Аннотация: In this my literary work I try to describe the difficult life of may poor compatriots in the past.(Holder Volcano)
Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers
Letters of Mizhappar
(The short novel)
(In loving memory of the great humorist of Uzbekistan Hadjibay Tadjibayev)
The first letter of Mizhappar
Let this letter that I write now, rushing like a storm, storming like a Typhoon, reach the hands of dear Mr. Sitmrat, whom lives in those countries where democracy flourishes like the Japanese Sakura in the spring. Let this letter be clear to him as the full moon in the deserted silence of the snow-covered field of the collective farm, where we plant cotton in the spring. Hello, Mr. Sitmrat, my name is Mizhappar. I'm a member of the collective farm. My fellow farmers work from early spring until late autumn, cooperating with the government to reach their goal, to exceed the annual plans for the collection of cotton, bravely defeating all the vagaries of harsh nature. Thank you very much, our wise President and the government, for making bread cheap. A man will not die if he does not eat meat. That is, anyone will do without meat. For us as long as bread is cheap along with water. Now, think for yourself, Mr. Sitmrat, if your clothing or boots tear, you can patch them up. But the stomach? What do you think, is it possible to sew up the stomach at least for a day and live without eating anything? It is not so. Here is recently, we were in search of bread with bags in armpits. And now, we thank again our wisest President and the government that there is bread, water and air.This is the most important thing. I am writing this historic letter and I think about those days when the first mandatory goods disappeared from the shop counters and I remember one funny story. The story is very funny and when I think about this case, I burst into laughter and can't stop. I can't stop even when I stare at my fingernails to stifle my laughter. Even now as I write this letter and cracked hand from my hands are shaking due to laughter. In short, in those grim days of my age, me and relative Qurumboy from the village "Lattakishlak" went to town in search of cotton oil. He was walking among the shops of the Bazaar when he saw a young man selling cotton oil. Qurumboy asked the price from this seller. The seller named the price. The price was reasonable and Qurumboy decided to buy, thinking "the Price is reasonable. I'll buy more. I will resell the excess to the neighbors in tridorogo ". While he thought, the seller asked him a delicate question, he said: - How many liters will you have, sir?
- Two... no, three pints please, ' said Qurumboy, pulling money out from his tarpaulin boots without soles. -Well, Mister - he said, and took one three-liter glass jar with a sealed lid. Then wiping it with a towel, gave it to Qurumboy. He paid and carefully placed the three-liter glass jar in the bag. When Qurumboy arrived home safe and sound, on a bus branded "Pazik" with a loaf of yellow bread, his mother was very happy. And, of course will be delighted. After all, they have not eaten hot food for 3 months in a row, and now this! The mother of Qurumboy even cried of joy. They then cleared the cabbage, corn, turnips, potatoes with surgical care put them into a kettle of vegetable oil, brought by Qurumboy. The well-oiled, clear oil lay in the bottom of the blackened kettle. Qurumboy began spreading the fire by adding dry dung. The fire burned quite a long time but, for some reason the oil was not warmed up. there was no smoke rising from it. Suddenly the heated oil began to boil. Seeing this, Qurumboy and his mother became surprised. It turns out that the seller was a liar, and he sold Qurumboy not cotton oil, but cold tea, which looked similar to oil.Then Qurumboy spent one week using the money on transportation, he went into town looking for the seller, a scoundrel on the market, but could not find him. Now, cotton oil, thanks to the government and our generous president, appeared on the shelves. Although, more expensive, but there it was. I don't understand people. Some complain all the time, because of the light turning, then about the shortage of gas for their furnace, then about drinking water. If it was my choice, I would have destroyed all those power lines, poles, in general electronics. It turns out this electric current is the most dangerous and harmful substance for human life. How many people died from the electric current in our village, when they picked an eletric breaker with a screwdriver in their hands, hoping to twist the meter, as to avoid paying for electricity. As the fire breaks out, with a green-red spark, the meter explodes in place with the host like a time bomb. Some of their houses were burned to the ground by a flash from power lines on their roofs into the attic, where dry hay that they were gathering for the cattle is ignited. It turns out, too, it's as flammable as gunpowder in a keg. It's better to live without electricity. In our village named after Chapaev every day, from evening to morning we should turn off the electricity. Naturally, I rejoice in this. My parents, my stepfather and stepmother are also happy. My stepfather to say, when the electricity is off I will not be watching TV and i'll fall asleep early. Yesterday I, was cleaning cows butts, suddenly, a chorus of villagers yelled and I slightly had a heart attack. They loudly shouted: Uraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!. I think, Mr. Sitmrat came on an armored personnel carrier with the oppisition starting the revolution. I went out Jogging on the street and see the villagers fleeing their homes, rustling their heavy coats and stomping with their tarpaulin boots without the soles.
- What are you saying, fellow villagers?! - I asked them.
- The lights on! - Thank you, our wise President and government! - they answered with a shout of joy. Through later hours, as they finished their food, they were waiting to watch television, the electricity had turned off.
Some citizens complain about the lack of gas. Well, what can you do, if these fools do not even know how dangerous this gas is. Last year in the winter the gas is nearly burned our house. In our village, people in order to take more gas, installed motors mounted into the furnace. And with the help of this mechanism, they extract the gas from the pipe, leaving small amounts of fuel to their neighbors. After consulting with my stepfather and stepmother, I also bought a motor of this kind and mounted it in the pipe of our furnace. As the motor began to work, immediately began to create blue flames in the furnace and it terribly buzzed like a ship sailing in the icy expanses of the Arctic ocean. The flame in the furnace fluttered like a flag on a flagpole and in a short time we became warm. My stepfather and stepmother rejoice, praising me. When it became stuffy, I had to take off my coat and hat with earflaps and sit in my undershirt. Our home became like a Finnish sauna and I had sweat all over me. Even breathing became difficult from the unbearable heat. Suddenly, the motor mounted into the pipe of the furnace, giving the sound of bats, flying in different directions, then the motor exploded. It turns out the pressure on the gas pipeline rose sharply. I saw the flames have risen to a meter and a half, if not more, and our shack has turned into a stone cave of a fiery hell. My stepmother in hysterics shouted in a shrill voice like a whistle of an ancient factory, calling for the help of people. I'm shocked. I stand still. I see my stepfather is also snarling like a wild man at a waterfall.
- Mizhappar! Look, my adopted son, the sheepskin is burning with the mattress by the furnace!Put it out, for God's sake! Oh, Lord! - he growled.
- I see, I see, stepfather! I will put the fire out! I growled in reply, and began feverishly to trample on the flame, which was raging terribly near our furnace. I trampled the fire with my flat-footed feet, like the fins of scuba divers, and finally, I managed to successfully contain the fire. But, during the struggle with the fire, my pants burned up to my knees and they turned into shorts. I've been afraid of gas ever since. Our poverty saved us from destruction. Because we except the clay floor, clay walls and ceilingmade out of almost nothing. If we had wooden floors and ceilings, luxurious furniture, it would definitely burn down. From there, and the popular saying complained that not beauty, but the poor will save the world. Here you are a great scientist in the field of profanity, think for yourself, if the people of the whole planet were poor, they would not be able to invent atomic and nuclear bombs, right, Mr. Sitmrat? Would a poor, hungry man think about inventions? they would only think about filling their stomach. They, too, would hope to find dry bread, and would work on the cotton plantations, from morning to evening, picking cotton, not ceasing even in the cold days of December in a place with their children. I firmly believe that wealth and luxury are the number one enemy of all mankind. After the fire that broke out in our house, it looked like a closet, I dismantled the pipes from the gas pipeline and we began to heat our shack with dung, that is, cow dung. Although dung in a furnace burns slowly and smells bad, at least it is safe for human life. Extracted dung is also not difficult. Sit on a donkey and go to the lawn where the juniper trees grow, where there is a lot of dung, which cows produced. Collect them, put them in your bag and the police will not even arrest you for it. Sometimes the mown rye field will also turn into a quarry fuel of energy resources for us, that is, for the poor. We need to live in harmony with nature, not destroy it.
With great respect, the member of collective farm, Mizhappar.
January 21, 2008. 19 hours 15 minutes.
Collective Farm "Chapaev".
The second letter of Mizhappar
The letter writing now, as well as the first letter let raging like a Typhoon or tsunami tropical shores of the ocean, will reach the hands of Mr. Sitmirat, who lives in the high mountains, over blue seas and the boundless forests in far Canada, thoughtfully Smoking his tobacco. Hello, dear Mr. Sitmirat. If you ask me, then I go dragging my foot cloth made from red slogan that stretches sticking out my torn of tarpaulin boots without soles, bothering the evil, stray dogs, laugh of children that ringing laughter ran after me, pointing to my tarpaulin boots without soles and shouting in unison, like a pack of monkeys. Now I will write about news. If you start with good news, the picture emerges something like this. My age and a relative who lives in the Village ''Lattaqishlaq'' Qurumboy thundered in the Slammer. Generally, he himself is to blame in this. It was like this. When we met him in the center of our village, Qurumboy told me that he has for me is very interesting news and he says the news only when I make a feast, slaughtering one sheep. -Well, there is no market. Our life is beautiful, our sky is clear and our bread is not expensive. You tomorrow evening along with Yoldashvoy and Mamadiar come to an abandoned pigsty, one sheep with me. I will arrange as they say, a magnificent Banquet in exactly, and there you will tell me that important news - I said. On the following day, according to my promise, I slaughtered a sheep with paws and a collar around its neck, without a muzzle. Poor so whined as if begging me so I let her live, sorry. - I'm sorry, buddy, I must lead you in victims. How else are my friends drinking vodka? Guess there's nothing to eat. We have to make you a healing soup called "Kuksi". So, good bye, my friend, I said, and I stabbed her with a sickle. What to do? I'm not Robespierre, to have a sharp guillotine. In short, I made a healing soup, where the meat was swimming sad poor dog. Seeing these delicate, Qurumboy refused to eat. He said - I will not eat dog meat. Yoldashvoy said that if vodka, then not only he is ready to eat dog meat, but donkey meat. After these words, I was just forced to bring a couple of bottles of vodka from the center of the village. After the first cups of vodka my friends played appetite, and they began to drink soup and eat dog meat, licking their fingers. Then I had to run again for vodka in the center of the village "Chapaev". We had a nice drink and we were cold. You see, the eyes of my friends slightly cross eyed and they are hard to hear words. They moved lazily, like a zombie. I got scared and began to ask Qurumboy about the news, which he promised to say. - Well, Qurumboy, out now the news you promised to tell. Tell me before it faded mirror of the mind - I said. Qurumboy picked off their used skullcap. Then come you didn't stay up from the inner pocket of his soldier's overcoat, filled her tobacco and began to smoke. - Well, Mizhappar - he said, smoking his pipe. - In short, your letter which you wrote on a roofing material, oppositionists published on the website - he told, having long and loudly rumbled. Look how ill-mannered he is. You are called on you, Mr.Sitmirat! The website said. Hearing his words, I began to climb the roof. - Uh, Qurumboy, why treat a respected Mr. Sitmirat what you are. Such a respected father, and you call it a Website! Not good - I said. Qurumboy in the place ashamed began to laugh. I was doing Kung Fu. I have a simple leather belt from pantaloons black in karate. Looking to the side lying sickle with a wooden handle, wrapped with blue duct tape, with the help of which I recently stabbed a poor dog. I grabbed the sickle, and rushed at Qurumboy. I only began to decapitate, appeared the local policeman, a friend of Shgabuddinov with a gun in the hands of mark "Mauser". - Hands up and face the wall! Shoulder width feet! Tell who! What's going on, huh?! Why fight, you bastards?! Answer me now! I'll shoot you on the spot without trial or investigation! - He shouted, nervously waving his "Mauser'.
-Qurumboy called respected man, Mr. Sitmirat's website -I said. Hearing my words, local policeman Shgabuddinov freaked out! He called Sitmirat of Sattarovich Site?! Oh you bastard, you redneck, how dare you call our beloved chief?! Do you even know who he is?! He, for twenty years headed the largest and most feared prison in the world! Such a commander called the site?! Well, consider yourself dead. I'll show you what's what! Come on, gather round, Scorpion green, let's go to the station, there we'll talk one on one! - Said local policeman Shgabuddinov. Then, with a kick in the ass, took Qurumboy to the station, after this incident of Qurumboy was tried and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, rightly said our ancestors that words are stronger than nuclear bombs. Because of the word of Qurumboy put on nine years! To think only! Uzbek poet Cosimiy knowingly wrote.
The Nightingale sang, sitting on a branch,
Because of the song he got in the cage.
One day, Qurumboy managed to bribe one of the guards, and this bribe taker brought me a secret letter from Qurumboy. To be honest, at first I was afraid to open the envelope, thinking that Qurumboy in his letter scolded me, probably worth. No, on the contrary, he even thanked me for being in prison. The content of the letter was as follows:
- Hi, Mizhappar! Thank you so much, my best friend, for helping me go to jail, I'm given three times a day for free bread and clothing. In short, people live here better than at will. You, and even my family, let them as soon as possible after committing some heinous crimes, will sit in the dock and that would be to lengthy periods of imprisonment, hire additional prosecutors, together a lawyer. If they find a way, they'll be empty for life, because in the wild they can die from lack of food and without clean water,
with great gratitude, your friend Qurumboy.
As soon as I read the letter of my friend, the Barber Usta Garib, Cycling through the streets of our village, with a loud voice called the people to the funeral called Muslims "Janaza". It turned out that last night died the mentor and chief of the local policeman Shgabuddinov Sitmirat Sattarovich, that is, your swine. Poor, Sitmirat Sattarovich was still quite young. Last year, he just turned eighty nine years. I used to think that leaders do not die, that is, they live forever. I miscalculated, find themselves leaders, too, and die. When the call to Gansu, every Muslim is obliged to go and attend this event. Leaving this law, I'm wearing my tarpaulin boots, which gave me for the birthday a son-in-law, that is, my sister's husband, who works in the fire Department. Then put a cotton vest on clapped on the head of his old, worn skullcap put on jeans. When I came to the house late Sitmrat Sattarovich, there were heads of all kinds and grades mournfully bowed their too smart super gravy, crossing his hands like a rake with which they raked the bribe, and, in large amounts. The local policeman Shgabuddinov here, too, sadly bowed his head, polished his service weapon by brand "Mauser" in the sleeves of his worn shirt, as if he would kill himself due to despair. Over the grave of Sitmirat Sattarovich roared hired plurality that came from bazaar. They were crying, tearing their hair and dresses to shreds, pretending to be in sisters and daughters of Sitmirat Sattarovich:
- Oh, father, why you have left us?! As we are now without you going to live?!
- Oooooh, my brother! You yes he was very young! What very long arms you had and incredibly short, crooked legs! What a bloated belly! What was your long thin neck and small head and bulb shaped head made from narrow-minded! You were a scythe and no you have a chin! Oh, the nose?! Your nose was like a potato! I do not believe that such a beautiful person like you is dead! You're probably faking it! Will the angels die too?! A whole twenty years he directed the terrible prison! Now orphaned yours, oooo, and my handsome brother! How will the poor convicts live without you now?! - They roared. Then the team no beard mullahs in tuxedo black light, we lined up on jeans near the tomb of Sitmirat Sattarovich. - Comrades, will be sold with! Now we read janaza in honor of our dear head of Sitmirat Sattarovich. Attention! - Said the beardless mullah, adjusting his tie, like a butterfly. We adopted the Attention and beardless Mullah saying, "Eyes left!"I approached the portrait of the deceased, and then long praised wise sitmirat Sattarovich. He had long read the praises, already got bored around. In the cold February air, the snow began to fall lazily, like dandruff of unkempt human hair. Then I accidentally saw their tarpaulin boots, I almost laughed. It turns out that in my rush I put them on inverted, that is, the left to the right foot and the right on the left leg. Here it was not possible to disguise them. Suddenly I saw the face of a bearded Mullah and laughter intensified. Because of this the mullahs, who wore on his head a black skullcap with plastic wrap covering it. His teeth were like the teeth of a rabbit, that is, these large teeth sticking out even when Mullah tightly closed his mouth, his teeth was still showing. If that was not enough, the voice beardless Mullah was like the sound of a saxophone. I can't guarantee not to laugh in these situations. Laughter accumulated in me like water in a reservoir and I started to laugh silently, clenching my shoulders. I would have stopped my laughter if I do not see in front of a man dressed in his shaved Fantomas above the head skullcap wrapped in a plastic bag. I'm laughing and raze I can't will stop. Then one man, who was standing next to me, turned out to be a strong devil, and began to laugh. No sound either. We looked at each other and laughed at each other stronger, blushing until neck from tension. It turns out; laughter is also like a plague spreading fast. You see, other people have caught on to this epidemic and began to laugh in unison, laughing. Then we were joined by itself the beardless Mullah and he too began to laugh, shaking his stomach. I see the owners of the corpse are giggling, too. Here I laughed in a loud voice, others too. Thus the funeral of Sitmirat Sattarovich turned into a Comedy. These are the things we have, Mr. Sitmirat. Okay, I have to go to the cotton field. Say Hello to everyone,
sincerely, worker of the collective farm 'Chapaev' Mizhappar.
February 2, 2008. 13 hours and 22 minutes a day.
The collective Farm "Chapaev".
The third letter of Mizhappar
Assalamu alaikum, Mr. Sitmirat! The other day I bought two packs of Indian tea, two scones with a kebab and went to prison to visit my friend and relative of Qurumboy. We arrived in colonies, where convicts are brought up, and near the gate of the prison I saw Qurumboy. There he fought with the police, and the police chased him, but Qurumboy did not obey them. One of the policemen said:
- Hey, What the hell, we are tired of you, go home, you are free! You have in your hands a legal document of the Supreme court on Amnesty. If this Amnesty gets you released, you know what will happen?!
- No, you have no right to release me even with the help of Amnesty! I want to stay in this prison for the rest of my life! Why are you violating my right to serve?! I'll write a cessation appeal to the Supreme Court! If he also refuses to review my case, I will have to complain to a human rights organization such as Hyman rights watch. They will raise a political scandal in this case, and this rumor will reach the President himself. Then you will be gone! You'll lose your fat job! - said Qurumboy.
The police ran together to the prison and hastily closed the iron gate, leaving Qurumboy on the street. Then Qurumboy started pounding at the gate with his fists.
- Open the gate, you bastards! I want to go back to my own prison. - shouted Qurumboy, kicking the gates. The iron gate rattled with his blows as spring thunder in inclement weather before the noisy rain. The police were happy for the high fence and barbed wire of the city prison. They said:
- Knock, fool, knock! It still is not open!
- Okay, okay, okay! Let's make a deal, I'll come in and get my boots and come out! - Qurumboy, ceasing to Bang on the prison gates.
- Nah, we barely got rid of you! Better themselves will bring your smelly boots and pants with sticks but would not get infected by rabies! - said the policemen, and without forcing a long wait, threw the boots Qurumboy over the high fence of the prison. The policemen were shouting obscene words, Qurumboy wore his boots which have no soles. Then I went up to him and said Hello.
And Mizhappar? - he said, putting on his boots. At this time, from behind the fence came the voice of a policeman:
- Hey, bro, please, take this friend of yours away, for God's sake! He's boring! Such a ham, he probably, did not know the history of our prison!
Look at you, you want to be here! Go work on the cotton plantations, you parasite! -
- Qurumboy, let's go, friend. Do not drive Bird of happiness with a stick, which wants to nest on your head. Come on-, I said, calling him to reason. But Qurumboy didn't listen to me and he took a large stone near the fence of the flower garden, with full force threw it to the side of the prison. It is good that the soldier who stood on the tower, bent down and the stone flew towards the prison. There was a thump, and someone with a groan fell..
I started to calm Qurumboy, trying to persuade him to get away from that ill-fated place.
- Calm down, Qurumboy go home. They shot you using a stun gun with a telescopic sight -, I said.
Qurumboy, leaving, shouted to the police:
- Just you wait, bastards! I'll show you how to get an innocent man out of jail! I'll have each of you separate dirt! - said Qurumboy.
Calming Qurumboy, I took him to the bus stop. When we entered the yellow light bus, which looked like a loaf of Russian bread, the people gave us seats and we sat in the back seats. When the bus moved off, I asked Qurumboy:
- Hey,what's dirt?- Qurumboy chuckled back:
- Oh, you man, you have no idea what you got? Dirt is, the sins committed by the guard. Here, I've collected dirt on the rotten Cavel. One day I was sitting in the house with the poor, sipping kefir, let the Piglet in a circle, kicks, in short, and then rushed into the prison, the guard Qabil does frisk, and at the same time sniffing the air says:
- Do we smoke some pineapple?! Now get him out of here! Quick! What did I say!..
We were silent. well, this is, my mug that I usually drink kefir in.
-Qabil, you broke my mug, that would be expensive - I said.
- Oh, political socialism! You should be rewarded. Do you want to get the Nobel Prize?! International? - he asked.
- What's with the prize?.. I asked in surprise.
-Here's the award! Qabil said and hit me in the head with his club. The blow was so strong that I lost consciousness. When I came to, I saw that my head and smashed through the wall, which tied my head inmates, oozing blood.
- Qurumboy, please. Don't argue with those Cavels. In ancient books, too, write about some Cain or Cavel, who killed his own brother named Abel with a stone. As the legend says, the Cavels were evil from ancient times, and it is useless to argue with them - I said.
Yes?! Oh, bitch Cavel! He killed his own brother Abel with a stone. Thank you, Mizhappar, thank you, karifan (Friend)! These pearls are added to the dirt I've collected on warden Qabil ! Qurumboy was delighted.
With such talk we reached the "Lattaqishlaq" and went through a wooden gate to the house where he was born and where he lived. The mother of Qurumboy wept after embracing his son, who returned from the Slammer. After we ate plov, which is made by Mother of Qurumboy in honor of his son, I returned home.
The next day, doing morning karate training, I noticed that in our mailbox the postman threw the letter. Since my training ground was on the flat clay roof of an old closet, I ducked down, making a triple somersault, and I looked into the mailbox. There lay a letter written on the dog's skin, with the help of a modern ballpoint pen.
The letter looked like this:
My mother decided to get me married to a beautiful lady named Karahan. A sister came with her husband, and they persuaded me.
-Qurumboy, son, your father died without seeing your wedding. I don't want to die before your wedding. I want to babysit grandchildren while alive, said the mother, shedding bitter tears. I agreed. Come, friend, along with members of his family (with his stepfather and his stepmother), with friends and Mamadiar Yuldashvoy. I had been invited to the wedding of a human rights activist from the United States, Mr. Mackentosh, whom I met when he came to the Commission in prison to study the observance of human rights in prisons. Mr. Mackentosh wants to make a documentary about my wedding. The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow. Come and don't be late.
With respect, Qurumboy."
Oh, expenses again. Going to a wedding with nothing is ugly. I thought.
I thought and thought then suddenly came up with a unique idea, and I screamed with joy in the voice:
- Eureka-aaaa! Hearing this, my sister's husband, that is, the son-in-law, who came to visit us, jumped up from the place of fright. He thought a fire broke out.
- What's wrong, stepson?! Why are you shouting like a Mockingbird in the night rainforest?! - asked my stepfather, putting one foot boots with cut shaft, and the other boots.
-Don't worry, my stepfather, Qurumboy married our family member and my friend from the village "Lattaqishlaq"! - I said.
- Oh, thank God, I thought our house was on fire again! - said my good stepmom. I decided to give Qurumboy a fur hat, which I made from canine skins orange for his wedding. The next day I wrapped the wedding gift in the newspaper and we went to the wedding on my bike with a biker wheel. My stepfather sits in front of the frame, and my stepmother sitting on the trunk with gifts in hand. Spinning the pedals, I go from time to time, ringing the bell, scaring off children on the road to avoid hitting someone. The road to our village is not paved, every step meets the puddles from yesterday's rain where the floating domestic ducks and geese, are munching, with the help of their beak related to wood, hoping to eat worms. They sounded unhappy when I bothered them. They reacted to us in their own way, nervously waving their wings. Finally, we came to the wedding. I congratulated my friend during the wedding at the entrance and gave him a gift. My stepfather and stepmother also congratulated Qurumboy, and we went into the courtyard, where the wedding took place. You see, Yuldashvoy with Mamadiar sitting at the table, with the guests and drank in honor of Qurumboy and his bride Barahona. I joined them. We sat, so we ate, listen to music and songs. Some dance. Here came Qurumboy and introduced me to a guest from America, Mr. Mackentosh.
- You know Mizhappar, Mr. Mackentosh, a human rights activist. It protects the rights of animals. Sometimes he protects humans, too, -said Qurumboy.
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Mackentosh" I said, shaking hands with the human rights activist. After that Qurumboy addressed the American:
- Sir, can I introduce You with my friend. His name is Mishappar. They are very nice people. Mizhappar is working in a collective farm, he is a cold kolkhoz. Do you know where i am? -said Qurumboy with Uzbek accent.
- Oh, Yes, sir! im Not a kolkhoz! Thank You for introducing. Nice To meet You! said Mr. Mackentosh-, shaking my hand mutually and with interest looked me in the eye with a smile, as a psychiatrist who works in a psychiatric hospital, which brought up the mentally ill.
Here the tipsy toastmaster, grabbed Mr. Mackentosh by the sleeve, as a vigilante enough of a violator of public order, and asked him to dance, too.
- Sorry, very Sorry, I dont know how To dance! - said Mr. Mackentosh, blushing from shame, with a guilty smile on his lips.
Then to his happiness Mamadiar and Yuldashvoy began to revive the ancient Uzbek tradition "tug a war", that is, to compete with the power, trying to take away the opponent's velvet tablecloth, after the bride and groom pass through this cloth on the track. Mamadiar pulled on the tablecloth and Yuldashvoy for himself. They were joined by other cool guys. A fierce battle for the tablecloth began. The crowd of guys moved in one direction and then the other. This sight was like a pack of hungry wolves that plagued the victim. The competing crowd of guys that with a crash amicably fell, then got up. Some fighters had blood in their hands and on their faces. But none of them wanted to let go of the tablecloth. Mr. Mackentosh scared, thinking that guys fight drunk. He took it all on video with great interest in the memory, then sitting, then lying. Here, the crowd suddenly hit the shed, in which were mounted the electric wires. From a powerful blow the beam broke, and the canopy with a roar fell to the ground, destroying everything that was attached to it. The broken wire, flashing a spark, as by welding, and short circuit something exploded. Then a fire broke out and the light went out.
- Oh, My gooood! Mamma, MIA! Something exploded! What was that?! - Mr. Mackentosh exclaimed.
When the joint efforts of the fire under control, the yard was plunged into darkness, as during the massacre of St. Bartholomew. People, started lighting matches, and began to go home.
There you have it, Mr. Sitmirat. Okay, then, I had to go to work. I have to carry pesticides for chemical treatment of cotton seeds. Sorry for the short letter. Hi everyone.
Sincerely, the farmer Mizhappar.
12: 00 Bartholomew night.
Collective farm of Vasily Chapaev.
The fourth letter of Mizhappar
The letter, which I write with shaking hands in a cold closet wrapped in an old blanket, let it fly like a Seagull over the ocean and fall into the hands of Mr.Sitmirat, who lives abroad, throwing his Uzbek tobacco "nasvai" under his tongue.
Assalamu alaikum, Mr.Sitmirat! If you ask me, I also live like all other farmers on the globe. Yesterday in the collective farm club held a reporting meeting. This meeting farmers are waiting with admiration, as other Nations are waiting for their favorite holidays. This holiday is called by the common people "Achot Milis". The fate of farmers depends on this meeting. Because it is at this gathering is announced, which of the farmers receives the accumulated money for the year, and who will come out with a huge debt. After summarizing my expenses and receipts for the year, I built sky-high plans that if I get money for the "report", then immediately go to the cattle market and buy a cow. Unfortunately, I was declared a debtor. Turns out the foreman and the timekeeper made a long list of things I didn't get. I see my signatures are there. Well, I think reptiles, they are not only team leaders Scam artists, but also talented artists! They drew my signatures. I didn't argue with them. Arguing with these parasites is useless. Anyway, I didn't want to go to jail. Well, we, the workers, in the late autumn collect cotton stalk as firewood for the winter, which is called "guzapoya". I sold the cotton stalk you have gathered and for the money I bought a neutered sheep. The next morning, when I entered the barn, I saw a terrible picture. The sheep is dead... Whether she was sick with a disease called "Salmonella", or died of severe hypothermia. After the frost-cracking at minus forty-five! Here you live overseas, Mr.Sitmirat. It is said that in Europe and the Western people cloth their dogs and cats warm clothes in winter. Here, enterprising people, huh? I would do the same, that is, would put on a sheep coat with a hat with a ear-flaps, she would have survived. Poor sheep. I wanted to bury her with all the honors as a heroine and started digging a grave for her in the middle of our yard. Since our yard's clay fences aren't very high, someone greeted me while looking over the fence
. Hello, Mizhappar! Then, the garden that you dig in the white of winter? Al Sewerage decided to build?
I see it's the butcher Mukhtar.
And, Mukhtar, is that You? Yes, my sheep is dead. I want to bury the poor thing as a man, with all the honors-I said, leaning on the handle of a shovel.
-Yes? - said Mukhtar the butcher, with interest looking on dead sheep which lay in wrapped the form of in white a shroud.
-No need to bury him, Mizhappar. Give it to me and I'll pay - said Mukhtar butcher.
- Why Do you want a dead sheep? - I asked in surprise.
- This is a secret trade - said the butcher Mukhtar.
- Well, take then, if it is related to Commerce-I said.
Mukhtar the butcher came into our yard, paid for a sheep and, having lifted a dead animal on a shoulder, went towards the center of the village where his box in which it traded was located. What a weirdo. I still can't figure out why the butcher wants a dead sheep. After selling it to the butcher Mukhtar, I went to the bird market that day and bought a pair of chickens with the money that the butcher Mukhtar gave me. The next morning I went to the chicken coop to sprinkle the grain to the chicken and change the frozen water. I see no chickens. The chicken coop door is slightly open. I was looking for chickens all day, stumbling in the snow, hailing the snow-covered fields. Do not have them. Do they fly South, I thought, looking at the cold sky. Then I came home again. After returning, I suddenly see under the clay fences lie chicken legs, tied with wire. Seeing there a note, I began to read feverishly:
-Mizhappar, next time you go to the rookery, buy fat chickens. Because we must often eat chicken soup, which is good for our body. The doctor said. And then, don't plug the electric current into the chicken coop. It's useless. First, we will work in rubber gloves, and secondly, there is still no electric current on the electric lines, there is no current - and there will not be. For this, of course, a huge thank you to our wise President and our state, which save electricity.
- Yes to chicken meat, which ate, stuck in your throat! - I cursed parasites who stole chickens.
Then I went outside to warm up a little, as it was colder inside our hut than outside. There I met my friends, Qurumboy, Yuldashvoy and Mamadiar. They were near the store heated folk remedy,that is, drank homemade wine, snacking. They poured me too, and I drank too.
- Uh, guys, do you think spring is coming this year at all? Tired of the cold - I said, biting an armful of snow.
-Come, Mizhappar will come, will come long-awaited spring. Only, this spring will be political, you know? That is, the political spring will come.
- Yes? - Mamadiyar was surprised.
- Yes-responded Qurumboy.
- Is that possible? What's this, a political spring? What does she look like? - asked by Yuldashvoy.
- Sometimes. Why not? In the political spring, democracy, freedom and all the others are blooming. Dictatorship and censorship is melting like the snow is cold, and dissipates like a fog. The most interesting thing is that this spring will fly a bird of the most extraordinary breed - said Qurumboy, lighting his pipe.
- What kind of bird is this extraordinary breed? What, an African parrot? I asked.
-No, Mizhappar is the bird of happiness, "Gamayun" is called. Big such bird with multi-colored feathers, huge wings and a very long tail. About it I told one man in prison - said Qurumboys.
- Yeah, well- wow!... - surprised by Yuldashvoy.
I swear - century will not see Qurumboys.
- I think she's scary and evil, bird "Gamayun -Lucky bird". You have to be very careful. She's like an evil Seagull can peck our respected leaders. It would be necessary to strengthen the defense until the spring - I said, cautiously peering into the horizon.
- No, Mizhappar, the man said that this bird is quite harmless.
And, if harmless, it is good, that is, it will be possible to catch and cook her soup or grill - can be done at worst Yuldashvoy.
- The fool, why make a soup from her. She carries the eggs, and we every morning we have scrambled eggs for Breakfast as the aristocratic opposition, which live in the ocean. We will collect the extra eggs and put them in the incubator, and there the Chicks will hatch. Then, we build the farm and providing the people of Gamayun meat, make export in canned form, raise, that is, the economy of our Country - clever Mamadiar.
Yes, my friends, Mamadiar rights. Therefore, we must help our feathered friend by building him a large, well-maintained three - room birdhouse with balconies, and this birdhouse will be installed on the roof of an abandoned pigsty by the river, painted in fire-red color, so that the bird of happiness "Gamayun" could clearly navigate, seeing even from afar this unique birdhouse of the century - said Qurumboy.
- Good idea - I said.
After this conversation we hastily drank the remains of a barmatian and went to build a birdhouse for the bird "Gamayun", which intends to fly together with the political spring.
When we came to the house of Qurumboy, we came out to meet the wife of Qurumboy Karyahan, so chubby, with a swollen belly and a huge ass. She greeted us, and sang a song of brides with a bow. Bowing low to each of us, she sang.
- Bravo, darling , Bravo! - said Qurumboy, clapping his hands, as if applauding and admiring the art of his wife. Inspired by the praise of Qurumboy, Karyahan wanted to continue her limericks, but then Qurumboys stopped her.
-Enough, cute enough, he said to his wife. Then he took an axe and a hacksaw with a mount and told us to dismantle, disassemble the floors of the hut in which his mother lived Risolat-Momo. The mother of Qurumboy gave us a fierce resistance when we began to twist and pull out the Board, pulling the creaking of rusty nails while destroying the gender.
- What are you doing, damned?! Stop, I won't be forced to call the neighbors for help! - said Risolat-Momo. Qurumboy with an axe in his hands began to explain the situation of his mother:
- Mummy, look, finally, political spring on the nose! Coming to us from the North the bird of happiness "Gamayun", you Know?! We have to build for it a comfortable three-room apartment with balconies! You scream as if we're building her a two-story cottage! If you think she's a common bird, like a Sparrow, then it's your big political mistake. Because "Gamayun" does not fit in a regular birdhouse! She's a bird of gigantic 15 meter tail, you know?! If you want our people to be as happy as other Nations, don't stop us from working! We will build a giant birdhouse, as it is our civic duty! - he said.
These Patriotic words of Qurumboy worked on mom and she started crying. (probably, from happiness). We began to work for the good of our people, turning the boards. Qurumboy, making mark chalk on the Board, sawed them with a hacksaw. We worked until lunch, as they say, tirelessly. Although it was winter, and the frost cracked, we all sweated. Finally, Qurumboy announced a smoke break, and we began to relax.
- Now, materials for the birdhouse are ready - said Qurumboy, tightly hammering sawdust in his favorite pipe and lit it. After the break we built a huge birdhouse, and, securing it over the hump Yuldashvoy, went to a disused pigsty near the river. By the evening, we completed the work by installing a birdhouse on the roof of the pigsty. Now we are waiting for, so to speak, the arrival of political spring and the arrival of the bird of happiness "Gamayun". Well, okay, Mr.Sitmirat say Hello to everyone. With best wishes, the carpenter, Mizhappar.
February 13, 2008.
The Collective Farm "Chapaev".
The fifth letter of Mizhappar
"Half my mustache and about 60 percent of my curly hair burned down yesterday. It's my own fault for that. I wanted to write you the following letter, but there was no light. In the dark is inconvenient to write. Let me think I'll light the kerosene lamp. I took a match and struck it. The kerosene lamp exploded. It turns out that my stepfather confused the fuel and mistakenly filled the lamp with gasoline. Barely put out the fire. Now, I write to you the letter and I'm afraid to look in the mirror. Because when I saw my face, my stepmother fainted. Poor.
So I had to put on a mask cut out of cardboard and go to work, or cotton plantation, where I work, rolling barrels of pesticides, with these toxic chemicals in the cotton seed processing shop. I go, damn, my saliva is flowing and flowing, can not stop. She stuck to our gate made of tin from the casks in which to store pesticides, and never ceased to flow, stretching out like a sturdy string to the field camp where I went to work without protective clothing and without a respirator. I was scared, and after work went to the folk healer Gpreddin Kokyotal. Checking my pulse, he told me:
- Do not worry, Mullah Mizhappar, the symptoms of Your illness, I have determined what the disease is. It turns out, we with you relatives - he said.
-Yes You that, Mr.Gpreddin Kokyotal crazy, or what? What kind of relative am I? Look, we're not like each other at all. Your nose is like this one, eggplant, and your ears are too small, like a Jerboa. My head is spherical, and You face won some, asacia! - I said.
- We are relatives through illness, Mullah Mizhappar said the folk healer Gpreddin Kokyotal, choking cough.
- A-and-and, so would and said. And then I got scared - I said. The folk healer Gpreddin Kokyotal: -Our common disease of which we are proud, originates from daily malnutrition. Alas, our food in the cauldron is cooked on the water, that is, we do not eat hot food for months. Just tea and bread. Thanks for that - said the peoples healer Gpreddin Kokyotal, constantly coughing. He had a long and terrible cough, was completely blue from lack of oxygen. I'm choking red, too. Because, I, too, tried not to breathe, not to get national powwow of Gpreddin Kokyotal. It turns out that people without air, like a fish out of water. Like a scuba diver with an empty oxygen tank at the bottom of the Pacific ocean. I left the house national powwow of Gpreddin Kokyotal and went out in the yard, eagerly began to swallow portions of oxygen, filling the air with my empty lungs.
I went outside, and there met Yuldashvoy with Mamadiar. From them I heard the latest news, which I want to share with you. Recently, well, just last week, beloved wife of Qurumboy sick. She complained of abdominal pain. Qurumboy ran to the village Council where a phone with a broken tube, one in the whole village, and they called in the ambulance. But the ambulance did not come because of the lack of gasoline. Then Qurumboy, he'd put his wife Qoryaxan on the bike and went to the hospital. While he was driving, he was sweating like a horse after the race. The thing is, there was an eight in the back wheel of the bike.
The wife of Qurumboy doctors have long turns were examined behind a screen, then put it to the chamber office therapy. Looking from the window, Qurumboy told his wife that he would bring her a kettle, a bowl, and a bowl with a wooden spoon. After that Qurumboy went back home and brought to his beloved wife the necessary things that he promised. Tying chain his bike to a post, Qurumboy approached the window and asked the nurse on duty that she called Qoryaxan. The nurse said that Qoryaxan, that is the wife of Qurumboy, was transferred to the hospital... Qurumboy, of course, was surprised, and asked supposedly for what? Maybe the doctors mistook his wife for some other pregnant woman.
"No," said the nurse on duty.
- Our doctors are the best in the world. They are never wrong - she said proudly.
Qurumboy immediately went to the side of the hospital, rattling things that were in the bag. As soon as he appeared near the window of the maternity Department, and immediately began to congratulate the nurse midwives:
-Are you, Qurumboy Qoramoygutalin Moriqultezal Tappitutuniy ?! We thought so! What a happy man you are! Congratulations from the heart, you have become a father! Your wife gave birth to twins! They're both girls! Can you, give us gifts, happy father! Now! Where are the flowers and the champagne and the chocolate?! - fun shouted they.
Hearing this, Qurumboy almost went crazy.
- What are you talking about?! What twins?! I recently married, how can give birth to my wife in such a short period of time? She's not! What a joke! Is it funny?! - Qurumboy got angry.
- We're not kidding, we're telling the real truth! If you don't believe me, we can call her to the window, and you'll see for yourself. Go over there, there's a microphone, and you can talk to your wife, " said one of the nurses.
- Call-said Qurumboy and reluctantly approached the microphone.
Ten minutes at the window appeared the wife of Qurumboy Qoryahan with a pale smile on his lips. Then through a megaphone began to speak:
- Hello, my lovely huzband Qurumboy!..
- Honey, is it true you gave birth?! - Qurumboy asked.
- Yes, honey, it's true. Now we have two children! Twins! What happiness, my God! she smiled.
- What kind of mess is that?! What are you saying ?! How dare you... After all, we got married recently. How could we have made it, anyway?! - Qurumboy.
How do I know?! Maybe it's an abnormal phenomenon. Maybe it's a girl's miracle. We must not reject God's gift, Qurumboy? -said Qoryahan.
- What?! God's gift? You leave the rest to God! That's impossible! I do not recognize these children, that is, they are not from me! What an abomination! Oh, what a shame! I trusted you! I loved you! What a fraud!.. I'd cut You with a gardening knife or a sickle, but I don't want to get my authority dirty! You don't deserve to be stabbed! From now on you are nothing to me! I will announce to you now "three talaq" according to Sharia law! Goodbye, Qoryagar... Forget about me forever, good bye... - said Qurumboy.
- Qoryahan began to dance moving her huge her ass, singing a song :