Hoja", "Hojja", "Hodscha", "Hodža", "Hoca", "Hocca","Hooka", "Hogea", "Mullah", "Mulla", "Mula", "Molla", "Efendi", "Afandi", "Ependi" (أفندي 'afandī), "Hajji". In several cultures he is named by the title alone.

In short, Hodja Nasreddin is a true folk hero, and not only for one nation but for many different nations. He is often depicted as a white-bearded man riding a donkey, often in reverse. Hodja Nasreddin stories are typically small, humorous anecdotes, initially told to each other in teahouses or caravanserais, and more recently on the radio or TV. The style of these stories can best be described as “you know it when you read it”. There is a unique combination of humor, wisdom, simplicity, and absurdity in these tales that puts them somewhere between a knock-knock joke, a fable, and a Buddist koan.

(One of many statues of Nasreddin, source)

Nasreddin himself, in these stories, is a classical trickster. Think Anansi, or Bre’r Rabbit, or even a bit of Loki (but not the Marvel kind). In some cases, even think Bugs Bunny, the greatest trickster on TV. He is sometimes wise and sometimes goofy and even a little silly, and although he doesn’t always win in these tales, he always accepts his own defeat with humor, and that’s what makes him great. I will quote a few of these classical Hodja Nasreddin tales for comparison purposes and also because they are fun.

Nasreddin Hodja was standing in the marketplace when a stranger stepped up to him and slapped him in the face, but then said, "I beg your pardon. I thought that you were someone else." This explanation did not satisfy the Hodja, so he brought the stranger before the qadi³ and demanded compensation. The Hodja soon perceived that the qadi and the defendant were friends. The latter admitted his guilt, and the judge pronounced the sentence: "The settlement for this offense is one piaster, to be paid to the plaintiff. If you do not have a piaster with you, then you may bring it here to the plaintiff at your convenience." Hearing this sentence, the defendant went on his way. The Hodja waited for him to return with the piaster. And he waited. And he waited. Some time later the Hodja said to the qadi, "Do I understand correctly that one piaster is sufficient payment for a slap?" "Yes," answered the qadi. Hearing this answer, the Hodja slapped the judge in the face and said, "You may keep my piaster when the defendant returns with it," then walked away.

Once when Nasreddin Hodja was serving as qadi, one of his neighbors came to him with a complaint against a fellow neighbor. The Hodja listened to the charges carefully, then concluded, "Yes, dear neighbor, you are quite right."  Then the other neighbor came to him. The Hodja listened to his defense carefully, then concluded, "Yes, dear neighbor, you are quite right." The Hodja's wife, having listened in on the entire proceeding, said to him, "Husband, both men cannot be right." The Hodja answered, "Yes, dear wife, you are also quite right."

Once, two men carrying two jars came to the Hodja. One jar had hemp oil in it, and the other one - piss. Each man claimed that the oil jar belonged to him, and asked the Hodja to judge who was telling the truth. “Let’s check,” said Nasreddin. “Both of you, take a piss. Whoever pisses oil, gets the oil jar.”

The Hodja, bruised and limping, came upon a neighbor at the marketplace. "My dear friend, what happened to you?" asked the neighbor. The Hodja answered, "Last night my wife grew angry and kicked my robe down the stairs." "But how could that have caused your injuries?" continued the neighbor. "I was wearing the robe at the time," explained the Hodja.

And, maybe, my favorite one, simply by virtue of pure absurdity:

Someone asked Hodja’s son: “What is an aubergine?” “It is a tiny little starling, whose eyes haven’t opened yet.” Hearing that, Hodja exclaimed, beaming with pride: “I didn’t teach him that! He got that completely by himself!’

However, Hodja Nasreddin in Solovyov’s “Disturber of the Peace” is somewhat different from the one in the folk tales. He is more of a Robin Hood here—younger, leaner, hungrier, and less respectable than what we just read. The book is basically “Nasreddin: The Wild Years”; the time when he was a wanted man in many places due to his irreverence to corrupt officials, protection of the poor, and harem-raiding. He is probably someone that Disney’s Aladdin could have grown up into if he hadn’t met the Djinni. The book, in fact, starts with him being at this point and slowly shows the beginning of his transition to a more familiar Nasreddin, to a wise, respected, but still sharp-tongued family man. The book does contain several of the well-known Nasreddin tales interwoven into the narrative, but mainly it is its own thing and its own plot.

And a few boisterous songs as well:

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I, Hodja Nasreddin,
Always free have I been,

And I say - 'tis no lie - 
that I never shall die!

Let the Emir decree
a sharp axe just for me

And announce with spite
that I steal and incite.

I, Hodja Nasreddin,
Always free have I been,

And I say - 'tis no lie - 
that I never shall die!

I will live, sing, and praise,
at the sun I will gaze,

And declare instead:
let the Emir drop dead!

Yes, the sultan already
has an axe at the ready,

There's a noose in Tehran,
and a stake with the Khan.

But I, Hodja Nasreddin,
Always free have I been,

And I say - 'tis no lie - 
that I never shall die!

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(Hodja Nasreddin, an illustration from the “Disturber of the Peace” book)

And the book starts with Nasreddin walking into the gates of Bukhara, his hometown that he hasn’t seen for decades. And immediately being stopped by the guards and the toll collectors.

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   “Where have you come from, and why?” the collector asked. 

   The scribe dipped a goose quill into his inkwell and prepared to write down Hodja Nasreddin’s answer. 

   “I came from Isfahan, o illustrious chief. My relatives live here, in Bukhara.”

    “Right,” the collector said. “You are here as a guest of your relatives. Therefore, you must pay the visiting tax.” 

   “But I am not here as a guest,” Hodja Nasreddin objected. “I am here on important business.” 

   “On business!” cried the collector, and his eyes sparkled. "Therefore, you are here both as a guest and on business! You must pay the visiting tax, the business tax, and donate money towards the embellishment of mosques for the glory of Allah, who has protected you from bandits on your journey.” 

   “I’d rather he protect me now. I could deal with the bandits myself,” Hodja Nasreddin thought, but remained silent: he had already determined that every new word in this conversation was costing him more than ten tanga. He untied his belt and began to count off the entry tax, the visiting tax, the business tax, and the donation for the embellishment of mosques beneath the predatory, intent stares of the guards. The collector glanced at the guards menacingly, and they turned away. Tucking his face into his book, the scribe began to scribble rapidly. Hodja Nasreddin paid up and was about to leave, but then the collector noticed that there were still a few coins left in the belt. 

   “Wait,” he stopped Hodja Nasreddin. “And who is going to pay the tax for your donkey? Since you are a guest of your relatives, your donkey is a guest of your relatives as well.” 

   “You are correct, o wise chief,” Hodja Nasreddin replied humbly, untying his belt once again. “Indeed, my ass has a great many relatives in Bukhara. If he did not, our emir would long have been booted from the throne with practices like these, while you, o honorable one, would have been impaled for your greed!”

   Before the collector could come to his wits, Hodja Nasreddin jumped on his donkey and set off at top speed, disappearing in the nearest alleyway. 

   “Faster, faster!” he spoke. “Pick up the pace, my faithful donkey, pick up the pace, or else your master will have to pay one more tax—with his head!”

   Hodja Nasreddin’s donkey was very smart and understood everything: his long ears had picked up the din and confusion by the city gates, as well as the shouting of the guards, and he rushed along so rapidly, not heeding the road, that Hodja Nasreddin could barely manage to stay in the saddle as he grasped the donkey’s neck with both hands and raised his legs high in the air. An entire pack of dogs flew in his wake with hoarse barking; passers-by shrank against the fences and looked on, shaking their heads.

   Meanwhile, the guards at the city gates rummaged through the entire crowd, trying to find the insolent freethinker. Smirking, the merchants whispered to each other:

   “Now that was a reply worthy of Hodja Nasreddin himself!”

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What Nasreddin sees in his hometown quickly makes him sad. The town is struggling. The Emir, the ruler of this land, keeps raising and raising taxes and draining the city dry. All of his noblemen are corrupt, and they take even more. He would do something about it, but the truth is, Hodja Nasreddin would like nothing more, but to retire in his favorite town. Become a potter; maybe open a shop. Maybe settle down… Through trickery, guile, and the help from his donkey’s tail, he gets a large sum of easy money. That would surely be enough for the pottery shop… and maybe even a saddlemaker’s shop…

This is the point of the story when “Disturber of the Peace” tricks us for the first time. Until now, we saw Nasreddin, basically, as a con man. We saw a few successful plays taking place, and we’re fairly sure what book we are reading. Now he’s going to lose his money in a humiliating way, promise revenge, and plot the Big Con. Surely, it will have to do with the Emir. Surely, he’ll rob him in some clever twist, make fools of all his guards and all his minions, maybe also visit his harem if it’s on the way… We know this is going to happen because that’s what tricksters do, and that’s how their drama works. The trickster tricks; that is what he does. We are right, but we are also wrong.

Because Hodja Nasreddin’s donkey intervenes again, now tearing up the fabric of the narrative itself, and Nasreddin, flying through the air and seeing stars, tumbles down and lands on his back. He stands up, sees that he’s surrounded by people, and starts laughing, because he is an astute psychologist, and he knows that the best way out of a silly situation is to laugh at yourself. But nobody laughs with him. Nobody even smiles. People’s faces are struck with grief. Nasreddin asks around, and it turns out that every single person in this large crowd owes money to a local moneylender, Jafar (you see, the Aladdin connection strikes again!). Touched by the people’s grief, Nasreddin unties his bags and starts handing out money, covering everyone’s debt. And then a miracle happens.

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   “You know something? That really was some flight you took off your donkey back there,” the enormous bearded mason said suddenly, bursting out in laughter, and everyone began to laugh together—men in rough voices, and women in high-pitched voices—and the children began to smile, stretching their hands out to Hodja Nasreddin, who was laughing the loudest of them all.

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Struck by this occurrence, Nasreddin vows to pay back the moneylender Jafar for the plight of the people. Very soon, he makes a huge blunder, however. Walking around the city, he sees a large croud near a pond of Saint Akhmet. Someone is drowning there, and nobody can help. Some people were trying to, but it was fruitless:

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   They stretched out their arms towards the drowning man, trying to get a hold of his robe, but their grasps fell a mere foot too short. “Give us your hand! Give it! Give it!” they shouted. It was as if the drowning man could not hear them. He would not give them his hand, but instead continued to sink and surface at regular intervals. […]

   At this point, the drowning man sank deep down and did not appear for such a long time that some on the shore began to say funereal prayers. But suddenly, he appeared again. “Give us your hand! Give it! Give it here!” the people shouted, stretching their hands towards him, but he glanced at them with blank eyes and sank silently and smoothly to the bottom without offering his hand. 

   “Oh, you people are a bit slow!” Hodja Nasreddin said. “Can you not tell by the expensive robe and the silk turban that this man is a wealthy official? How is it that you have still not managed to learn the character of these officials, and the means of extracting them from the water?”

   “Get him out quickly, if you know how!” people in the crowd shouted. “Save him, there he is again. Get him out!” 

   “Wait,” Hodja Nasreddin replied. “I have not finished talking. Where, I ask, have you ever seen an official who would give anything to anyone? Remember this, o know-nothings: officials never give anything, they only take. And you must rescue them from drowning according to their character. Here, look!” […]

   “Take my hand!” Hodja Nasreddin shouted, thrusting his hand towards him. “Take it!” The drowning man clutched the extended hand feverishly. 

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But to Nasreddin’s horror, the man he saved from the pond turned out to be the moneylender Jafar himself! At that moment, Hodja amends his vow: he will not just make the moneylender pay; he will drown him in the very same pond! We seem to be back on track, and the Big Con is brewing, and our narrative is whole again. The trickster tricks; that is what he does. Surely, now the moneylender will pay.

At this moment, the book tricks us again. Instead of planning a convoluted con, studying his opponent's weak spots, or even making a ”Sting”-like fakery, Hodja Nasreddin… falls in love. One of the people who owed Jafar money was an old potter, Niyaz. He couldn’t pay, so the evil moneylender wanted to take his beautiful daughter, Guldjan. Hodja helped, of course, but in the course of this action, he saw Guldjan’s face. And completely fell for her. Instead of scheming and plotting against Jafar, he just asked Niyaz to take him as an apprentice and spent his days in honest work and in conversations with the stunning girl. The scene of them sitting together in a garden, while Niyaz is sleeping on a clay roof of the house, is funny and romantic, and, more importantly, honest. Nasreddin is not tricking her, he’s not playing her, he’s not even charming her. He just enjoys her company. But exactly this moment of bliss was observed by our disneyvillainous Jafar. He runs to the palace and tells his friend the Emir about this wonderful girl, who could be a great addition to the Emir’s harem. The girl is seized, the old potter is crying, and Hodja Nasreddin suddenly, and maybe for the first time in his life, doesn’t know what to do.

I think this is a good place to stop in order not to spoil the ending, and maybe more importantly in a trickster story, the way everyone gets to the ending. The good thing is that you can actually read the book itself! “Disturber of the Peace” was translated into English and is sold on Amazon. (This is not an affiliated link, but you absolutely should go and buy this book.)

I would like to say special thanks to the translator, Michael Karpelson. He translated this book, along with two others, Bulgakov’s “Master and Margarita” and “The Fatal Eggs”. And the quality of the translation is wonderful—very close to the original, while making sure to preserve the unique style of an Eastern fairy tale. Unfortunately, I could not find the second Solovyov’s book here, “The Enchanted Prince”, a direct sequel to "Disturber of the Peace”. Since it will definitely be featured in the “No Oblivion” series, I will translate bits of it here, trying to preserve the style.

Why do I like this book so much? First of all, it is a perfect trickster tale. The second half of it is full of action; the character is running against the clock, making things up as he goes, lying, and cheating, and charming his way to the very top, where he is being so hated by Emir’s closest advisers that he’s in constant danger of being discovered, and at the same time, being so loved by the Emir that he’s in constant danger of being turned into the Main Eunuch. The final third of the book is a rollercoaster, full of guile, wit, and heroism.

But it’s not all.

At the same time, it is a book about detricksterization, if you will. About a legend turning human. About a folk hero feeling lonely, and unsure, and vulnerable. About a certain time in a man’s life when adventures, swashbuckling, and harem-raiding are simply not enough anymore. And, most important of all, it is about a trickster feeling deep compassion towards other people, towards all people. This is why Solovyov’s Hodja Nasreddin is special to me, and I hope it will be to you as well.

His best trick and his best song, in fact, come at the time of need of others. And the best part of this trick is that there is no trick at all. Hodja Nasreddin just simply tells—and sings—the truth:

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  He walked up to the very edge of the platform and gave a low bow to the people:

  "Greetings to you, people of Bukhara! For ten years I have been parted with you, and now my heart rejoices at our meeting. You asked me to say something—let me sing instead!

  He grabbed a large clay pot, began to sing loudly:

Ring, pot, sing and shout,
Give praise to one we hold so dear
And tell the world, my pot, about
The favors of our kind Emir!

The earthen pot, it hums and rings
And in an angry voice it sings!
Aned in a hoarse voice it repeats,
It calls to folk on all the streets!
[...]
The pot will sing, the pot will ring,
The pot will say the truthful thing:

"Now the Emir has you in thrall,
But even he one day will fall.
Your days of woe will end and cease.
The years will pass. And fear you not,
In time he'll shatter into pieces,
Just like a brittle earthen pot!"

  Hodja Nasreddin raised the pot high above his head and hurled it to the ground. The pot burst with a ringing noise and shattered into hundreds of tiny fragments. Straining, Hodja Nasreddin shouted over the noise in the crowd: 

  "So let us, together, save Niyaz the potter from the moneylender and from the Emir's favors. You know Hodja Nasreddin, his debts do not go unpaid! Who will lend me four hunderd tanga for a short duration?"

  A barefoot water-bearer stepped forward. 

  "Hodja Nasreddin, where would we get the money? Our taxes are so high. But I have this belt, it's nearly new; perhaps you can sell it."

  He tossed the belt on the platform at Hodja Nasreddin's feet; the din and the movement in the crown increased, and a multitude of skullcaps, slippers, belts, kerchiefs, and even robes began to land near Hodja Nasreddin. Everyone consideted it an honor to help him.

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The book—of course!—has a happy ending. In our times this alone is a treasure (although there are planty of authors who think they are too cool for happy endings). We need more books like this, frankly. But for now, we have the tales of Hodja Nasreddin.

The next letter will feature several more donkeys, a couple of rabbits, a bitten wife, a thief in the night, a sound of money, duck soup, but not the one you thought of, and the best superhero, Liver-Man. Subscribe!

Best,

K.

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Leave a comment, especially if you’re planning to get the book. Let’s make it the bestseller it deserves to be.

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1. chaikhana - a teahouse

2. aryk - a brook or a water canal

3. qadi - a judge