Writer Qalandar Hazrat ibn Abdel Fattah

After Khurshida angered the visitors by its hysterical, the owner fired her dining room. She had to find a new job. After a long search, she still found a job in the city Park of culture and recreation. She started working there as a janitor and cleaned the Park with a broom with a long wooden handle. Khurshida performed the tasks given to her by the foreman. Work in this Park liked it even those, which in it, too, grew white acacia. Where she sometimes sat on the bench under the white acacia, eating his meager dinner, she feels as a mother field camp, where there was exactly the same locust, which became a symbol of her love. On the lake, people riding families on boats, some crowds walked through the Park where it was shady, clean and cool from bubbling fountains. Many preferred to ride on the merry-go-round, others rested on other attractions, ate ice cream and drank soft drinks. Especially attracted the attention of Khurshida, well-dressed couples in love, who walked in the Park, walking under the handle, laughing loudly. Khurshida looked after them with envy, thoughtfully leaning on the handle of the rake or shovel with work gloves on her hands. Entry days, Khurshida did not rest as other workers, and went into wide field and in the thickets among the juniper bushes collected dung for the winter, despite the fact that she was already two months pregnant. To collect dung for her was like a good walk in the fresh air, a kind of rest and freedom, where she could think about tractor driver Sultan as much as necessary and no, it does not interfere. Every Sunday she went to the side of a wide field, with a bag in her hands, like people who go to the forest to pick mushrooms. She rejoiced every time she found dung, as an avid mushroom picker who is happy to find a mushroom. As this is ancient free of dried fuel was easy, Khurshida did not make special work to lift a sack of dung. Pressed dung reminded cakes could be found mainly in those places where cows grazed all summer. Khurshida today decided to collect dung at the edges of cotton fields in the juniper bushes, thickets and on the banks of the river at the ravine. Collecting dung, she looked around; making sure no one was around, she sang a sad song about love and separation. She sang enthusiastically and beautifully, like a professional singer. She came to herself and blushed only when I saw on the shore in the middle of tall grasses, the man who was sitting with a fishing rod in his hands. He looked at Hurshida with interest, and she became uncomfortable.
- Sorry, I didn't know you were fishing here. I feel sorry. I probably scared the fish -sheepishly said Khurshida.
- No, on the contrary, you helped me, calling all the fish here, and their magical songs! I was interrupted by the beautiful songs you sang. I interrupted them, coughing like a sheep with leaky lungs. I have a bittersweet so bitter that when I do a puff, the smoke stinks in my lungs like an arrow, because I smoke a flywheel, twisting a piece of paper. And you sing, just like the legendary French singer Mireille Mathieu. At first it seemed to me that these songs are heard from the transistor radio, and sings a professional singer. Can this so and there is? Are you a professional singer? - Fisherman said.
- Yes Ah, that you, what I have talent! I'm not a singer, but a simple caretaker. I work in the city Park of culture. Sweeping the territory - explained Khurshida.
- No, You have to work not as a janitor in parks, but in Philharmonic halls and go on tour giving concerts all over the country! You have a loud and clear voice like a tuning fork, like a silver bell that rings zing! Dzin! Dzin! But do not forget, God forbid, you leave the art and will not sing for the General public, the story Will not forgive you. And the future generations will curse you with glee. I appreciate talent, because I'm a writer. Write a book. Recently wrote a very interesting novel. "The driver" it's called. In this novel, my literary hero Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch forty years sitting in a deep and dark dungeon of the Emir Abu Negman Merzaqul Khidar Ibn Darvesh Kokaltash Abdulmakorem Hadjy Balutkhan for kidnapping time. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovucha childhood dream that he had a lot of time, but his dream was never realized. In a land where he was born Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch, it was difficult to exist if the person didn't have enough time. That is, then time was more expensive than gold. From the lack of time, people even died, you know? Parents Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch also died from lack of time. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch have grown and matured and one day, he robbed the Central Bank. There is, unfortunately, Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch the alarm went off and the guards arrested him red-handed. And condemned, put him in a deep and dark dungeon, where people can see only birds flying and the sky above the dungeon. Forty years young Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch was released grizzled, older man and began to work as a shepherd, Drover large herds of donkeys in the steppes. Day and night he drove a herd of wild donkeys on the boundless steppe with a long whip in his hands, and clouds of dust that rose from the hooves of wild steppe donkeys, settled on his sweaty face, hands and feet. A herd of donkeys was so huge that Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch lost their account when they wanted to count their heads for reporting to the user. Every day without days off and without leaving from morning to night, running around the steppe barefoot in the same short striped pants, eating on the run. And the donkey, the long and ugly was shouting, stretching his neck, then fought among themselves, biting and laga each other, then ran, shaking the steppe hooves. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch loved the giant herd of wild donkeys, and day and night he worked to drive them into safe shelters, where they could not break a pack of hungry wolves. But gradually the herd is out of control and no longer obey the driver of Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch . Despite this, shepherd Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch not sleeping a wink at night lit bonfires, and hungry wolves dared not attack the donkeys, for fear of the blazing fire. But the donkeys were not able to appreciate the back-breaking labor of his shepherd, on the contrary, once they trampled him into the mud and killed. Here is such a sad affair happened to me at a glance - fisherman finished his story. Then add:
- My name is qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah - What's your name? - He asked.
- My name is... And why should you? Actually, I can tell you my name. I'm Khurshida. But your story about the novel you wrote just struck me. What an interesting and sad novel. And where, in any bookstore you can buy this book, sir Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah -? - asked Khurshida.
- Unfortunately, You will not find my novel in the bookstores of the country yet. But there is hope that it will be published by one large publishing house with which I signed the contract. Yes, writers are people too, and they also have families and children. I mean, they need money, too. But I generally do not write for publication. I have nothing to compare the pleasure that I get when I write my works. I love fishing, loneliness and silence. I go to bed late, but Wake up at dawn, when others are sleeping the sweet sleep, and in silence listen to the sonorous morning trills of newly awakened birds. Streets are deserted. If you don't count the bird's chirping, we can assume that silence reigns around. The air is cool and clean. In such hours it seems that consciousness deepens and the mind becomes transparent like a mirror. Then you go out into the yard and sitting on the steps of the wooden stairs of your hut, you listen to the cool silence, watching the slowly and gradually pale horizon, which is full of stripes, like a torn silk women's nightgown pale yellow. From the distant clover fields, there were voices of wild birds. Here begins the roll call of roosters. From a distance barely hear the drums and hysterical crying surnai (Eastern wood-wind musical instrument), inviting people for a free wedding Breakfast which would attract anyone, without invitation. Sounds of canary and the drum roll. These distant sounds do not disturb the silence, on the contrary, decorate it with their presence. Especially when you're with a hoe on my shoulder going for a morning trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass, begins to sparkle with diamond dew, and the sun, bursting, singing skylarks over a field. You will stop with a smile on your lips to listen to the joyful songs of these birds that sing. You listen to their songs, and you don't want to leave. Then with elated mood you walk further, as speak, with leaps and bounds. It is good that there is a field, to my happiness. If I was offered a job in some crowded city and assigned a salary of five thousand dollars a month, I still could not live and work there for a long time. I would have died right at the working machine from the longing for the broad fields and the native village, gradually slimming, losing the gift of speech like a wild man. Borderless, I'm like a Dolphin with no sea. Dumb love flight of the white butterflies that flutter above the paths, silently chasing each other. The flight of white butterflies is a living image of silence, which artists are unable to portray in their paintings. I've been on the field a long time knocking on hoe, and I don't sit down to rest, no. In order to shake off the boot, which hit the lump. I take my boots off my feet and begin to shake it, holding it like a pipe of a heater, which is cleaned of soot in the winter. Meanwhile, I hear a distant and sad voice of a lone hoopoe and freezes with the boot in his hands: "Upupup! Upupup! Upupup! Pisssss!"."Upupup! Upupup! Upupup! Pisssss!". I listen to the weeping of the hoopoe, grey. Then I put on my boots and then I keep working. I used to think why I always wanted to cry when I heard the voice of the hoopoe in the fields. Then I realized that this voice, it turns out, is associated with my childhood, and it reminds me of those distant years when I went to the field with my late mother. I vaguely remember the field camp with thatched roof, tall poplars and a huge willow tree, in the shade where we children played, next bubbled through pure water in the irrigation ditch; on the branches of the tall poplars hundreds of passerine nests, red straw which patted the winds. Sparrows rustled in unison, stunning the neighborhood. How noisy these poplar and willow on the free winds! The nannies tied hammocks to trunks of poplars and, having laid in these hammocks kids, rocked them, loudly singing the lullaby, for the field camp. Women worked in the fields, glittering in the distance with the edges of their hoe. I still miss those fields and mulberry trees with trunks like elephant legs. I miss those tall poplars, the willows, the noise and the chirp of the Sparrow flocks, and I even miss the smell of pesticide-treated cotton seeds that lay in the pit. Oddly enough, the smell of pesticides - it is also the smell of my childhood. Every time I think about it, tears come to my eyes. Don't know why, but it is. That field camp and the trees, those people disappeared a long time ago. But they live in the fields of my memories, and no one can kill and destroy. With such thoughts I get back to work. I work, I work, and suddenly I stop again, straightening my back, and listen to the voice of cuckoo, which comes from the coast, where the olives grow, which blossomed. The pleasant smells of blooming olives are spread around the field drunk winds. Oh, you should have seen the moment when I come back from the field against the backdrop of a blazing sunset! I'm going tired, but in a good mood at the acquaintance to a pain a trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass, fending off pesky mosquitoes. As I cross the field, the night falls softly, and begins to twinkle. I walk along the trail, walking with a hoe on my shoulder, but not without stopping, of course. I stop only to watch the moon slowly rising from the horizon, quietly illuminating the cotton fields. Looking at the rising moon, I listen to the singing of the cricket, which is chorus and rhythmically chirping, but they do not see. And the moon shines selflessly. There, above the village in the sky, twinkling innumerable stars. I'm looking at the big dipper constellation, which looks like a crystal. And there's a little bear. I stand and I cannot look away from celestial bodies. I am a farmer. I work in another field, in the field of literature. I sow the seeds of kindness in people's hearts. I know that these seeds will grow and give their fruits, which will bring pleasure and joy to all people of the planet. Finally, I would say that for me creativity is life. And life is creation, there is also creativity, the creativity of Almighty God summed up his story writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah.
- Ooooh, I never thought that someday meet a living writer like you, right here, on the banks of the river. To be honest, I am fascinated by your stories - said Khurshida. Here on the surface of the coastal waters began to twitch the float rod writer Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah-and excited him, disappeared under the water. Writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah -quickly began to roll up the line into the reel and soon over the water seemed to hump the fish, which trembled nervously, wanting to get rid of the hook. But it did not. Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdelfattah pulled the fish out of the water and freed it from the hook, threw it on the shore, where standing Khurshida. She even got scared and jumped back, having made laugh with the writer Qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah. They laughed and rejoiced, with admiration looking at the fish, which from lack of air were widely opened and shut it's mouth, convulsive twitching, writhing and bulging not contiguous, round, red eyes without eye lashes, staining it's silvery scales, sand.

 

 

Пока картина не ушла с молотка

Тихо облетают деревья в парках,
В дубравах в рощах и в лесах.
В хороводе опавших листьев ярких,
Деревьям хочется плясать.

Пламя заката отражается в глазах,
Будто в топке горят поленья.
Журавлиная стая не вернется назад,
Даже если просишь на коленях.

А я все брожу по лесам с корзиной,
Жизнь человека как миг коротка.
Я полюбуюсь осенней картиной,
Пока она не ушла с молотка.

12/04/2018.
11:19 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

Заплаканные глаза дождливых дней

Уж безнадежно пожелтели листья,
И надоело им на ветвях висеть.
Не стоит на ветер и на дождь злиться,
Деревья обречены лысеть.

Разлуки алые рябиновые раны,
Только дождь осенний залечит.
Плачут витринами кофе и рестораны,
При свечах о нашей встечи.

Обятия свои распахивает скрипя,
Заржавелая старая калитка.
Дождь все льет и льет как из ведра,
Чтобы я промок до нитки.

Деревья стоят, наготу свою не тая,
Как одичалая толпа дикарей.
Не дождь стучит в твои окна, это я,
Открой дверь, милая скорей!

Шумит ниагарским водопадом дождь,
Цветы колышутся, на ветру дрожа.
О как эти дождливые дни похожи,
На твои заплаканные глаза.



12/04/2018.
9:25 утра.
Канада, Онтерио.

Кошка играла нитками как на арфе

Заброшенный хутор, дорога на краю,
Тропинки заросшие высокой травой.
Иногда по ночам под луной как в раю,
Заливается здесь трелью соловей.

Совсем недавно в хижине худая,
Молчаливая старуха ютилась одна.
С тоской на безлюдную дорогу, седая,
Глядела задумчиво из окна.

Ходила она тихо по опустелому двору,
Тоскуя по своим детям и внукам.
Нарушал тишину в затуманенном бору,
Дятел дальный дробным звуком.

Рубила дрова старуха в чулане,
Пыхтя из колодца воду тоскала.
По вечерам в густом сиреновом тумане,
Козу свою долго искала.

В свете керосинки вязала она шарфы,
Из пряжи морщынистой рукой.
Кошка играла нитками как на арфе,
Кричали петухи по утрам за рекой.

Просыпались птицы рано на рассвете,
И рябина заглядывала в окошко.
На похороны старухи не приехали дети,
Одичала ее бедная кошка.

10/04/2018.
10:22 ночи.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Пока еще не видны небосвода кишки

Луна так освещает мглу в тиши,
Что газету в ней можно читать.
В такую ночь и нелетучие мыши,
Мечтают безмолвно летать.

Лететь, пока гудят как метели,
Роями кровожадные комары.
Пока от потери крови не загрустели,
Бледные уличные фонари.

Пока над затуманенным лугом,
Не поднялась задумчивая заря.
И над полями, вспаханными плугом,
Далекие звезды горят.

Покуда солнце дремлет за горами,
Пока не положили звезды в мешки,
Пока не появились рубцы и шрамы,
И не видны небосвода кишки...

07/04/2018.
8:42 утра.
Канада, Онтерио.

Танец опавших листьев у ворот

На ступенках осени золотых лесниц,
Опавших багровых листьев ворох.
Осень сомкнула рыжие ресницы,
Слушая рощи задумчивый шорох.

Вздуваясь как паруса древных кораблей,
Сгущаются тучи, предвещая осадки.
Прощайте, о крикливые серые журавли,
Я желаю вам мягкой посадки.

Ветер, ты давно так печально не пел,
Воробьи стаями прячутся в кусты.
Гудят деревья и в ожидании метели,
Опустели луга, дороги пусты.

Еще не угасли светильники лилий,
В затонах журавлями покинутых болот.
Впиваюсь взглядом в простор синий,
Танец опавших листьев у ворот.

06/04/2018.
4:21 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Зимняя прогулка

Вот, четвероногий друг мой верный,
Снова метель задумчиво метет.
Кружит хлопьями снег первый,
Это снежинки белые цветут.

Этот снег кому то последный,
Седеет сильно январь молодой.
Который недавно родился бедный,
С длинной бородой.

Снежинки как пепел кремоторий,
Бродим на берегу с тобой без ружья.
Плачут чайки как женщины, которые,
Колотят мужья.

06/04/2018.
6:58 утра.
Канада, Онтерио.

Время капает из капельницы часов

Жала свои точат звезды в вышине,
Словно несметные голодные комары.
В безлюдной и полуночной тишине,
Загрустели усталые фонари.

Ты подобно литературному фанату,
Пришла, освещая просторы синие.
Идя как канатаходка по тонкому канату,
Проводов воздушных линий.

А время из капельницы часов капает,
И тявкает дворняга, цепями звеня.
О луна, бросая квадрат свой на пол,
Так печально не смотри на меня!

05/04/2018.
11:11 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

Трава под дудки ветра пляшет

Еще один день жизни миновал,
Уходит он тихо, ни на кого не злясь.
На осеннем закате рыжий сеновал,
В рощах листьев опавших пляс.

Будто освободясь из золотой клетки,
Кружились птицы над равниной.
И улетели туда, где пальмовые ветки,
Зеленеют как хвост павлина.

Поезд свистит, наверно ему сильно,
Надоело по рельсам бежать.
Когда в окрестности пустея пыльно,
Асфальтированные дороги лежат.

Вдали чернеют еловые урманы,
Зашторил синий занавес вечер.
И в мои пустые дырявые карманы,
Поселился бездомный ветер.

Пускай небо луну в тучи прячет,
Я пойду туда, куда глаза глядят.
Где трава под дудки ветра пляшет,
И далекие лягушки сонно бредят.

04/04/2918.
11:11 ночи.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Душа плачет как на ветру трава

Опадают с кленов золотые заплатки,
Как на новую одежду на чистый асфальт.
Чтобы он видел сны сладкие,
И отдохнул в тишине, поспал.

Тот же дождь мелкий и дорога та же,
По которой мы шли когда то пешком.
Шли без зонтика, не укрываясь даже,
Полиэтиленовым мешком.

Ты сказала шепча в унисон с дождём,
Прощаясь со мной, стоя у порога:
Мол когда мы с тобой вместе идем,
Так быстро заканчивается дорога...

Каждый шорох листвы я четко уловлю,
Деревья дорогу листвой осыпают.
Будто под храпом высоких журавлей,
Усталая осень засыпает.

Теперь часто думаю о тебе и много,
Вспоминаю твои грустные слова.
И мне бесконечной кажется дорога,
Душа плачет как на ветру трава.

04/04/2018.
1:06 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

Замороженная осень

Зима белый огромный накомарник,
Рой комаров встревоженный очень.
Может эта не зима седая и коварная,
А замороженная осень?

Голые прутики как сабли торчат,
В саду из снежного сугроба.
И рыдают озябшие ветры, ворчат,
Как близкие усопшего у гроба.

Снежинки как мысли о Боге чисты,
Летят во мгле, играют в прятки.
Лети по улицам, о вьюга свисти,
Вытащив изо рта кляп из тряпки!

Пускай во мгле, в сумраке ночном,
Позёмка белая по улицам бежит.
И снежные хлопья кружатся за окном,
Где дорога белой скатертью лежит.

03/04/2018.
7:00 вечера.
Канада, Онтерио.

Опустели луга тропинки и дороги

Из непрочной тонкой паутины кедры,
Для птиц перелетных петли плетут.
Ворошат листья от скуки ветры,
В садах хризантемы цветут.

Опустели луга тропинки и дороги,
Где переливают молоко туманы.
Дворник собирает с деревьев налоги,
Несговорчивый злой и пьяный.

Осень высокомерная богатая мадам,
Проходит мимо нас словно дни.
И я ей глупые вопросы не задам,
Она не любит спонсорство и книг.

Под листопадом она молча уходит,
Не реагируя на просьбы никак.
В туманном сумраке одиноко бродит,
С уличным фонарем в руках.

02/04/2018.
11:59 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

Осень танцует в горящем платье

В осеннем пожаре рябины и клены,
Полыхают в рощах, горят.
На ноль один никто не звонит,
Не приезжает пожарный наряд.

Хор неперелетных птиц не шумит,
В горящих садах парках и аллеях.
Город словно осаждённый дымит,
Костры в бульварах тлеют.

На огне листьев взгляды зажарив,
Сходили с ума лохматые поэты.
Вместо того, чтобы потушить пожары,
Они пишут под луной сонеты.

Горят деревья как сестры и братья,
Пожар ветра волнует не очень.
Ловко, на цыпочках, в горящем платье,
Танцует сумасшедшая осень.

01/04/2018.
8:57 утра.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Юксак ва масъулиятли мартаба муборак бўлсин!

Ўзининг "Ўзбегим" қасидаси билан ўзбекка ўзлигини танитиб кетган марҳум устозимиз Эркин Вохидов шоир одам ўзини тўрт мисрадаёқ кўрасатади дея айтган эдилар.

Мен эса, шоир одам ўзини бир мисрадаёқ кўрсата олади дея баралла айтаман.Бунинг исботи учун шоир Сирожиддин Саййиднинг:

 

Соч толасидай чоки гирибонида куйдим

 

деган мисрасини эсламоқнинг ўзи кифоя.

Қаранг, Сирожиддин Саййид махбубанинг чоки гирибонида, яъни ёқалари орасидаги мармардай нафис бўйнида, эхтироснинг ўтли хароратига дош беролмай куйиб, қорайиб кетган соч толаси каби ёр ишқида жизғинак бўлган ошиқ дарду ҳасратларини ҳали ҳеч ким истефода этмаган янги ташбеҳлар ёрдамида рассомона маҳорат билан тасвирламоқда.

Баъзи ўзини ҳазрат Навоийни меросхўри дея хисоблайдиган, минбарларга чиқиб, Навоий ҳақида ҳаммадан кўп гапирадиган халқ шоирлари аруз вазнида дурустроқ бир нарса ёзолмайдилар.

Ёзса ҳам сўзларни қийнаб, саёз, баҳрга тушмаган сакта мисраларни битиб, у нарсаларни асар дея вақтли матбуотда эълон қилиб,  ҳатто китобларда нашр этишлари жуда аянчли.

Сирожиддин Саййид истеъдоди Яратган тамонидан ато этилган шоир бўлиши билан бирга Навоий, Бобур, Машраб, Фурқат, Муқумий, Ҳазиний, Мужрим Обид(мужрим дегани жарима тўлагувчи дегани.Яъни қилган гунохлари учун Худо олдида жарима тўлагувчи маъносида) каби боболаримиздан қолган аруз сўз санъатига садоқатли, Навоий ҳазратларига нисбатан эҳтироми чексиз ёниқ шоирдир.

Ўзбекистон халқ шоири Сирожиддин Саййидни Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилар уюшмасига раис этиб тайинлангани муносабати билан чин дилдан муборакбод этамиз!

 

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилар уюшмаси аъзоси.

 

 

11/04/2018.

Кундуз соат 5:28.

Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

 

Соҳибқирон Амир Темурни ёд этиб

Амир Темур минг -миллион эмас, туман, яъни саноғига етиш мушкул бўлган турли миллат вакилларидан иборат лашкарлари ўзаро бир бирларини тушунишлари учун умумий тил яратишга фармон берганлар.

У тил Ўрда тили деб номланди.

Ўрда дегани ўрта, яъни салтанат маркази деган мазмунни ташийди.

Ўша ўрта тил, Ўрда тили ҳозир Урду тили дейилади.

Амир Темур чиғатой тилида сўзлаган бўлсаларда, давлат ишларини форсий тилда олиб борилишини таъминлаб, бу билан у энг аввало халқлар ўртасида юзага келиши мумкин бўлган тил ихтилофига, миллатчилик, ирқчилик каби жирканч иллатларга бархам бердилар, халқлар дўстлигига асос яратдилар.

Ўрта Осиё халқлари Амир Темур бошлаб берган бағрикенглик йўлидан юрсалар, ҳеч қачон бир бирлари билан ихтилофларга бормайдилар, диний ирқий ва дунёвий бўлгинчилик фанатизми ботқоғига ботмайдилар, халқларни зимдан бир -бирларига гиж -гижлагувчи ИЗМлар қопига кирмайди, бир оила фарзандларидай аҳил иноқ яшаб, дунёдаги барча халқлар билан гармонияда, уйғунликда тинч, хотиржам, бой -бадавлат ҳаёт кечирадилар.

Амир Темур ҳаммамизнинг бобомиз.

Буни Ўрта Осиёда яшаётган барча халқу элатлар эсдан чиқариб қўймасликлари керак.

09/04/2018.
Кундуз соат 12:28.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Яратганга шукурларким, бугун ҳатто хаддимиз сиғиб, баъзан Мамлакатимиз Президентига ҳам самимий ҳазил қилсак, хафа бўлмасликларига одамнинг ишонгиси келадиган, миллатидан, ирқидан ва динидан қатъий назар барча ўзбекистонликлар сабр -тоқат билан узоқ кутган умидларга тўла озод замонларда яшамоқдамиз.

Қайсидир йиғилишда Президентимиз Шавкат Миромонович Мирзиёев "Президент бўлмаганимда, мен албатта шоир бўлардим" деган гапни айтибдилар.

Шавкат Миромоновичнинг Халқимиз тамонидан Президент этиб сайланганлари яхши бўлди.

Негаки, Шавкат Миромонович шоир бўлсалар, албатта жамиятдаги порахўрлик, адолатсизликларнинг астар пахтасини чиқариб, золимларга қарши ҳукмдай янграйдиган исёнкор, муросасиз шеърлар ёзган ва алалоқибат бизга ўхшаб Ватандан қувилиб, собиқ президент Ислом Каримов тамонидан имзоланган машъум фармонга биноан фуқароликларини йўқотиб, бу тарихий адолатсизликка барҳам берилишини, фуқароликларининг тикланишини сўраб, Вертуал Қабулхона порталига хатлар йўллаб юрган, яхши хабар илинжида кунда кун ора порталга кириб, умид билан натижани текшираётган бўлардилар.

Ким билади, балки порталга юборган мактубларида:

"Ҳурматли Президент, сиз олиб борётган одилона сиёсат Ватанда демократия, сўз ва фикр эркинлигини истагани учунгина сиёсий сургунга учраган биз каби Ўзбекистон фарзандлари қалбини умид - ишончга, қувончларга тўлдирмоқда.Биз ёмон одамлар эмасмиз.Ҳатто сургунда юриб ҳам, қариндош уруғлар дийдоридан, ижодкор дўстлар суҳбатидан, адабий мухитдан узилган ҳолатда ҳам, ўн йилдан ортиқ уй қамоғида ўтириб, она тилимизда ва ўзга тилларда, назмда ҳам насрда ҳам бирдай пишиқ -пухта асарлар ёздик.Қўл қовуштириб ўтирмадик. Кечасию кундузи ўзимизни аямай, тинимсиз ишлаб, шу ёқларда ҳам ўзбек адабиётига қўлдан келганича хизмат қилдик.

Фуқаролик статусларимизни қайта тиклаб, Ватанга қайтариб, бирон қўлимиздан келадиган иш билан таъминласангиз, ёнингизда туриб, бор истеъдодимизни ишга солиб, топширилган вазифани талаб даражасида бажариб, Ватанга, Халққа ҳалол хизмат қиламиз.Юксак дид билан дунё халқлари севиб ўқийдиган, инсониятни ҳайратга сола оладиган етук асарлар ёзиб, халқаро миқёсда адабиётимиз обрўсини янада юксалтирамиз.

Мактубим охирида қачонлардир ёзган шеъримдан тўрт мисра келтираман.

Гул эмас, йўлимга сочилгандай чўғ,
Ғурбатда оқарди соч -соқол, муртим.
Мен сени бир зум ҳам унитганим йўқ,
Мени ҳам унитиб юборма, Юртим! "

дея ёзган бўлармидилар.

Нима бўлганда ҳам, юртимиз тинчлигига кўз тегмасин.Ватанимиз обод, Халқимиз ҳамиша омон бўлсин!

 

 

 

08/04/2018.

Тунги соат 11:57.

Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Pathella

Before going to the registry office, Khurshida cried at the door, hugging her mother.
- Do not cry, dear, everything will be fine. God forbid that you become happy with Pathella's, Amin! - Raheela tearfully blessed her daughter.
Khurshida went on a car to the registry office, accompanied by her best friends. Friends congratulated her, envying her white. They happily and loudly laughed, whispering in her ear about something intimate. But Khurshida mentally lived in her own world, plunging thoughts in the fog of memories, thinking only of Sultan. Although she smiled at her friends, but inside was crying. Judge for yourself, why should she have a beautiful and rich groom. If she does not feel for him not that there is a feeling of love or sympathy, but even the slightest interest? Who knows, maybe in the future it will release nostalgic memories on bright days which it lived with the tractor driver Sultan, will release unbearable melancholy on it. Maybe with time she'll get used to Pathella. But at the moment, Khurshida felt not human, but rather some empty dishes. She looked at the merriment of her friends, empty eyes, and in her heart, like the empty autumn fields, wandering black cold wind of separation, as a belated farmer in the fog, who returned to his shack with a bag on her shoulders, where the last of the beets, uprooted them. On the way to the girls joined the boys headed fiancé Pathella. He gave her a lush bouquet of flowers and smiled a satisfied smile, talking about something, but Khurshida to listen even it is not wanted. She was thinking about one person, and I think our dear readers know who they're talking about. Pathella sat next to Khurshida and they went further in the direction of the Registrar office. Then registration, the exchange of wedding rings, a Sharia Nikah (engagement) congratulations and all that. Despite the severe winter, according to the order of the chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch sped up the wedding. The wedding was attended by the Chairman of the collective farm, and many guests from different places Telekomunikasi district. After made a report to the great chairman of the collective farm comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch, have given the word Khurshida's father to Abduljabbar. He was, as always, tipsy and made a toast:
- Hello dear guests! Welcome to my daughter's wedding Khurshida and my son-in-Pathella! I am extremely glad that my daughter married a nephew of our dear great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! Thank You, our dear wise great permanent chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch that you have in this world! You've helped me all your life and made me a man! You gave me the extraordinary responsible position of the mechanic of a livestock farm of our collective farm. Thanks to you, we have jointly raised the economy of our collective farm, increased the number of livestock. Many people tell me, they say, you work for many years in this livestock farm in the same position. You're not bored with all this? Well, did you understand me at last, dear guests that I love this job and can't exist without it. Sometimes I go to the city and in an hour I begin to yearn for a livestock farm of our collective farm. Nostalgia is starting to take over and eat me from the inside out. I, unlike you, I miss the smell of hay and manure, you know? I will come to the farm, inhale the air, where the tart smells of manure and hay, and swirl my head from the buzz. You're laughing in vain, gentlemen. I'm quite serious. I also love the smell of newly mown with a combine corn, I love the expanse of corn fields. Oh, out in the wide field, and the soul sings like a Nightingale under the moon! I go through pastures in boots and in a sweatshirt, shearing sheep in the spring. You can't even imagine how much I love watching herds of cows grazing in a thick autumn fog. Their dim silhouettes in a quiet gray fog captivates me, bewitch me, and milkmaid? They are also in the pre-dawn twilight coming on creaky carts to the farm in silence, milking cows. Oh, my love, the ringing of the rattling empty buckets at dawn, in foggy silence. And there behind the barns and corrals of the mountain is the stack of pressed hay. Like gold bars on the shelves of Swiss banks! Like the pyramid of Pharaoh Tutankhamun in the Egyptian deserts! If I die, then bury me not in the churchyard, and on-site animal farm our farm Tillaquduq and lay over my grave high stacks of pressed hay in the form of the pyramids of the ancient pharaohs of Egypt!..
Sorry, once I start to think about the kindness of our distinguished chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch, tears will flow by themselves from my eyes. Because our esteemed chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch first noticed and recognized my God-given talent! That sin to conceal, Yes, I confess that I really gifted person in the field of shearing of sheep. But they say that somewhere out there, beyond the ocean... well, in America, that is, in the hearth of world imperialism, the bourgeois annually organize sheep-shearing competitions among Texas cowboys and these cowboys in hats and in rough jeans cut for an hour fifteen and sometimes twenty sheep. And I can cut more than a hundred sheep in an hour! There is a difference? Yes still not tying sheep its feet! As they say, one-time-and on a striped mattress! To dispel your doubts like the morning fog at sunrise, I can demonstrate a complex trick right here, in front of your eyes - said Abduljabbar.
Hearing his words, the guests applauded in support, endorsing his initiative. Abduljabbar connected the ends of the wire synchronous electric machine with the input of the amplifier musicians and shouted:
-Come on, the goat in the Studio! The two quickly brought the goat, grabbing her by the horns and Abduljabbar, replacing the big tip of the clipper with the small one, got to work, demonstrating his high art in the field of shearing sheep and goats. Guests led by the chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch watched the action of Abduljabbar with great interest and curiosity. In a few minutes Abduljabbar performed the trick, and surprise guests gasped, then applauded him, shouting “Bravo!”, because Abduljabbar wrote using the typewriter on the side of the goat the inscription "Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch". Seeing this, the chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch and his bodyguards with black glasses, all got up from their seats and stood and applauded the great herdsman to Abduljabbar, admiring his art. Then hired a singer with a delicate velvety voice began to sing a song similar to the crying women and drunken guests began to dance to these songs, snake-like movements of the hands, moving her ass, raising his eyebrows look like black leeches. The wedding took place peacefully, and when the guests left, Khurshida with Pathella left alone in the room for the newlyweds to start their honeymoon. The embarrassment and shame and the indifference Khurshida even looked out of the corner of the eyes in the face of Pathella. When he got close to her in the intimate sense of the word, she screamed in pain. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was not moving closer to Pathella, and her lover, a guy, tractor driver Sultan. After sexual rapprochement she lay, turning away from the groom Pathella, not wanting to see his face. Pathella hugged and kissed on the lips, but Khurshida was lying, still tightly closed their eyes and thinking about love. Then they are washed, completing the Shower. But when Khurshida woke up at dawn to the custom to sweep the yard, she was terribly frightened by seeing a man lying next to him. There lay not the groom of Pathella with which Khurshida was in the registry office, and who was sitting with her at the wedding table, and quite a strange man with a large head, with a nose like a potato, and with too narrow eyes. He smiled at her greeting, and began to hug her.
- Well, Hello, honey, how was your vacation? - said he and tried to again to address these the most... well... you probably know what this is about, don't you? Then, Khurshida stood up abruptly from the scene, covering her pillow with the elastic chest and pulled back. She cried out in a loud voice, trembling with fear. And the man began to calm her down.
What are you yelling? Are you sane? The neighbors will hear! We have bad neighbors and they are not only jealous of us, but hate us! What are you afraid of, Khurshida? It's me, your husband Pathella! Don't shout for God's sake, I'll explain everything! In short, instead of me, the role of the groom was played by my friend, whom I hired for a certain amount of money. He studied at theatrical Institute, actor's faculty. You know, one scholarship is not enough for students. They also want to eat well, dress nice, buy some ice cream for the girls to dance at discos, where the sparkle of the colored rays, then fading, then again. Jump to the beat of the music. Maybe my words Might not sound serious to you, but it's true. My friend played he had been entrusted with the role brilliantly! It's good that you were lying with your eyes closed yesterday and didn't want to see me. And then this scandal would have erupted last night when the envious neighbors in the yard were full. Thank God He saved us from shame! Khurshida, well, give you to understand, finally, without these intrigue you just refused to marry me, you know? Because you're a very beautiful girl. Rather, they were a girl until last night. Well, I just had to do it because I had no other choice. Well, what was I supposed to do if I'm crazy about you? I love you, Khurshida! I, without hesitation, ready to sacrifice my life for you! I know you don't like me. But I was ready for anything, up to such meanness as a fraud. I was hoping that we eventually all will be settled and formed between us, well, if not love, then at least some kind of warm relationship through the bonds of marriage - explained Pathella.
Hearing this, Khurshida wept, covering his face with a pillow.
- What vile people! What horror! What a misfortune! God, why are you punishing me for something?! What have I done to you?! - She cried, then abruptly got up from their seats started to get dressed. Pathella scared and going to Khurshida, tried to grab her hands.
Where, honey?! - He asked.
- Don't touch me with your disgusting filthy hands, you bastard! Depart! I'm going to my parents! - said Khurshida, continuing to cry.
- Khurshida, don't do this, come to your senses! If you don't think about me, at least think about your parents; think about your poor family's reputation! Pity your mother, after all! What will people think, who walk not with the help of their feet, but with the help of language?! They can spread rumors that you are not a virgin! What will happen then? Your parents and your family will be disgraced! What will my friends say?! They'll laugh at me! Think before you make any decision! Well, to hell with it, let my friends laugh at me! I am ready for any humiliation, in order to be with you together! Believe me, I love you, Khurshida, love, and not want, to you were disgraced! That's where the dog is buried. I am ready to kneel before you and, without hesitation, to tell you that it is an honour for me to be your obedient slave! If you leave now, I'm done. I'll take the rope, lather it gently and fsht! - hang said Pathella. After these words, Pathella Khurshida was nothing left to do but accept the fate, whatever it was violent.

 

Snowfall

Although Khurshida agreed that she would marry a nephew of the great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch to save my mom's life, but she couldn't get rid of the unbearable longing for the tractor driver Sultan. On the contrary, her mental anguish, torture and pain grew, like a snowball, hour after hour and day by day. She smiled at her mom, but her soul crying, demanding a meeting with the tractor driver Sultan. Khurshida was crying, not showing her tears to anyone, not even mom not to upset her. Foggy days and nights she cried into the pillow, and she always wanted to be alone, because alone she could mentally to meet her lover, the guy with the tractor the tractor driver Sultan to live with her. Today, waking up, she saw snow falling outside the window and sighed involuntarily thinking that winter has come. It has been snowing all night and he fell carelessly, blurry window with its delicate curtain. She fell quiet, as if fearing to frighten away the white silence, slowly thicker and thicker covering the streets, trees, roofs of houses white fluffy flakes. The snow was falling so thickly that it was difficult to see the road, houses and trees through the curtain of falling snowflakes. Khurshida was looking through the window at the snow, and could not look away from this gentle fabulous winter beauty.
After Breakfast, Khurshida, dressed warmly, went to the side of the field mill, heavy with snow, through a Blizzard that circled diagonally flying snowflakes, not allowing her to open her eyes. She walked, protecting her eyes with the sleeve of her worn drape coat from flying snowflakes. Eyelashes and part of her hair sticking out from under the white shawl, snow-covered, like hair and eyelashes gray-haired old woman. Khurshida since childhood was surprised and captured by a mysterious silence that comes during a snowfall. Birds, streets, fields - all nature subsides, as if afraid to disturb the rustle and whisper of falling snow, like a prayer in the divine winter silence, especially at night. Snow jams make the car turn off the engine. Snow night lights not only light, but also deep ravines of the human soul to the bottom. In falling snow has a calm, melancholy street lamps that are lonely think about something important, with downcast eyes, oblivious to the swarm of white and wild bees albinos that continually bite them, swirling in a Blizzard.
Hardly moving through the thick snow, Khurshida, finally got to the field camp and saw the frozen snow-covered poplar and willow, which joined the branches to the ground from the weight of snow. A locust tree stood, too, in white, as if covered in flowers, and a nest of magpies, too, was covered with a thick layer of snow, like an old forgotten cart in the winter night. The snow was gone; the snowflakes were flying obliquely in white silence, white dash, covering up the traces of Khurshida. The snow fills the grievances, hardships, and separation as follow during a Blizzard, leaving in the soul the longing for past love and the sweet moments that it is impossible to return. Perhaps that is why man sometimes I want to cry silently, staring at the falling snow, remembering happy and joyful days in my life. When especially put out the light in the room, staring through the window at the white twilight, where it falls with the rustle of the snow, when people are sleeping, closing their doors on the latch, when snow-covered roads freeze in the white silence, your soul gets peace and comfort. The snow turns the night into a white fairy-tale dream in reality.
Khurshida was covered with snow like a white pilgrim who came to visit the Shrine. She stood, ignoring the cold, swirling snowflakes in a Blizzard, looking at the dazzling snow which covered winter fields. For Khurshida these places, this field camp, this snow - covered white acacia turned into a hanging symbol of her love and looking at them in her soul revived marvelous memories. Here she met the tractor driver Sultan for the first time when the neighborhood was full of people and their joyful noise, their cheerful ringing laughter, and now the field camp and snow-covered fields have plunged into white silence, where in the noisy sparrows stunning his chirping the whole neighborhood, and heard a ringing and laughter laborers, now silence reigns, and there is a quiet sideways snow. Here, Khurshida bent the samovar; poured boiling water scalded his foot. It is here that she saw iron will, self-restraint and patience of the tractor driver Sultan, without my noticing, I fell in love with him. What happy days are gone in the past, in the dead of oblivion? What an irreplaceable loss, how changeable this world is, o Lord my God! - Khurshida cried, shaking her shoulders. At the moment she didn't want to go home. On the contrary, I wanted to sit at a table covered with snow, under a white acacia and, freezing, turn into ice as a mammoth in permafrost. Let it be covered with snow, falling for weeks day and night, and it will never respond to the call of people who will look for it all night in a snowstorm, stumbling on a knee in the snow with lanterns in their hands, not hearing even their own cry in a Blizzard. It will take eternity, silence. But her pity for her mother stopped her. If it wasn't for her, Khurshida long time would not exist in this world, even the laws of religion would not be able to stop her from suicide. Because of pity to his mother she agreed without love to marry the nephew of the Chairman. Mom must be worried about her by now. Would Khurshida's sister or brother, she would not hesitate, would be hanged right on this acacia. But she's the only one with her parents.
Khurshida sat a long time over the snow-covered table, under a tree, wrapped in a white fluffy blanket of snow. She came here to say goodbye to the white acacia, to the field camp and to the native snow-covered fields, where she fell in love and spent the lightest, unforgettable days in her life, which went into oblivion. The neighborhood is also grieving, like saying goodbye to her and cried the Blizzard.
- Goodbye - said Khurshida in a whisper, and in her chest she was furious tears, and then they leaked out the cracks of her eyes.
She stood up and, stumbling in the snow, back home. Snow in the evening had increased and was falling all night long. Khurshida till the morning could not sleep, constantly thinking of the tractor driver Sultan. Despite the fact that she turned out the light in the room was bright from the slanting snow, which, without stopping, went outside the window.

 

 

Blunt blows with a wrench

 

The house Raheela come funny thick rich matchmakers with gold crowns in his mouth, barely passing through the narrow, slanted, unpainted gate of planed boards.
- Welcome dear guests, come, and come, welcome-said Raheela, greeting them and inviting them to the house. One of the matchmakers, a woman with a thick ass, began to mock.
- Oh, why are you taking us to the coop, a future relative, better sit here, under the open sky she said.
Another woman picked up her words and also began to irony.
- Yes that you, survival, it's not a coop, and probably the stables and our new rich relatives, which held Arabian horses "Karabair", each of which is worth more than millions of dollars - she scoffed.
- No, dear guests, what a hen house, some stables, this is our home where we actually live with the whole family. What kind of racers are you talking about? We don't have a horse; we don't even have a donkey. We live very modestly, and I will not hide it from you, dear guests, If you're uncomfortable, then... - said Raheela.
- Oh, no, no, next of kin, we were kidding. We shall go, of course, in your hut - told another matchmaker.
They went into the house and sat down on the mattress, and, reciting a prayer on a custom, made amen, carrying out palms on a face. They talked, looking on low ceiling, fearing, that he can crash on their heads. Thick matchmaker with a thick ass, with gold crowns in her teeth and a double chin began to speak:
- I love these huts. We had a distant relative who lived on the edge of the Mirzachol desert with their small family. We sit in a hut like this one time, on a clay floor, and the wife of our relative put food in a tin can and called someone by name, looking into the crack of the clay wall. I thought she was calling her cat. Turns out she was calling for a hedgehog dinner, you know? The hedgehog ate and walked a little, running fast small legs and rustling their needles. He ran around us, and he walked away. After dinner, we laid a pastel on the flat roof of a clay hut. Lie on a cotton corpacha, looking at the starry desert sky and bright shining moon. In the distance, behind sand dunes where sexual trees grow, hungry jackals have poured out. Under the mattress was feeling hot and stifling. Incessantly bitten by either fleas, or lice, I don't know. We've combed all our bodies. Outside is not allowed to sleep humming a black swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. There were so many of them that we did not have time to drive them away, only slapping ourselves like crazy. Horror! The worst happened after that. As it happened, I don't know, but my mattress got a big nasty bat with a nasty leather wings without feathers. I wildly screamed in horror, crying in fear, I almost fell flat clay roof hut our distant relative from the desert "Mirzachul" she said, laughing, shaking her belly and double chin. Other matchmakers laughed too, flashing gold crowns in their teeth. Then they, making a serious face, switched to a business conversation, asking hands Khurshida for the nephew of the Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. At the same time, they praised the guy, saying that he does not drink, does not smoke, does not gamble, and so on.
- Here is a picture of our nephew Padhella said that fat matchmaker, passing the photo Raheela.
Raheela took a picture and promised to think about this proposal and breaking bread, spread the pieces on tablecloth, which was laid out a lot of sweets and fruit. Conversation between them continued for tea drinking.
After she left the matchmakers, Raheela looked long at the picture of the future son-in-law. The guy was kind of cute, and she thought he was intelligent, cultured and decent. Raheela rushed to show the picture Khurshida. But even out of the corner of her eye, she didn't want to look at the photo of the guy.
The little girl, look, the guy, in my opinion, nothing. That is normal, nice. You hear, Khurshida, a unique idea has come to my mind, and this time I hope we're not late. You, my daughter, marry this guy, and so we avenge the Sultan for what he deserted you and left, even not saying good-bye. Let the tractor driver Sultan, the con man will burn in flames of jealousy! We'll show him how to throw a girl who loved him and believed with all my heart! You don't cry anymore, baby. This scoundrel is not worthy of your tears! You're crying day and night, and he's out somewhere in Tashkent with another girl who goes to school with him, in the same course and in the same group. Who knows, maybe he even got married, and soon they will have a child. That scoundrel must be laughing in his wife's arms, and you're slowly going crazy. You must run out of tears. Further pupils your eye will dry up, and you can go blind. Look how thin you are! Don't be naive, daughter. You have to fight and punish the villain of the tractor driver Sultan with their success, even if it is not for love! Do you ever look at a picture of your fiancé's future? He's handsome. Here you will live with it for two months, and you will forget that villain forever.
- Yeah? You think so, mother? But I'm afraid I can't get used to the other guy, and I don't think I can forget that bastard, the goddamn Sultan tractor driver. I love him, okay? Mother, forgive me. I tortured you with my tears. But if you insist, I'll do anything to make you happy. I don't care now. Apparently, fate I have such a, and I must live with it.
- That is another matter. You're clever. You're right, each person has their own separate destiny written on his forehead by God, and no one can erase or change that of the invisible destiny. I thought the tractor driver Sultan was your happiness. But God knows, I was wrong - said Raheela.
After this conversation, Khurshida had changed dramatically and she started to smile, eat more, even to laugh. Once she again saw the tractor driver Sultan. He and his beloved wife Hurhur Rayhan lived on the outskirts of the field, in the old dented rusty body of an abandoned bulldozer "Altai" yellow, overgrown with thick and tall weeds. On the roof of the rusty body of the bulldozer sat the tractor, the tractor driver Sultan, twisting the screws from the parabolic antenna, which he installed on the roof of an abandoned rusty body. At the bottom of his pregnant wife Hurhur Rayhan hung washed linen on a stretched rope with wooden clothespins. White sheets on the clothesline swelled like the taut white sails of the old schooner on the free spring winds. Inside the abandoned body of a bulldozer "Altai" sat a fat mother-in-law of the tractor driver Sultan, and eating, and moving jaws. Then there was a pale skinny boy of seven or eight, with a puppy in his hands.
- Dad, look, I brought the puppy! Stray dog whelped cemetery! - He shouted, looking at the tractor driver Sultan, who was involved in the installation of a parabolic antenna.
- Well done, son! Is that puppy a cable or a bitch?! - He asked, for a moment interrupting the work.
- Bitch! - Sultan's son said.
-Nothing they say abroad, many people to keep the house mostly bitches! You lock her in the coop so it doesn't run! - said Sultan.
- All right, dad! - Sultan's son said.
- Dad, what do we call it?! - Sultan's son asked, having locked a puppy in a hen house. Sultan on moment wondered, scratching the back of the head with a wrench, then said:
- Come on, son, we'll call her Itbachcha (son of a bitch). Does that sound?! Itbachcha! This nickname corresponds to this bitch in all respects! - smiling Sultan.
- Okay, dad, I'll call it that.
Sultan continued to work. Khurshida broke down and cried:
Hey Sultan, are you so happy and stupid?! Is this life?! Even homeless, drunks and run-off addicts, and they will not agree to live in the dented rusty body of an abandoned bulldozer "Altai" yellow light! And you're so happy! You can also mount a stupid parabolic antenna on the roof of an abandoned bulldozer! You know, I didn't come here just to notify you that I'm marrying a handsome guy named Pathirage! He was the nephew of the great Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! Burn now in the infernal fire of jealousy and turn into a handful of ashes, freak! Hahahahahahaha! - she laughed triumphantly.
- Look, Hurhur Rayhan, there's some old laughs! Hey, who are you?! What do you want, witch! Be gone, evil spirits! Just think, she's getting married for Padilla! Duck out for anyone us what a fool you're the village?! Get the fuck out of here before it's too late! I'm not going to break your skull with this wrench, you fucking bitch! - Sultan. Khurshida threatened, standing on the roof of the crumpled rusted body of the abandoned bulldozer "Altai"yellow. There's an angry pregnant wife of a tractor driver Sultan Hurhur Rayhan came to Khurshida. A desperate fight ensued between Hurhur Reyhan and Khurshida. Khurshida, like last time, grabbed him by the hair Hurhur Rayhan to rip off her wig and laugh, looking at her bald head, resembling a peeled egg. But there it was. As she pulled her hair, pull her wig could not.
- Well, yank, yank, stupid! You can't do anything anyway! I glued the wig to the head like glue that nobody will be able to tear it away!
Khurshida would easily overcome Hurhur Reyhan, if she had not had the military assistance of the tractor driver Sultan, who jumped off the roof of the crushed rusted body of an abandoned bulldozer "Altai" yellow. He ran with weapon in hand, that is with a wrench and struck those blows to the head of Khurshida. The blows were so strong that she woke up from a nap.

 

The bride of the tractor driver Sultan Hurhur Rayhan

Khurshida went to the collective farm tractor Park to find out where the tractor driver Sultan disappeared these days. During a recent conversation, he said that he lives in the tractor Park. Going to tractor Park, Khurshida asked the Manager and heard the terrible news that she feared most. It turns out, the tractor driver Sultan went, whether in Tashkent, whether in his native village "Tuyamuyun". Hearing this, Khurshida felt very dizzy and not to fall, she leaned against the wall. The Manager went on to explain:
-The guy was nice, funny smart, the whole team respected him. I asked the reason for his departure, but he didn't want to tell us about it. He packed his bags, said goodbye to us, and he left. Only... excuse me, girl, is your name Khurshida? - asked the Manager.
- Yeah, what? - Khurshida shuddered, thinking of where the Manager knows her name.
- The fact that the tractor driver Sultan before leaving, said to me confidentially, whispering in my ear that he trusts me like I trust myself. Then he asked me to give you this envelope. Don't be afraid, I won't tell anyone. Of course, I don't want to interfere in your internal Affairs, but personally I feel sorry for the tractor driver Sultan. Such a cheerful guy, the comedian, and suddenly, the smile on his face faded, as if the burned-out bulb, eh... Here you go, in one piece and believe me, I have not opened this envelope. Maybe he left you his coordinates - the Manager said, passing the envelope. Smiling through tears, Khurshida thanked the Manager and took the envelope with shaking hands. After that, she left the control room. Khurshida was walking on the sidewalk and cried, clutching the envelope to her chest. Not to get caught in the open, she went over the edge of the field, where the trail meandered like a snake to the field camp. When Khurshida came to the camp, there was not a soul. She sat down at a homemade field table, located under acacia, which blooms in the spring. At that moment, the tractor driver Sultan's letter seemed to her to be a time bomb. On the other hand, it encouraged her. She carefully opened the envelope and took out the letter. Khurshida recognized the familiar handwriting of the tractor driver Sultan and began to read.
Hello, Khurshida!
First of all, I would like to ask you and your mother, Aunt Rachel, for the fact that, without consulting with you, I made an independent decision, and I'm leaving. I've been thinking, but couldn't find the way out of the situation but to leave, so as not to disturb you and your family. Khurshida, You clever girl, think for yourself, well, let's say, we'll go someplace else. Do you think this will solve all the problems? No, of course, If not your father, people Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch will find us, at least from the ground. This is by far. That is, they have long hands. I'm not afraid for myself, I'm afraid only for you and your mother. This is destiny and we with you not in forces to change. Here, my presence will only harm you and your family. I don't want to because I cursed your father and you burn in hell in the afterlife. The curse of the father is the end for man! Living with your father's curse doesn't make sense. And I want you to be alive and your mother, Aunt Rachel. Yes, I love you and you know it. But it doesn't give me the right to sacrifice You and your mom. On the contrary, I should sacrifice myself for you, for aunt Rachel's life and for our love. I understand you and your position; I understand that you also are in unbearable pain, mental pain, unbearable spiritual torture that I feel. But this suffering is nothing in comparison to the torment and torture of hell. May the worms of separation eat me alive; I'm ready for it in order to protect you from destruction. Who knows, maybe God himself decided to test our patience. And we have no other way but to make peace with the destiny that is ordained by the Supreme God himself. I'm most afraid to go crazy with longing and boredom without you. My soul cries like a violin, like the wind in the desert, like the hoopoe in the fields.
I will never forget you, Khurshida, and I'll love you forever! You will remain in my memory as a white acacia, which will bloom selflessly in the spring near the field camp! Khurshida, I ask you at last - if you really love me, then accept the fate and marry the guy for whom your father wants to give you. Because uncle Abduljabbar promised, gave word of man, this chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. This is very important in terms of honor and dignity of men. You have to put up with fate, at least so as not to jeopardize the life of your mother, who gave birth and raised you. If your love for me is sincere, you will find strength in yourself and try to overcome the bitterness of separation. You'll see, it will be years - and gradually let go of you, that spiritual hunger, that terrible need, the name of which is separation. And our love will remain in our hearts as the first snow, like a unspoiled island Paradise where no foot of man, where on the sandy shore there will be no trace, but our with you. Shore waves will kiss in the moonlight of those loving acceptance that we wrote when something you stick in the sand. This will be our quiet mooring under the moon, where we will sail mentally, and sitting under the white acacia, we will silently look at the moon shining over the sea of memories, listening to the rustle of the tide of waves. Our love will remain in our memory banks the blooming white acacia. This is my first and last letter. Want - tear it to pieces and throw it to the wind like the petals of the flowers of the acacia, want - burn like a tourniquet autumn leaves of the poplars and maples that grow at field mill, where we first met, want to save on memory, and don't look for me. All the forces try to forget me.
Be happy and live long.

With best wishes,
The tractor driver Sultan Ultanovich.

After reading the letter, Khurshida roared, shaking her whole body, owed:
- God, what is this? He gave me happiness and he took it from me! How am I going to live now, Lord?! How do I get out of this pit now?! He left, leaving me...No, and don't hope, unfaithful Alphonse, I'll never forgive you! If you'd waited a little while, me and my mom, the three of us would have gone! - She cried. Then suddenly she abruptly stopped crying, staring at the hazy blank look. Her eyes were empty, like a pair of birds flying south. For her, life has lost its color, taste and any sense. Time stopped, too. Now she didn't care. As if the soul left her body, flew somewhere in the unknown distance and flies on and on, forever, like a night bird disturbed. Khurshida stood up from her place and went back roads through the fog, with the crumpled letter in hand and did not notice how came home. Seeing her pale face and empty eyes meaningless, Raheela was scared.
- What's wrong, daughter? Don't tell me that the tractor driver Sultan died - she said. Khurshida hugged mom and said.
- No, mom, it happened more terrible than his death... He left- Khurshida started to cry.
- What are you talking about? Who told you that he left? No, it can't be. This evil people staged a draw, telling you false news-told Raheela. Khurshida showed her the crumpled letter to the tractor driver Sultan.
- This letter says it all - tears, she again, sitting down exhausted on a chair.
Smoothing the crumpled letter, Raheela started to read wider and wider to gawk at each read line. After reading the letter, she also instinctively squeezed the letter into a ball.
- As I was happy but, oh, how I was hoping, thinking that you will be happy. But the opposite happened. We were too late. It's all my fault. The idea of leaving came to my mind too late. I should have thought about it earlier, earlier. Oh, my God, we're so unlucky! - said Raheela in a whisper, with tears in her eyes.
- Daughter, you really do not cry, better go to your room and lie down, rest a bit, gather my thoughts. Don't cry. Many do not cry, do not beat yourself up, you still can't reverse the water in the river that flowed. Lost time cannot be regained... With these words Raheela helped Khurshida to undress. Khurshida walked, not looking at her feet, like a sleepwalker who sleeps on the go. She went into his room and threw himself on the bed and covering her head with a pillow, began to sob bitterly. Raheela stroking her feathered hair, too, was crying. Khurshida was lying there till the evening, and didn't want her to eat her dinner, despite the request and entreaty of her mother. She locked herself in the room, asking her mother not to disturb her. At night, Khurshida again dreamed of the tractor driver Sultan. He was wearing a black Tux. Neatly combed, shaved, fresh as a Daisy, with a cigar in his mouth, he sat behind a field desk under a white acacia at field mill. Beside him sat the bride in a white wedding dress, skinny, with overly long neck, with big like a tarsier, with eyes, with a swollen forehead, reminiscent of a planetarium, with long and bony hands and big, thin ears, like the ears of a bat. She had a big mouth, but her lips were thin. At other tables sat the drunken guests, many of whom danced the Chairman of the collective farm comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch on the dance floor, raising his eyebrows, moving necks and wiggling their butts in time to the music. Over the bride and groom moved bunches of white acacia flowers, gently swaying in the spring wind. The waiters poured the guests Moldovan wine "Isabella" in crystal glasses. Flying champagne corks, all the noise, loud female laughter, male laughter, one word - fun. Only, Khurshida stood in the corner quietly crying. After passing through the crowd, she came to the main table, where the bride and groom sat, that is, the tractor driver Sultan with his companion.
- Nu, Hello, Sultan! Getting married right, and I? We all loved each other. Making plans for the future and you seem to have sworn to marry me at all costs. And you turned out to be a real con man. Take and defied me! It turns out that every day you change girls like socks! Are you not ashamed?! - she said.
The tractor driver Sultan looked at Khurshida with surprise and, lighting a Cuban cigar, said:
I don't understand, Madam, who are You, something I don't remember. I don't have another girlfriend, and I didn't. I just love her, advanced tractor driver, the beauty of Hurhur Rayhan! Whoever you are, I must warn you not of the responsibility for libel, but that my fiancée has been engaged in melee fighting for years in the basement of the Department of Internal Affairs, and that she has a black belt on karate. She is a master of sports in Ju-jitsu. To be honest, I'm scared of her. I would advise you to drink less alcohol. Such brawls will not lead to anything good! - He said.
- What you a vile man, Sultan! Here's to you! - said Khurshida and, grabbing the edge of the tablecloth, sharply pulled on itself. As a result, all that was on the table fell to the ground. The crystal glasses shattered. Porcelain vase also broke into exactly two parts. A beautiful bouquet of purple roses with long stems scattered in different directions. An angry bride-to-be Sultan Mrs. Hurhur Rayhan one leap was on the table.
- Honey, Hurhur Rayhan! Come to your senses, dear! Don't give in to provocation! This village girl is not worthy of your anger! It is not necessary to get dirty with the blood of this illiterate redneck. Oh, my lovely rose! Stop, for the sake of our love! - shouted the tractor driver Sultan.
But Hurhur Rayhan did not obey the tractor driver Sultan and with the battle cry attacked Khurshida, started a fight between two angry women.
- Well, now you're dead, Hurhur Rayhan! I'll knock you out! - Khurshida said, catching hold of her hair, tugging her curly hair, but when hair Hurhur Rayhan pulled away, and bared her bald head, which looked like a hen's egg, Khurshida scared. In a cold sweat of fear, she woke up.