A kinsman came to see Nasrudin from the country and brought a duck. Nasrudin was grateful, had the bird cooked, and shared it with the guest. Presently another visitor arrived. I am a friend, he said, of the man who gave you the duck. Nasrudin fed him as well. This happened several times. Nasrudin’s house had become like a restaurant for out-of-town visitors. Everyone was a friend at some remove of the original donor of the duck. Finally Nasrudin was exasperated. One day there was a knock at the door and a stranger appeared. I am the friend of the friend of the friend of the man who brought you the duck from the country, he said. Come in, said Nasrudin. They seated themselves at the table and Nasrudin asked his wife to bring the soup. When the guest tasted it it seemed to be nothing more than warm water. What sort of soup is this? he asked the Mulla. That, said Nasrudin, is the soup of the soup of the soup of the soup of the duck. This is what happened with our scripture.
Story told by Osho