Evril Turon (Mamadali Mahmud): White Flower (A true story) 8-14
Evril Turon
(Mamadali Mahmud)
White Flower
(A true story)
Oynur
A novel by Evril Turon
I dedicate this book to Ugur Akin,
to gracious and polite person with the good manners and to person who is always with friends in their in their both good and bad days .
“Who would a good thinking person address to for help?
Who possesses the law? In the hands of evil priests…
He captured wealth unfairly.
Who would throw him away from ruling and life?”
Zoroaster
“Laws are created to not frighten people, but to help them.”
Walter
Every false government is afraid of freedom of speech.”
N.Berdyayev (Russian philosopher)
7
There is a steppe between Nurota mountain chains and Kyzylkum Desert. In fact, it is waiting for its owner.
That is the steppe, which has no start or end.
The steppe without salt
And without crop fields.
The steppe able to feed hundred millions of people.
It passes over the remote Ustyurt and dives into the Hazar Sea.
In this steppe, where a flying bird’s wings and passer-by’s feet might burn, all day long I followed Oynur. I did my best to fulfill her order. There were (if I don’t forget the names) “Mak-sheder”[1], big hammer, iron stick, cable, food and drinks on my shoulder.
The Kyzylkum desrt looked like the Dead Sea.
It also looked like the Red Sea.
Lined-up sand dunes remind of giant waves. I have pity on it. Though it is blasphemy, I complain about the nature for making this steppe such a disastrous place. It burns under the inexorable heat of the sun. Its giant flame attacks the steppe. I dig sticks in the spots measured with “Mak-sheder” and pull cables. My hands blister and really hurt. But I bear. I feel how it is difficult to earn. I am exasperated with this, but I keep it secret and do not let Oynur know about it. Such times, I deeply feel the meaning of the proverb, “Shame is harder than death.” I really work hard. Oynur slightly lifts her big, copper-colored Mexican hat and smiles:
“It is difficult not only for a human being to mature, but for iron, too. A sword will become real sword in the hands of a blacksmith, under the hammer and in fire. Let’s have some rest, Evril.”
She wipes sweat off her beautiful sun-like face with a reddish colored towel. Then, under her green umbrella, we take a jar out of the wet felt, pour ayron (yogurt drink) into porcelain piolas (cups) and drink it. At that moment, one may comprehend the pleasure and life-giving significance of ayron. Wishing to have some more rest I question Oynur:
“Sister Oynur, this profession, isn’t it difficult for you, in general, for women? Will you spend your whole life in fields and steppes like this?”
“My parents also say like that. But I like this job. I cannot imagine my life differently. Maybe you don’t believe either, Evril, if I say that I am alive with this profession just like fish needs water to live.”
When Oynur calls me “Evril” I will wave like a sea. This word becomes so beautiful in her tongue. I reply to her with excitement:
“I may not believe others, but I believe you.”
“Who else do you believe?”
“My mom.”
“Who else?”
“God.”
“Now you spoke right, Evril. Never, ever praise or overestimate anyone.
It is good when everything stays within its boundaries.
Know truth.
God is only one.
Your mom is only one.”
“You too.”
“Hey, prankish boy!” – Oynur laughs loudly. Her white teeth, red lips, shining eyes – all remind me of the fairies from the tales I read in my childhood. I doubt thinking if she also was born from a human being. She does not comprehend my feelings, or just pretend that she does not understand anything. I deliberately ask her a sensitive question:
“Sister Oynur, what about those who are being praised every day?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Fake prophet?.. Or fake God?”..
Oynur interrupted me right away:
“Do not step over the limit, Evril! Never! That’s dangerous! Calamity could swallow anyone.” Colorful and graceful motions on her face disappear. She intentionally changes the topic.
“One day, if I find a mine, say, a goldmine, will there be any happier person than me, Evril?”
I could not restrain from telling whatever came to my mind, since there was no other people there and since I believed Oynur as much as I believed myself:
“It would be great if that mine belonged to our own nation.”
“I didn’t understand.”
“Now, who is the owner of our motherland and our mines?”
“Who?” – surprisingly asked Oynur.
“Moscow.”
Oynur quickly looked round. There was nobody, even a bird. It was silent around. Sand dunes were seen at the end of the steppe. Red sand. Heat, as if from tandoor, was lifting from the steppe. Farther, mirages moved from one place to another. Oynur said with certainty:
“You said this once; never say it again! It is like playing with death.
Live with the future.
Believe in future.
In your own future too.
But be careful!
Very careful!
Since I have not faced difficulties yet, no panic covered my heart. However, to give inner peace to Oynur, I replied:
“Alright, sister Oynur.”
“By the way, have you heard of geologist Habib Abdulla?
“Habib Abdulla? No. Why do you ask?”
“No reason…” – she did not want to say what she had inside. I thought she was afraid of saying. I read it in her wise eyes. But I also thought “what if I am mistaken?”
Oynur looked other direction. Silence ruled for a while. The weather became hotter. Oynur wiped iodine on my swollen, bleed fingers. Then she bound my sores with a bandage.
We continued our work. Now I look forward to our lunchtime. I put eating and talking with Oynur above everything. I felt joy and was proud of it.
If it was another geologist, not Oynur, it was possible that I could not stand for working under the temperature more than forty degrees. With her, I was sure that I could tolerate working in even more difficult condition. “Thanks goodness for giving her to me” I said to myself.
It’s been two years since I met Oynur. Out of five teenagers she selected me as her assistant. Though that happened incidentally, I thought it was God’s blessing to me. I have learned so many things from her since then, and I am continuing to learn.
Finally, the burning sun showed it was midday. Under the green umbrella, Oynur and I ate bread with fried mutton. We boiled water in a black kettle. Our tiresome turned into sweat pouring down our faces. Smiling beautifully, Oynur said:
“You became a negro, Evril.”
“The sun loves me, sister Oynur.”
And we laughed.
I dared to ask her questions:
“Where did you study, sister Oynur?”
“In Moscow.”
“Is your Russian perfect as a Russian girl’s?”
“Kindergarten, school, institute – everything was in Russian.”
“What language do you think in?”
“Uzbek, Russian…”
“What other languages do you know?”
“English.”
“Have you been to London?”
“Yes.”
“Where else?”
“Paris, Rome…”
“They must be very beautiful cities, huh?”
“Are you a detective, Evril?” – Oynur laughed. She took her hair from her face behind her beautiful shoulders. She replied:
“They are like a legend. Here, in Central Asia, we don’t have such cities. Khans here just enjoyed their lives. They only thought about themselves. The palaces they built for themselves were unattractive and unappealing. European rulers lived for their nations. They built wonderful cities for their own people. They let science and wisdom flourish all over.
Oynur looked at the steppe where a mirage spread, as if she called something to mind unwillingly. She absorbed in thoughts, perhaps, thinking about legendary cities. I looked at her face attentively, with incomparable mercy. And I too started imagining how well were those countries.
8
After some time, Oynur takes her look from the steppe and looks at me cheerlessly and says in a sad voice:
“I cannot forget one story that happened in Paris, Evril. I feel as if I saw him right now; it still appears before my eyes.
A taller, slim man of about 40 years old, with wider shoulders, if I am not mistaken, accompanied us, tourists, from Eiffel Tower, no, actually, from Sacre Couer Mosque with wonderful domes at Monmartre to the bridge of the Seine River. It seemed to me he was pursuing me. I calmed down saying to myself that I only felt so.
However, when we were enjoying the beautiful Seine, I comprehended that my feeling had not deceived me. The man started approaching me. I thought that he looked like an Uzbek man. But I quickly denied, saying to myself, “What a reason for me to think that there are no Frenchmen who could look like Uzbeks? Maybe, he is a spy in the form of an Uzbek guy?”
Hesitated, he approached me; a little shy and uncomfortable, in the dialect of southern Uzbeks, he started speaking to me with French accent:
“I am so sorry, madam, are you Uzbek?”
I felt that he was an ordinary, normal Uzbek man. I don’t know, but that time all of my suspicions vanished.
“You are right,” I replied to him and surprisingly looked at his brown eyes filled with separation and sorrow of homesickness, and his rather long face with a black birthmark on his chin.
Encouraged from my politeness, he made up his mind and said smiling:
“My name is Botir. You looked like a sincere and good person to me. That is why I came to you, sister, please for give me for disturbing you.”
“Oynur,” – I shook his hand. Botir’s face shined as the sky without black clouds. He spoke about his life: how he was taken captive by Germans during the war; how he could not go to the motherland fearing that he would be treated as the enemy of the motherland; how he came to Paris, married there and had two sons. After that, he spoke about his main purpose:
“I missed our nation, our language!” he started; tears came down from his eyes. “I am not going to hide that I have not felt such feelings at home. Notions such as motherland, nationality, mother tongue seemed to me very simple things. Now I know that these feelings are given from birth, and that they live in our hearts forever, but a human being will not recognize until he faces problems.”
“Brother Botir, I think you are sewing the same cloth for everyone.”
“Please forgive me, Ms. Oynur, I am not going to conceal, but I really thought that majority of our people are like that. This, indeed, is my own opinion only.”
“Oh, I see…”
“When a human being is deprived of the motherland and lives in a remote foreign land, though he lives in a freer world, that sacred feeling living in is heart will wake up as a flame. That time, he will deeply understand the greatness of the feeling of motherland. I am feeling the same now, Ms. Oynur. I missed our own language, melodies and songs! I started thinking about my kids’ fate from time to time. They are growing up without knowing their fatherland and father tongue. This one is a tragedy for me, my sister.”
“Wait for the time…” – I was going to say something, but I was afraid, since our group head was looking at us suspiciously. Botir also felt it and kindly requested:
“If you don’t mind, sister, could you please send five or six gramophone records with Uzbek national songs to me? Please, Ms, Oynur.” – As he said good-bye to me, he gave me some paper. “There is my address there. Bye-bye, sister!”
Tears came to his eyes again.
“Hope to see you soon!..”
As Botir left us, the group head approached me. She was so nervous and downcast. Although an Uzbek, this Russian-looking stout woman asked me in Russian in a cold tone:
“What did the stranger give you? Open your palms!”
By necessity, I opened my palms. As she saw the wrapped paper she stayed frozen for a while as if she faced calamity. Then she took away the paper from my hand. She opened it. There were some US dollars in the paper.
“What’s this?” – the woman’s eyes protruded. Her nostrils became wider. I did not want to justify myself and told her the truth. The woman did not believe me.
“You’ll respond in Moscow!” she chirped in a rude voice. “Before we came to Paris, did they take a receipt from you in Moscow like they took from others that you should not speak to a foreigner?”
“Yes.”
“Now you will never be able to go abroad…” She intentionally did not finish her words to keep me in panic.
“Please give the paper with an address, sister, you can leave the currency with you, I don’t mind,” – I beseeched her. “That was entrusted to me to pass it on to someone by an unhappy man.”
“Don’t even say that!” – she gave a sassy look, raised her eyebrows and sarcastically smiled.
“Do not make much ado about nothing!”
“Don’t try to teach me!”
“Give the paper to me!”
“Are you crazy?”
I have never stood for injustice. I inherited this from my mother’s grandpa, Erkhon-botir. It’s a long story… I will talk about it later… Now let me continue. Listen to me, Evril. I hardly kept myself from slapping her in her fat face covered with make-up. Instead, I told her with anger and wrath:
“You don’t have the right to take away something from someone! Give!”
It looked like to me that the woman thought I would be afraid of her and beg her. But, seeing the contrary, she calmed down. Nevertheless, she did not show what was in her heart and said in a relatively polite voice:
“You’ll get it in Moscow.”
9
At the Moscow Airport, a KGB employee, Dmitriy Vladimirovich Pinyugin (if he did not change his name) warmly met me as if I was his close friend:
“Welcome, Ms. Oynur!”
A tall man with black eyes, this person had a scar on his right cheek, and he looked like a polite and light-hearted man. I did not feel any artificiality in his face, eyes and words. Everything in him was natural. Who knows? Sometimes you don’t know well the people you live together a whole life. Nothing is more secretive in the world than a human being. The Earth is a scene and a human being is an actor. Everyone plays his own role in it. Someone is a good person, someone is bad… However, I did not feel that Mr. Pinyugin was playing a role of an actor. Nevertheless, my heart was worried not believing him a little bit. But I was not afraid at ll since I thought I was faultless.
We spoke for about two hours in a special room at the airport. Mr. Pinyugin listened to me from all of his heart. Then he scratched his baldhead and said politely, giving a piece of paper and a pen to me:
“Please write everything down as it is, Ms. Oynur.”
I wrote down, but something vague was deep in my heart.
Having read it, Pinyugin grinned and said to me:
“Alright, Ms. Oynur. Now you go to the Slavyan Hotel near the Kremlin. We have reserved a room for you.”
“Why?”
“We want you to have some rest in Moscow…”
An invisible person whispered to me ear that time: “They will ask about Botir again…”
I was in a difficult situation, but anyways I asked Pilyugin:
“Now, Dmitriy Vladimirovich, please give me the paper where Botir’s address is written.”
“It’s not with me.”
“With whom?”
“Perhaps it is with the one who you gave it to, but I did not see it, Ms. Oynur.”
“It is shame for me before Botir now, isn’t it Dmitriy Vladimirovich?
I understand you, Ms. Oynur, you are in an awkward situation. Nevertheless I cannot help you. I am so sorry.”
I spent seventeen days in the Slavyan Hotel. On the eighteenth day, Pinyugin came to the hotel. Together with him I went to Domodedovo Airport on a taxi. The winter weather looked both unattractive and poor to me, since I was upset and in a bad mood. There was snowing all over. Salt was laid on the roads. Snow was dirty from the dust and heavy traffic. Moreover, snow was falling down the forests on the two sides of the road. Such a scene would make a human spirit vague and makes a human being to absorb in deep thoughts. To banish my thoughts away I wiped off the window with my fingers. I observe the falling of snow senselessly. Then, all of a sudden I recall my father’s words:
“Snow falls in the shape of a seven-edged star, daughter. Isn’t it a miracle?”
“Is it same in the entire world?”
“Yes… It’s from the time when the world was created: six-edged… Celestial Turks also took an example from them: the stars in their flag were also six-edged. Celestial Turks considered this to be a symbol of a blessing.”
In thoughts, I opened the window a bit. Edged snows fell on my black woven gloves.
Six-edged snows!
White snows!
“It’s a miracle” I whisper to myself. “Why it’s only six-edged? Why it’s not three, five or seven-edged? A human being did not feel that it’s a miracle. People do not want to feel it. Even if they feel they think it is a normal thing. They even do not think about it and pay no attention to it at all.”
“Are you feeling hot, Ms. Oynur?” asked Pinyugin with sarcasm. The face of this wise man seemed to me very ugly, unpleasant and boring. I felt an awful smell came from his words. And I felt something disgusting in my heart. However, I did not show it openly and closed the window. A strange noise stopped. I asked forgiveness from Pinyugin and accused myself: “I am in trouble now… What an earth I am thinking about this?”
But I justified myself: “Thoughts have no boundaries.”
Pinyugun asked me:
“I don’t know Uzbek, but I have a good memory. So God blessed me with this. I could hardly hear you say “white,” “six-edged star.” Is that what you said, Ms. Oynur?”
“Yes, Dmitriy Vladimirovich.”
“What does that mean?”
I explained.
A sign of surprise appeared on Pinyugin’s face similar to Lenin’s.
“Similar to Lenin’s face…”
I am telling this because anyone looking at Puniyugin would think he was Kalmyk, Chuvash or Tartar. Not Russian.
He became alert from my look:
“Are you looking at me strangely, Ms. Oynur?” he asked surprisingly. “I think there is a doubt in your look, no?”
I replied to him with a question:
“Are you Russian?”
“Thanks God, I’m Russian. But usually people think I am Tartar. Tartars-Moghuls have ruled over Russians for more than three hundred years. So many things happened during those times.”
That time, suddenly I recalled Zulfia, my Tartar girlfriend whom I studied with in Moscow. I remembered her words she used to say grieving: “More than fifteen millions of Tartars forgot about their origin and became the component of Russians.”
Other student friends of mine – Chuvash, Ukrainian, Okrus girls – also told me the same thing. I paid no attention to this before. As I was sitting in an old taxi now, I recalled the following phrase that was popular among people:
“A big fish will swallow a small fish.”
A harmonic voice came out of my heart at that moment:
”This is a tragedy of our time!”
“The tragedy of our time!” I repeated unwillingly. The law said that every nationality and nations are equal. Radio channels report about it non-stop.
Politicians talk about it.
Newspapers carry reports on the same topic.
Eulogist-poets and writers also praise it.
However, praises and propaganda machines such as “Great bother” or “Great Russian language” just rejected this.
“The tragedy of time” was born out of that rejection.
That is why nations and nationalities within the Soviet Union are becoming like Russians. Uzbeks are not exception either. Those whose father is Uzbek and whose mother is Russian consider themselves as Russians. Their nationality is shown as Russian on their passports, too.
This is the tragedy of our time!
It is the proof that “a big fish will swallow a small fish.”
Even now, it is difficult to hear Ukrainian, Moldovan, Kazakh and Uzbek words in Kyiv, Chisinau, Almaty, and Tashkent. What will happen in fifty or hundred years?..
If such, especially, what will happen to smaller ethnic groups such as Mordvin, Mariy, Udmurt and others?..
Again, foreigners studying at our institute appear before my eyes. Here, they whisper at the corner with each other:
“In the USSR, nations are being separated from their SELF, LANGUAGE and TRADITIONS. Because of this, some kind of strange “mixed culture” is coming into existence. The purpose is that the Communistic Party is going to create an artificial “Soviet nation.”
Everything can happen in the place where freedoms of expression and belief are tightened.
At that moment, Pinyugin interrupted my thoughts:
“Ms. Oynur, to pseak the truth, I feel the odor of Europe in your way of thinking, worldview, behavior, dressing, and actions. To make it clearer, you remind me of arrogant and haughty Russian girls.”
Sometimes, a man would say a word without thinking about its bitter consequences.
At other times, a stone that a man unwillingly throws away would hit the target.
I was in that circumstance then. And I told the following words without measuring:
“I think the most important thing is a human being’s heart… It is enough if a human body is not spoiled…”
Those words of mine had a quick effect on Pinyugin. He became furious. He was downcast. The left side of his thin lips, which was whitish like pigskin, pricked up. Disappointed very much, his left eye shined like the eyes of a beast that lost its prey. Suddenly, oh God, I saw how the mask on his face fell down and how he lost his human appearance, turning into a cunning fox. I don’t know why, but that time an idea ran through my mind that “a human being is a fox and a fox is a human being.”
“You!..” Pinyugin spoke hoarsely, taking away the actor’s mask on his face. “Why are you so arrogant? Do you think Russian girls are spoiled? I cannot bear it!”
To calm down him, a fox that was ready to gnaw its own trophy, I said:
“Indeed, you are an intelligent person, Dmitriy Vladimirovich. However, sorry, you got me wrong. Please be aware that I don’t have any feelings to discriminate other nations. Even if I said it unwillingly I meant that a human being’s appearance might deceive. For me, the most important thing for human beings is his or her heart, inner feelings. If these two things spoil, a man or a woman will lose his or her human face; his or her heart and inner side will become like of animal.
“Is this really so?” said Pinyugin said lazily. “Please forgive me, Ms. Oynur.”
He turned into a human being again and laughed unwillingly.
Only then from his face I felt that he was drunk. But when he spoke I didn’t feel the smell of vodka. “He could eat something that would let the smell vanish,” I thought.
Pinyugin lost in a daze.
We arrived at the airport. In the “special room” Pinyugin intentionally looked at me for a moment feeling sorry for me. Then he said in a sad voice:
“”Ms. Oynur, now you should not go abroad during five or six years. I am so sorry to say this. Believe me.
“Dmitriy Vladimirovich, if I am not mistaken, I think you feel from the bottom of your heart that I’m not guilty.”
“This is my job…” he said unclearly.
“There are feelings such as humanity, human duty and conscience. Alright, I agree that I might never go abroad again, but what would Botir think about me? Is it possible if, at least, I return his money?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled secretly.
On the same day I took a flight to Tashkent.
10
Oynur silently stared at the sparse haloxylon shrubs. Suddenly she screamed:
“Wow, look at that!.. It looks like a crocodile! Exactly crocodile!”
I looked at the west right away. And I saw a giant creature, whose swell as big as bull’s bladder going down between the crooked branches of the haloxylon. I thought that creature was really big: as stout as a man’s waist, minimum three meters long, with the tail more than one meter. I heard that if a man does not touch it, it would not touch a man. Nevertheless, I was startled.
“I have never seen such a big lizard before,” smiled Oynur at peace, trying to expel panic on my face. “Don’t be afraid, it will not touch us. It hid himself in the shrubs, because the eagle would want to attack it.”
Oynur pointed at the eagle flying over the mountains in the steamy sky.
“The lizard’s hole is over there!” Oynur pointed at the bald hill about two hundred meters from the haloxylon field. “Its’ looking for a comfortable moment to get there, because there is an eagle in the sky… But, Evril, the lizard’s ancestors – crocodiles – were very brave and savage, heir teeth were as sharp as an awl and big. When the sea shrunk, they got accustomed to dry areas and turned into this shape. Though the lizards retained their original form to some extent, they became smaller and a little cowardly. Their teeth are also smaller. Nevertheless, this lizard we see now looks like their ancestors, crocodiles.”
“Is it true that the lizard’s skink and bones are a remedy for those who suffer from cancer, leper and leprosy?”
“I don’t know,” said Oynur. Then, as if she recalled something quickly, she looked at me and asked: “Where did you hear this?”
“My mother told me that. And Lochin[2] the healer told her about it.”
“Can I meet him?”
“Sure, he lives in Boghdon.”
“Let’s go to Boghdon this weekend.”
“Whatever you say, sister Oynur, I’ll just obey. But why are you…”
“My uncle has a daughter whose name is Lola,” interrupted me Oynur. “We are of the same age. She has white spots in her body. But she, herself, is a beautiful and wise girl. Unfortunately, no one is going to marry her. In Chimkent, where she lives, people consider this disease differently, Evril.”
“The same here in Boghdon.”
“So shall we help Lola?”
“Would be nice.”
“Well done!”
“Does sister Lola look like you?”
“In Chimkent, people cannot distinguish the difference between she and me.”
“Did she study somewhere?”
“She graduated from Tashkent State University. She is a historian. Now she is writing the history of Khuns. Anna Akhmatova’s son is helping her with that.”
“Who’s that, sister Oynur?”
“Have you heard of academician Gumilev?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“He is a scholar of oriental studies who wrote books about Khuns and Turkic nations.”
”I like history very much, sister Oynur. It would be great if you could introduce me to Sister Lola.”
“Don’t you know how I’m jealous, Evril?” laughed sister Oynur naughtily.
“History of Khuns and Turks…”
“Oh, don’t get pale, Evril,” Oynur did not let me continue. “I will definitely introduce you to her. But your Sister Lola is stingy with borrowing books. But we’ll find a way to get some books from her, don’t worry.”
“When can we do this, Sister Oynur?”
“First, let’s resolve the lizard issue, after that…”
“I have a friend whose name is Bektemir. He is not afraid of anything. He is very brave. I promise that together with him I will catch a lizard for you.”
“Let’s speak to Lochin the healer first, OK?”
“Sounds like a plan, Sister Oynur.”
“Let’s continue our work now, Evril.”
We stood up.
At the same time, “the crocodile” jumped down the haloxylon and ran towards the hill as fast as it can. In a second, it entered its own hole. And the eagle which feel down the hill so fast could not grab the lizard.
11
As I worked hard all in a sweat, in my mind I met with both Botir and Lola. Even though I didn’t know them, I spoke with them as old best friends. Like Oynur, I also wanted to help both of hem. But how? With Lola it’s understandable, but how about Botir? I though and thought, but could not come up with an answer.
The bloody colored sun met with the peak of the Boghdon mountains. The peak looked like a big fire. The west turned in to a red sea. In the morning, the car with half-covered top, which brought us to the steppe, arrived. And we loaded our staff onto the car and returned to Uchquloch.
Even at home, the thoughts about Botir, who needed to stay abroad, did not let me rest for a long time.
I thought a lot and came across with the following question of Oynur: “Have you heard of geologist Habib Abdulla?”
“Why did Oynur ask me that question?” I thought. “Why? What was the reason? Habib Abdulla became an interesting topic for me. Oynur could have asked me that question for a reason. Whos is that Habib Abdulla? Way was Oynur afraid of talking about him? There was something secret in this. But I could not find a solution.
However…
I found it later after so many years that there really was something “secret.”
So, please forgive me, my dear reader, and let me fly back and see what happened fifteen years ago.
12
“I worked for Saodat[3] magazine then. There were rumors about former President of Uzbekistan’s Academy of Sciences, late Habib Abdulla, among some writers, scholars and journalists, who were full of feelings of love for motherland. Let me give some examples of those rumors.
“Academician Habib Abdulla was poisoned and killed by the secret order of Titov[4] at the first government clinic.”
“Why?”
“For he loved his own nation.”
“For he hid golden mines from Moscow.”
“Sharof Rashidov could not defend him, because Titov is a Moscow’s special agent, namely:
“KGB.”
“They say that the academician died with difficulties. At the last moment he murmured the following words: “I made a mistake to open Muruntau.”
An interest for this great scholar increased in me. I went to his residence near the Student’s campus. Sister Fotima, Habib Abdullayev’s spouse, was surprised meeting me. Her sad eyes were asking me about the reason of my coming. I told her my purpose.
“Thank you! I believe there are many good people in the world,” she said.
I felt that there was hesitation in her voice. After a while, with tears in her eyes, she started talking about her husband…
I wrote an article about Habib Abdulla. It was also published in my essays collection. I gave the book to Sister Fotima. Tears came to her eyes as she was so glad. Then she presented to me the scholar’s book that consisted of six volumes.
“Thank you, Sister!” I said.
On the supa in the yard, we chatted over a cup of tea. When it was relevant, I asked Sister Fotima about the rumors. She unwillingly became alert and looked around. She wanted to say something to me, but did not say a word for some reason. Sadness covered her face and eyes. I totally understood her condition. I said goodbye to her and went home. An idea came to my mind on the way home: “Time will come when I find an answer to my own question. A book will be written about Habib Abdulla.”
13
As Oynur requested, on Sunday morning we went to Boghdon in Bektemir’s motorcycle called “Ural.” We all had a good mood. That’s why we quickly passed through the empty and long Boghdon desert, without getting bored. Without any problem we also went through Osmonsoy village situated in between the two mountains. When we reached the half way of Nazar Beli pass, the engine of our motorcycle get terribly hot. We stopped at eth edge of the road, near Qizil buloq (red spring). We had our breakfast, eating cow meat with the bread my mom baked for us. After that, we drank handfuls of water from the spring.
Full after breakfast, we continued our trip. We left the pass behind us and got to Boghdon. We went straight through the stony path a bit and turned right from the house of Qarshi muylov[5]. Then we stopped near the mud house situated at the giant Bughombir rock, to the left of Boghdonsoy. There were a horse, a donkey and a cow chained in the green corner at the end of the mud house, which was without a door. The scene reminded me of the picture painted by a painter.
“A mud house without a door…” I said to myself. In Boghdon, all houses are like this. It seems that everything in this village stopped from growing like the Bughombir rock.
Growth stopped here.
Time stopped here.
Boghdon remained the same as it was tens of years ago; what has changed is that only private properties were terminated and transferred to the state ownership. There only came into existence bloodsuckers such as brigadier, chairman, first secretary, police, KGB, etc. No famous person came out of Boghdon, except for Abdurahmon jevachi[6].
Suddenly, a big spotted dog came out barking of a corner of the house with agony. However, seeing Bektemir the dog calmed down. Frightened, immediately it forced backward. Seeing this, Oynur was surprised.
“Seeing Chingizkhan, not only dogs but also wolves will step away, snakes go back to their holes, babies stop crying,” I said with a little exaggeration.
Bektemir looked at me frowning.
“Did you say Chingizkhan, Evril? Who is that?” Oynur asked surprisingly.
I laughed cunningly.
Oynur understood what the matter was and looked at Bek with a special interest. Then she smiled saying:
“It seems you are right, Evril.”
In Boghdon, people call Bektemir “Bek.” Some people call him “Chingizkhan.” Mothers frighten their children, saying “Look, Chingizkhan is coming.” Children stopped crying after that.
I cannot say exactly about the lizard. However, Bek was capable to kill or choke any poisonous snake, or he could hit a snake taking from its tail and kill it, after revolving it over his head, and fried and ate it. He also liked eating porcupine, hedgehog and turtle. Bek even was not afraid of the most vicious dog, used to approach it without any fear, hit it with his fist and eat the dog’s meat.
It seemed to me that Bek had no feeling of disgusting.
I have never seen him raise his fist to the poor. He always spent his time with children from poor families. Inspite of this, both children and elderly were afraid of him. If he hit someone with the fist, he would turn into a panther. Those times he did not know what compassion was. Sometimes he would not keep himself from hitting his enemies with anything he took in his hand.
When Hazrat, who was years older than him, attacked Bek with a knife, Bek turned him down with a stone and threw his knife away to the rivulet. After that he threw Hazrat to the same place too.
Because he is not afraid of anything, he could have taken this name called Chingizkhan. Moreover, with his slanted eyes he looked like Moghuls. His eyebrow and eyelid were also thick. His face was darker. Anyone seeing him would think that he was an inexorable person. When he got angry, his eyes would become as brutal as tiger’s eyes and one would be afraid of looking at him. Actually, Bek had a clean heart. He looked bigger than his actual age. Many people said that he looked like his father. Indeed, Bek’s father – Sunnat the blacksmith – was a giant man.
At night when I told him about the lizard he did not even think and said:
“We’ll catch it.”
“Will you catch it yourself or we’ll do it together?”
“Together. We’ll take Nizom-tuynak[7] with us too.”
“Why?”
“We’ll need him.”
14
When the spotted dog stepped away, the wife of Lochin the healer, Oymomom, approached us smiling. Oynur told her our purpose.
“He is in the rivulet now, will soon come here,” said she in pure Oghuz dialect and led us to the supa[8] under the apricot-tree where quilts were laid. And she quickly laid a striped cloth on the mat. She brought bread, raisin, butter and a bowl of cream. Lochin the healer also came at that moment and greeted with us with the smile on his face. Oynur secretly looked at this slightly muscular man with black beard and moustache. Lochin the healer was a handsome feagured man. But it seemed to Oynur that his mouth an ears were a little big. In their turn, both Lochin and Oymomom looked at Oynur with greedy eyes and thought that “if a human being bore this girl or if she came down the moon?” Though we had breakfast in Qizilbuloq, we could not keep us from eating very delicious cream here.
Raisins of Boghdon are the best in the world. I also think that cream, butter and yogurt of this place are also incomparable.
After having some food we started talking bout our purpose. Lochin the healer listened to Oynur attentively. Then he asked:
“Is Lola’s illness from birth?”
“No.”
“Are her parents and realtives from this illness?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s possible to cure her, my daughter.”
“Thank you so much, healer!” exclaimed Oynur happily.
“But, on the other hand, it also depends on Lola herself. She should believe me and should not consider the lizard disgusting, my daughter.”
These words cased Oynur to think.
“I need to see Lola first, my daughter.”
“You are right, healer.”
We said goodbye to them and went to the communication center in central Forish District. Oynur phoned Lola there.
“Please come to Uchquloch for a couple of months, Lola,” she requested joyfully. “You will be happy here. Don’t forget to bring Gumilev’s books with yourself. Looking forward to seeing you here, Lola.”
[1] Mak-sheder – measuring tripod. Binoculars. It is consisted of measuring equipment and a dish with mercury.
[2] Lochin the healer’s original name is different; For some known reasons, I kept it secret.
[3] Poetess Zulfia was the editor-in-chief of the magazine. I remember her with so much of respect.
[4] If I am not mistaken, academician Habib Abdulla was killed at the age of 47.
[5] Qarshi muylov – in Boghdon, people called this person with bushy moustache “Qarshi muylov”.
[6] Abdurahmon jevachi was a national fighter who fought against Russian invaders. He gained a victory over the army of Chernyayev (Jizzakh battle) in 1866.
[7] Nizom-tuynak – he head a round face and was a small guy, but was very quick. He was able to enter any hole and run very fast.
[8] Supa — a traditional platform for people to sit, eat and relax.
МАҚОЛАНИ ДЎСТЛАР БИЛАН БАҲАМЛАШИНГ