In which I share a story for Fridays...so you have time to share it
The Magic of Mushkil
Gusha (Iran)
Once in the royal city of Isfahan, there was an old woodcutter
who lived alone with his young daughter.
Every day, the woodcutter went out to the desert to gather thorn
bushes, then sold them in the marketplace as firewood. In this way, he earned
enough for the two of them.
One morning, the woodcutter’s daughter said, “Father, we always
have enough to eat. But just once, it would be nice to have something special.
Do you think you could buy some date cakes?”
The woodcutter agreed to cut some extra wood, so that they might
buy date cakes. The next day, he walked
farther to gather more thorn bushes. But he took longer than he meant to.
By the time he got back with the wood, darkness had fallen. It
was too late to go to the market. It was so late that, when he reached his
house, he found that his daughter had already bolted the front door and gone to
bed.
Knock as he would, there was no answer. So he had to sleep
outside on the doorstep.
The next morning, the woodcutter awoke while it was still dark.
He told himself, “I will go out right now and get another big load of wood.
Then I can sell twice as much and buy even more date cakes.”
So he left his load and went back to the desert to gather more thorn
bushes. But again he took longer than he intended, and when he got back, it was
dark and the door was bolted. So again he had to sleep on the doorstep.
He awoke once more before dawn. “There’s no sense wasting a
day,” he said. “I’ll go back out for one more big load. Think how many date
cakes we’ll have then!”
But yet again he took too long, and yet again the door was
bolted when he got back.
The woodcutter sank to the doorstep and wept.
“What’s wrong, old man?”
He looked up to see a dervish in a long green robe and a tall
green cap.
“Holy sir, for three days I have gone out to gather thorn
bushes, and for three days I have come home too late to get into my house. And
in all that time, I’ve had nothing to eat.”
“What night is this, old man?”
The woodcutter said, “Why, Friday eve, of course.”
“That’s right. It’s the eve of our holy day. And that’s the time
of Mushkil Gusha.”
“Mushkil Gusha?” said the woodcutter.
“That’s right, old man—the ‘Remover of Difficulties.’”The holy
man took some roasted chickpeas and raisins from his pouch and gave some to the
woodcutter. Together they shared the simple food.
“You may not know it,” the dervish went on, “but Mushkil Gusha
is already helping you. If you want your good fortune to continue, here’s what
you must do: Every Friday eve, find someone in need. Then share what you have,
and tell a tale of Mushkil Gusha. That way, you both will be helped.”
And with that, the holy man vanished.
As the woodcutter stared at the empty spot, the door to his
house swung open.
“Father, where have you been? Oh, please come inside! I was so
worried!”
A few days passed, while the woodcutter and his daughter enjoyed
the many date cakes he bought after selling his wood. Then one morning, when
the woodcutter had gone to the desert and his daughter had finished her
housework, she decided to go walking in a park.
She was strolling down a broad path when a carriage stopped
beside her.
“What a pretty little girl!” said a royal young lady. “I am the
daughter of the king. Would you like to be my handmaiden?”
“Oh, yes, Your Highness,” the girl said.
So the woodcutter’s daughter became a handmaiden of the
princess. With the gifts the princess gave her, she and her father became quite
rich. He bought a nice house, and he didn’t have to gather thorn bushes
anymore.
But somehow he forgot what the dervish had told him.
A month went by. One day, the princess went on a picnic to one
of her father’s private gardens, and she brought along the woodcutter’s
daughter. There was a small lake there, so they decided to go for a swim.
The princess took off her necklace and hung it on a branch
overlooking the water. But when she came out, she forgot all about it.
A few days later at the palace, the princess looked for the
necklace but couldn’t find it. She turned angrily to the woodcutter’s daughter.
“You stole my necklace! You must have taken it when we went for
our swim!”
“No, Your Highness, I wouldn’t do that!”
“You’re a thief and a liar too! Get out of my sight!”
The woodcutter’s daughter ran home in tears. But an hour later,
soldiers came to the door. They arrested the woodcutter and carried him off to
a public square in front of the prison. Then they locked his feet in the stocks
and left him there.
Now, that evening was Friday eve. As the sun set, the woodcutter
cast his thoughts over all that had happened to him in the past weeks. All at
once, he cried out.
“Oh, what a foolish, ungrateful wretch I am! Didn’t the dervish
say to share what I have each Friday eve and tell of Mushkil Gusha? Yet I
haven’t done it once!”
Just then, a packet of chickpeas and raisins landed at the
woodcutter’s feet. When he looked up, he didn’t see who had thrown it. But he
did see a beggar boy coming by.
“Young friend!” called the woodcutter. “Please share this with
me while I tell you a story.”
The boy sat down and gratefully took what was offered. As he
ate, the woodcutter related everything that had happened, from when his
daughter asked for date cakes, to when he was put in the stocks.
“Thank you, sir,” said the boy. “I needed the food, and the
story was good too. I hope it has a happy ending.”
The beggar boy went on his way. He gained good fortune too. But that is another story.
The next day, the princess had another picnic in her father’s
private garden, and again she went down to the lake for a swim. She was about
to step into the water when she saw the reflection of her necklace. She looked
up into the tree—and there was the necklace itself, right where she had left
it.
“That woodcutter’s daughter didn’t take it at all!” By the end of the day, the woodcutter was
free from the stocks, and his daughter was back in the palace.
And every Friday eve after that, the woodcutter always
remembered to find someone in need, share what he had, and tell his tale of
Mushkil Gusha.
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