Dadaş took a deep breath, trying to remember the lessons of the play he loved so much. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself, "Hicran tamaşası... don't be a Dadaş today."
Mammad beamed, reaching into his pocket. "With this!" He pulled out a roll of bright blue electrical tape.
"Mammad!" Dadaş roared, his hands trembling. "My grandfather’s samovar! What did you do?"
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.
"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!"
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."