Musa’s Cotton

  Musa’s Cotton

(Musus Ti Kapas)

Characters:

Lawyer: Musa Khan

Shopkeeper: Lassajoo

In old Srinagar lived a lawyer named Mustafa, though everyone called him Musa Khan. He was famed for a tongue sharper than a winter wind and a mind so clever that even tangled and twisted court cases seemed to untie themselves out of embarrassment.

One day, a shopkeeper named Lassajoo came rushing to Musa Khan’s door, looking as though every creditor in Kashmir had chased him there with a ledger.

“Save me, Musa Sahib!” he cried. “I borrowed money, and now the interest has multiplied like rabbits in spring. The moneylender says he will take my shop, my house, and perhaps even the blanket off my bed. My wife has begun hiding the cooking pots.”

Musa Khan stroked his beard. “Do not worry, Lassajoo. When the law becomes too tight, a clever man must slip through it sideways.”

The next day, they appeared before the judge.

“Lassajoo,” said the judge sternly, “what have you to say in your defense?”

The shopkeeper gave a small twitch of the head and muttered, “Kapas.”

The judge leaned forward. “What was that?”

“Ka-p-as,” said Lassajoo, with great seriousness.

The judge frowned. “Has the man lost his senses?”

Musa Khan sprang to his feet, one hand pressed dramatically to his heart.

“My Lord, this poor fellow—kapas—is not responsible for his actions. Kapas! He was once a respectable dealer in cotton. Kapas! His storeroom was filled with fine bales, enough to make even a nawab sneeze. Kapas! Then came a terrible fire. Kapas! All his cotton went up in smoke, and with it, alas, his reason. Now he remembers only one word: kapas!”

The judge looked at Lassajoo, who stared solemnly at the ceiling.

“Kapas,” Lassajoo said sadly.

The judge sighed. “Very well. It would be cruel to press a case against a man in such a condition. The matter is dismissed.”

Lassajoo’s debt was cancelled. His shop was saved. His house was safe. Even the cooking pots could come out of hiding.

Outside the court, Musa Khan smiled broadly.

“Excellent acting, Lassajoo! You shook your head at precisely the right moment. Now then—my fee.”

Lassajoo blinked at him.

“Kapas.”

Musa Khan laughed. “Enough of that. The judge is gone. Pay me.”

“Ka-p-as.”

Musa Khan’s smile thinned. “Lassajoo, do not be foolish. I saved your shop.”

“Kapas.”

“I saved your house!”

“Kapas.”

“I saved your cooking pots!”

“Kapas! Kapas! Kapas!”

Musa Khan stared at him. The clever lawyer had built the trap himself—and Lassajoo had simply decided to remain inside it, safely out of reach of any fee.

At last Musa Khan threw up his hands and shouted to the people gathering around them:

“Look at this man! He says ‘kapas’ to the judge, he says ‘kapas’ to the moneylender, and now—may heaven help me—he says ‘kapas’ even to his own lawyer!”

And so came the Kashmiri saying: “Musus ti Kapas”—Musa’s cotton—a reminder that a clever trick may return to its maker, wrapped neatly in cotton.