An architect was having a difficult time with Mulla Nasrudin, a prospective home-builder. “But can’t you give some idea,” he pleaded, “of the general type of house you want to build, Nasrudin?”
“Well,” replied the Mulla hesitantly, “all I know is: it must go with an antique doorknob my wife bought the other day.”
As a pretty girl passed by, Mulla Nasrudin turned to look. His wife said with a pout, “Every time you see a pretty girl you forget you are married.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” said the Mulla. “Nothing makes me more aware of the fact!”
Mulla Nasrudin’s daughter came home and she said she was pregnant and the richest man of the town was the father of the unborn child. Mulla Nasrudin was, of course, mad. He rushed with his gun towards the rich man’s house; he forced the rich man into a corner and said, “Now you can breathe your last, or if you have any prayer to say to God, say it!”The rich man smiled and he said, “Listen, before you do anything neurotic. Yes, I know your daughter is pregnant by me — but if a boy is born I have kept one lakh rupees in the bank for the boy. If a daughter is born I have kept fifty thousand rupees in the bank for the daughter.”
Mulla took his gun away and said, “Sir, if something goes wrong, if there is a miscarriage or something, are you ready to give her another chance?”
Mulla Nasrudin was fishing off a pier when he lost his balance and fell in.
“Help! Help!” Mrs Nasrudin started shouting. “My husband is drowning. Help! Help!”
Luckily, her cries were heard by two husky young men in the vicinity, and they dove into the water and pulled poor Nasrudin out. As he lay on the pier drying out, Mrs Nasrudin leaned over him and whispered, “They saved you from drowning, man. Shouldn’t we give them a rupee?”
Mulla opened one eye and whispered back, “I was only half-drowned. Half a rupee will do.”
A habitual drunk staggered up to the front door of a home late one night, and kept rapping loudly until a lady in pyjamas came to answer.
“Par’n me, ma’am,” he lushes, “this is an emergency. Can you tell me where Mulla Nasrudin lives?”
“Why,” she exclaimed, “you are Mulla Nasrudin yourself!”
“I know, I know,” he replied, “but that still doesn’t answer the question — where does he live?”
Mulla Nasrudin listened very attentively while a stranger told a long story in the coffee-house. But the man spoke so indistinctly and muffed his punchline so badly that the story was not funny at all, and except for the Mulla no one laughed. But the Mulla laughed heartily.
“Why did you laugh, Nasrudin?” I asked him afterwards when the stranger had left.
“I always do,” replied Nasrudin. “If you don’t laugh, there is always the danger of their telling it over again.”
Mulla Nasrudin was talking to a woman and saying great things, was getting very romantic. He was saying, “Your eyes — never, never have they happened before. And your face — it is just like the moon. And the glow that surrounds you, and the vibe that you create — it is the most beautiful thing that has ever happened.” And he went on and on.
And, of course, as women are very practical, the woman asked, “Are you going to marry me, Nasrudin?”
Nasrudin said, “Please, don’t change the subject!”
Mulla Nasrudin lay on his deathbed for months, while flocks of relatives gathered like vultures waiting for the kill. At last the dear old man went to his peaceful reward and the lawyers announced the date of the reading of his will.
All the relatives assembled on the appointed day. The lawyer tore open the envelope, drew out a piece of paper and read:
“Being of sound mind, I spent every dime before I died.”
The old Mulla Nasrudin had become a very rich man. When he felt death approaching he decided to make some arrangements for his funeral, so he ordered a beautiful coffin made of ebony wood with satin pillows inside. He also had a beautiful silk caftan made for his dead body to be dressed in.
The day the tailor delivered the caftan, Mulla Nasrudin tried it on to see how it would look, but suddenly he exclaimed, “What is this! Where are the pockets?”
