(In loving memory of the great humorist of Uzbekistan Hadjibay Tadjibayev)
"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.