The crowd grew.
A bag of oats appeared out of nowhere before the donkey, as well as a sheaf of clover and a bucket of clean, cold water.
“Greetings to you, Hodja Nasreddin!” people kept shouting. “Where have you traveled? Say something, Hodja Nasreddin!”
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, poured out the water, and, striking it with his fist like a tambourine, 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!
And in a hoarse voice it repeats,
It calls to folk on all the streets!
Come hear a tale that came to pass:
“There lived a potter, old Niyaz,
He worked the clay and pots he made
But very poor was his trade.
With all his savings, he could not
E’en hope to fill a tiny pot.
“Jafar the hunchback never sleeps,
Enormous pots of wealth he keeps,
The palace treasury as well
With gold and plundering does swell.
The palace guardsmen never sleep
Enormous pots of wealth they keep.
“But now to old Niyaz comes grief,
His home invading like a thief.
And he is seized and swiftly brought
To judgment at the emir’s court,
Behind him walks the cruel Jafar
His hump displaying from afar.”
How long shall we injustice bear
Tell me, o pot, so all may hear.
Your tongue of clay will never lie,
Where did the potter go awry?
The pot will sing, the pot will ring,
The pot will say the truthful thing:
“The old man is damned because
A spider has him in its claws.
The spider’s web in which he fell
Has seized him with an evil spell.
“The old Niyaz in court appears,
To the emir he bows in tears.
He says: ‘Tis’ known to all mankind
That the emir is good and kind.
Let his great mercy now console
My modest heart and pleading soul.’
“Said the emir: ‘Weep not, I say,
I give you time – an hour’s stay!
For it is known to all mankind
That the emir is good and kind!’”
How long shall we injustice bear?
Tell me, o pot, so all may hear.
The pot will sing, the pot will ring,
The pot will say the truthful thing:
“Only a madman would demand,
True justice from the emir’s hand.
The price of favors he’ll bestow
Is always low, is always low!
What’s an emir? A sack of dung,
Where a head should be, a pot is hung.”
Tell me, o pot, so all may hear,
How long shall the emir we bear?
When will my troubled people find
Some happiness and peace of mind?
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 hundred 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 crowd increased, and a multitude of skullcaps, slippers, belts, kerchiefs, and even robes began to land near Hodja Nasreddin. Everyone considered it an honor to help Hodja Nasreddin. The fat chaikhana keeper brought two of his best kettles and a copper tray, and looked at the others proudly, for he had given generously. The pile of things kept growing and growing. Straining his voice, Hodja Nasreddin shouted:
“Enough, enough, o generous people of Bukhara! Enough, do you hear? Saddle-maker, take back your saddle – enough, I say! Have you decided to turn Hodja Nasreddin into a junk dealer? I am starting the sale! Here is a water-bearer’s belt – whoever buys it will never experience thirst. Step right up, it’s cheap! Here is a pair of old, patched slippers – they must have been to Mecca at least twice, whoever puts them on will have practically completed the pilgrimage! I have knives, skullcaps, robes, shoes! Buy them; I am selling them cheaply and without haggling, for time is much more precious to me right now!”
But the great Bakhtiyar, in his tireless efforts to care for his faithful subjects, had managed to establish such an order in Bukhara that not a single coin lingered in the pockets of the people and instead passed immediately into the emir’s treasury, lest the people be overburdened with full pockets. Hodja Nasreddin shouted in vain as he praised his goods – there were no buyers.
Chapter 14
Meanwhile, the moneylender Jafar was passing by, his bag weighed down by gold and silver jewelry he had bought in the jewelers’ row for Guljan.
Although the hour had almost elapsed, and the moneylender was hurrying along in a state of voluptuous impatience, his greed surpassed all other emotions when he heard the voice of Hodja Nasreddin announcing a cheap sale.