Mammad beamed, reaching into his pocket. "With this!" He pulled out a roll of bright blue electrical tape.
One afternoon, Dammad found Mammad standing in the courtyard, staring at Dadaş’s prized antique silver samovar, which was now missing its ornate handle. Dadaş felt the heat rising in his neck, his face turning a shade of pomegranate red.
In a bustling neighborhood in Baku, Dadaş was known for two things: his impeccable mustache and his incredibly short fuse. His neighbor, Mammad, was the opposite—slow-talking, forgetful, and perpetually confused.
He took the tape from Mammad. "Go get the tea leaves, Mammad. We will drink tea from a samovar with a blue handle. Just... don't explain anything else today."
"Listen," Mammad began, waving a copper pipe vaguely. "I saw a speck of dust. Just one! I thought, 'Dadaş loves this samovar like a son. I shall polish it.' But the polish was strong, Dadaş! Too strong! It didn't just take the dust; it took the handle right off!"
