It happened once upon a time that the Mullah Nasruddin went to visit a friend, and found him in a terrible state. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like he hadn’t slept for days.

“My friend,” said the Mullah compassionately, “what has happened to you?”

“You could say,” said the man, “that I am suffering from the kindness of friends. Someone gave my son, as a present, a drum. And now he plays it day and night. Nothing we can do will persuade him to stop.”

And indeed, the Mullah had noticed there was considerable racket in the other part of the house. “You have tried to reason with him, I suppose?” he said.

“We have told him that the noise will damage his hearing; we have offered him other toys; we have told him God will be displeased with him for disturbing the neighbours; we have threatened him with various punishments. Nothing works! If we try to take it away from him, his screams are louder than the drum itself. Mullah, I beg you, can’t you do something to help us?”

The Mullah stroked his beard pensively, and then said, “Bring him to me.”

In a moment the boy stood before the Mullah, the drum slung around his neck, small fists clenching the drumsticks.

“My,” said the Mullah, “what a fine drum you have, my son!”

The boy beamed with happiness.

“I wonder,” the Mullah said thoughtfully, ” what is inside it.”