Doomsday Raki

A certain Sufi sat in the town square at midnight, pondering the things Sufis ponder at such hours, seasoning his thoughts with a bottle of raki.

A distinguished Imam with a heavy beard emerged from one of the many madrasas lining the square. He passed through like a somber shadow, draped in self-importance and a heavy black cloak.

Noticing the Sufi sprawled there between the square and the wall, the Imam’s wrath burned hot. With a sharp kick, he sent the bottle flying all the way into the gutter.

With a stiff finger and a cold eye fixed on the Sufi, the Imam thundered:

"Know this, you heretical fool! On Judgment Day, every bottle of liquor you have ever downed will be bound to your ankles with iron chains!"

The Sufi roused himself from his reverie and mumbled, half to himself and half to the Imam: "Eh... hmm... what? Raki... Judgment Day... chains... how many?... what..."

"Wait, wait," he pressed. "Will the bottles at my ankles be empty or full?"

The Imam roared in his face: "Full, of course!"

The Sufi raised his hands and eyes toward the Creator and sighed:

"Wallah—may Allah bless Judgment Day!"

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Photos: Panjakent, Tajikistan. June 2016.