Short Story: Mullah Nasruddin's sheer exasperation of exasperation

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Mullah Nasruddin's father-in-law was now a permanent fixture in his house, in more ways than one. His stay was meant to be a temporary one at first, but now it looked like that it would be indefinite. The man moved so slowly, that even if he did decide to leave, it would take him many hours, just to make it to the front door of the Mullah's house. He would perform sentry duty, at every step upon the way, stopping, staring, and frozen to each spot, for at least 5 minutes, at a time. The Mullah was at his wit's end, but he had worked out a few strategies to avoid some of the worst, of the old guy's behavioural idiocies. The Mullah loved his morning cup of Turkish coffee, made from the finest coffee beans that he could buy, and ground by himself into the finest of fine powders. He kept a large jar of this hidden in the bottom shelf of his pantry, hidden behind a whole row of other goods, where it could not be seen without an investigative search. One morning, he hopped up early, as was his habit, and it was around 6 am, in the morning. He knew that the old guy, his father-in-law, also usually a creature of habit, did not usually get up before 8 am, as the mornings in winter were particularly cold, and he would not leave the warmth of his bedroom, as he had the wood-heater, burning in there continually, 24 hours a day. The Mullah's wood bill had more than tripled, since the lodger had arrived. Anyway, the Mullah is seated at his table, enjoying his brew, when he heard a noise. The old guy was making his way out. He came into the kitchen. The Mullah, feeling the warmth of his coffee, in a friendly manner, said to him. "The kettle has just boiled. It is still piping hot, make yourself a cup of coffee, my old friend." The old guy replied, "Yes, I will." The Mullah's wife had placed a cheap container of coffee, at a chest-high height in the pantry, easily visible, near the front of the shelf. The Mullah expected the old guy to go to this to use. For, after all, his own coffee was his own secret stash, but no, the old guy creaked down to his knees, peered deeply into the cupboard shelves, for a good 5 minutes, and then he came out with the Mullah's hidden jar of coffee. "I will enjoy, this my boy," he said. The Mullah now knew why it was that his jar of coffee never seemed to be as full as he had remembered that it should have been, from his usage alone. Next, the old boy, got his cup down from the shelf. The Mullah's wife was particularly clean in her kitchen, and the cup was spotlessly clean now too. Still, the old man ventured, "I will wash this cup, you never know who else might have been using it." He turned on the tap, letting it run full force for 5 minutes into the cup. "That should blast away any gremlins in there," he said, with a condescending "harumph" added in too. (It will blast away my money to pay for my water bill too, the Mullah cringed, and thought to himself) The old man then placed his hand, against the metal of the old iron kettle, and just as quickly, for him, he pulled it right away again. It was hot. Next, he got the kettle, and he emptied all of the hot water out of it, into the sink. Then, he refilled the kettle with cold water, slushed the water around a bit in the bottom of it, tossed this water out too, and then he finally filled the now cold kettle right up to its brim, and placed it back on the fire to heat it up again. He winked at the Mullah, as he said, "How I love to stand here and watch the water come to the boil from the cold. It is my meditation period for the day." The Mullah was feeling as hot under the collar now, as the now cold kettle was before. The old man then stood in position, watching, and waiting. He did nothing else. He did not even get his cup ready, for the pouring. When the kettle was singing to him, he started singing with it. "Ah, perfect, now is the time, to make my coffee," he said, to himself, in a loud voice, so the Mullah cringed once more again. He placed his cup down on the bench. It was a much larger cup than was usually used, for making Turkish coffee. The Mullah's cup was minuscule in comparison. He heaped three heaped teaspoons of coffee into his cup, spilling another one onto the bench, and the floor, areas too. Then he went again to the pantry cupboard, peered in deeply again, and came out with the sugar bag now. Another three heaped teaspoons of this also went into his cup, which to all intents, was really a mug, and of course, one more spoonful of sugar fell onto the floor, as it spilt over the bench, and everywhere else, too. Finally, he added some of the Mullah's own goat's milk from the cold chest cupboard. "I like a little extra flavouring," he said. Then, he placed the kettle back onto the hotplate, on the fire, and reboiled it again. It had been left off of the heat, while he messed around with his cup. "Ah, now that should be hot enough for me," he murmured, after another five minutes went by. He spent the next ten minutes just stirring his mixture with his spoon. The Mullah had closed his eyes, and drank the rest of his coffee, in the blackness therein. "Another morning ruined," he thought to himself, "by this pest of a man." Then, in a philosophical note, he mused to himself. "The beans are not the beans, until they have really been beans; the rest are just hasbeens." Photo Credit: The photo used in this article was sourced from the free media site, pixabay.com The Mullah loved usually his morning cup of Turkish Coffee, but not this morning.