Mulla Nasrudin was welcomed by an unctuous innkeeper
who professed himself delighted to have such a distinguished
guest. ‘Anything you want, call for it,’ he said.
During the night the Mulla was thirsty. He called out for
water, but nobody stirred.
His throat was parched, and he felt as though there was a fire
in his mouth.
‘Fire! Fire!’ he cried.
The whole caravanserai awakened, and presently the host was
at his side with a pitcher of water. ‘Where is the fire?’
Nasrudin pointed to his mouth. ‘Here,’ he said.