The Beggar in the Harem - Impudent Adventures in Old Bukhara by Leonid Solovyev.pdf

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THE BEGGAR IN
THE HAREM
Impudent Adventure in Old Bukhara
By
LEOIND SOLOVYEV
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Khoja Nasreddin, the central figure of this
hilarious and intriguing story of the bazaars and
palaces of Old Bukhara, is one of those riotously
lovable characters who appear every now and
again to tickle the ribs of th world.
To travel with him in his adventures through
the pages of this book arouses that affection we ll
feel for the little man facing terrific odds. By the
use of a ready tongue, and the exercise of
considerable impudence and ingenuity, he
succeeds in turning the most unfavourable
situations to the advantage of himself and his
fellow dwellers in the tents of the lowly.
You will enjoy every moment of this
remarkable and fascinating tale from the Soviet
Union, and you will regret parting company with
Khoja Nasreddin when, having rescued the lady of
his choice from the Emir‘s harem, he rides from
the last pages still thumbing his nose at authority.
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Dedication
“…This story comes to us from Abu-Omar-Ahmad-
ibn- Mullammad, who had it from Muhammad-ibn-
Aliibn- Rifaa, who quotes Ali-ibn-Abd-al-Aziz, who
quotes Abu- Ubayd-al-Kasim-ibn-Selam, who took
it down from the mouth of his teachers the last of
whom gives for his authority Omar-ibn-al-Khattab
and his son Abd-Allah, may Allah’s favour abide
with them both.”
- IBN HAZM: The Turtledove’s Necklace.
Idedicate this book to the pure and everlasting memory of my
friend Mumin Adilov, who perished from a dastardly bullet on 18
April 1930.
He had many of Khoja Nasreddin‘s traits – selfless devotion to
the people, courage, noble shrewdness and honest astuteness. When I
was writing this book, more than once in the quiet of the night I
seemed to feel his shade at my side guiding my pen.
He died in the mountain village of Nanay and lies buried in
Kanibadam. A short while ago I visited his grave. Children were
playing round the mound covered with spring grass and flowers,
while he slept the sleep of eternity and did not respond to the call of
my heart… .
L.S
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―They also relate that a simpleton was walking along holding
on to the bridle of his ass which followed behind.‖ (Sheherazade‘s
three hundred and eighty-second night.)
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KHOJA NASREDDIN‘S thirty-fifth birthday found him on the road.
He had spent over ten years in exile, wandering from town to
town, from country to country, crossing seas and deserts, and
sleeping where night overtook him: on the bare earth by a shepherd‘s
meagre camp-fire, in a crowded caravanserai, where all night long, in
the dusty gloom, camels sigh and scratch themselves with a hollow
tinkling of bells, or in a smoky, sooty tea-house among sprawling
water-carriers, beggars, drivers and other poor folk, who at the break
of dawn fill the bazaars and the narrow streets of the town with their
shrill cries.
Many a night he had spent too on the soft silk cushions of some
Persian dignitary‘s harem, while the master of the house,
accompanied by guards, would be scouring the tea-houses and
caravanserais for that impious vagabond whom he would impale if he
caught him.
A light streak appears in the sky through the latticed window,
the stars pale, the breeze heralding the dawn rustles gently and
damply among the foliage, and on the window-ledge gay turtle-doves
begin to coo and to preen themselves. Khoja Nasreddin says, kissing
the languid beauty:
―It is time. Farewell, my matchless pearl. Do not forget me.‖
―Stay,‖ she pleads, clasping her lovely arms round his neck.
―Are you going away for good? Listen, tonight, as soon as it is dark, I
shall send the old woman to fetch you again.‖
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