There was an emperor named Ibrahim. A monk had been making a fuss at his gate since morning, telling the guard, “Let me in! I want to stay in this inn.”

The guard replied, “Are you crazy? Are you a monk or a madman? This isn’t an inn; it is the emperor’s palace, his residence.”

The monk said, “Then let me talk to the emperor, because I came here thinking it was an inn and want to stay here.”

He pushed his way inside. The emperor, hearing the commotion, called him and said, “What kind of man are you? This is my personal palace, my residence. It is not an inn; the inn is somewhere else.”

The monk replied, “I thought the guard was foolish, but you are foolish too. The guard deserves forgiveness—after all, he is just a poor guard. But do you also think this is your home?”

The emperor said, “I don’t just think so—it is mine.”

The monk said, “I am confused. I came here a few years ago—four or ten years ago—and I faced the same situation. At that time, another man was sitting in your place, saying, ‘This is my palace. This house is mine.’”

The emperor said, “That was my father. He has passed away.”

The monk continued, “Before him, I had come here and found another old man. He too insisted that this was his. When the owners of the house keep changing, when the residents keep changing, should this be called a residence or an inn?

And I will come again someday—are you sure I will meet you? Can you promise that? If I do not find you, then I will meet someone else, and he will say, ‘This is mine.’ So let me stay here. This is just an inn; it does not belong to anyone. Just as you are staying here, I can stay here too.”

Hearing this, Ibrahim rose from his throne, touched the mystic’s feet, and said, “You stay, but I am leaving now.”

The monk asked, “Where are you going?”

Ibrahim replied, “I have been living here under the illusion that this is my house. If it is only an inn, then the matter is over. I did not stay here because of these walls; I stayed here because I believed it was mine. Now that you say it is an inn, you may stay—I will leave.”

He left the palace and went away.

Did the emperor renounce anything? No. It was never truly his house—it was only an inn. Once this truth became clear, the matter ended. Does anyone renounce an inn? No. People simply stay there for a while and then leave.

Wherever we call something “ours,” we treat it like a kingdom. But in truth, it is only an inn.