The Singing Scoutmaster: Nasreddin Hodja and the Smell of Soup

One crisp, wintry afternoon, Nasreddin Hodja was strolling through the bustling market square, his breath forming small clouds in the chilly air. The market was alive with people buying and selling goods, the air filled with the clamor of voices and the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked bread. As Nasreddin made his way through the crowd, he noticed a poor man standing quietly outside a busy restaurant.

The man, dressed in threadbare clothes, was leaning close to the open kitchen window, his eyes closed and a look of contentment on his face. He took deep breaths, savoring the rich aroma wafting from the large pot of soup simmering inside. The steam from the soup curled into the air, carrying with it the tantalizing smell of onions, garlic, and fresh herbs. Nasreddin could see the man's hunger in the way his nose twitched and his shoulders relaxed with each inhalation.

But just as the poor man sighed softly, lost in the simple pleasure of the scent, the restaurant owner burst out the door, his face flushed with anger. "Hey, you!" he shouted, his voice sharp and accusing. "What do you think you're doing, standing there and stealing the smell of my soup?"

The poor man's eyes flew open, and he stumbled back, startled by the outburst. "Stealing?" he repeated, confused. "I wasn't stealing anything. I was just enjoying the smell. That's all I can afford."

The restaurant owner crossed his arms, his lips twisted in a sneer. "Whether you took it with your hands or with your nose, you're still taking something that doesn't belong to you," he snapped. "And I demand to be paid for it!"

The poor man looked down, his face filled with shame and helplessness. "I have no money," he murmured softly. "I can't pay you."

"We'll see about that," the owner growled. He grabbed the man roughly by the arm and dragged him away from the restaurant. "If you can't pay me, I'll take you to someone who will make sure justice is served!"

The poor man stumbled along behind the owner, his eyes darting nervously as they made their way through the market square. Nasreddin Hodja, curious about where this commotion was headed, followed them until they reached the courthouse. As luck would have it, Nasreddin was acting as the judge that day, his position a respected one in the town for his wisdom and fairness.

"Your Honor," the restaurant owner began, his voice dripping with indignation, "this man has stolen from me! He's been standing outside my restaurant, taking in the smell of my soup without paying for it. I demand compensation for what he's taken!"

The poor man stood with his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. He looked up at Nasreddin with pleading eyes. "It's true, Hodja," he said softly. "I smelled the soup, but I didn't take a single drop. I have no money to pay him. I only wanted to fill my belly with the scent, since I have nothing else."

Nasreddin Hodja nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard as he considered the case. "Hmm… you say you only smelled the soup, and you," he said, turning to the restaurant owner, "say that he must pay for it. Very well. Do you have a money pouch with you?" he asked the owner calmly.

The restaurant owner, thinking he was about to receive payment, quickly reached into his robes and pulled out a heavy pouch filled with coins. The metal clinked softly as he handed it over to Nasreddin, a self-satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

Nasreddin Hodja took the pouch and held it up high, shaking it gently. The coins jingled and clinked together, filling the silent courtroom with the bright, clear sound of money. He shook it a little more, letting the sound resonate throughout the room.

The restaurant owner's smile faded, replaced by a look of confusion. "What are you doing?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"Do you hear that?" Nasreddin asked, his voice calm and even.

The owner nodded slowly. "Yes… I hear it," he replied, puzzled.

Nasreddin stopped shaking the pouch and handed it back to the owner. "Good," he said with a satisfied nod. "The sound of money is payment enough for the smell of soup. This case is dismissed!"

There was a moment of stunned silence in the courtroom as the meaning of Nasreddin's words sank in. Then, the crowd burst into laughter, the sound filling the room like the ringing of bells. The restaurant owner's face turned red with embarrassment and disbelief, but he could say nothing in response. Nasreddin's ruling was final.

The poor man, relieved and smiling, bowed gratefully to Nasreddin before slipping quietly out of the courthouse. Nasreddin, his eyes twinkling with amusement, stood and addressed the crowd. "Remember, my friends, sometimes we value things too much that cannot be held or owned," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Whether it's a smell, a sound, or a fleeting feeling, there are things in this world that money cannot buy, and they should be freely enjoyed by all."

The townspeople nodded, understanding the lesson hidden within the humor of the situation. The restaurant owner, though still flustered, managed a sheepish grin. He, too, realized the foolishness of his demand. With a sigh, he turned and left the courthouse, the sound of the jingling coins still echoing in his ears.

From that day on, whenever someone in town argued over something intangible or petty, people would say, "Don't charge for the smell of soup!" as a reminder of Nasreddin Hodja's clever judgment. And whenever the poor man passed by the restaurant, he smiled and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of soup without fear of being charged. For he knew, as did everyone else in town, that some things in life—like the smell of soup or the sound of laughter—are best enjoyed without a price tag attached.