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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 8th letter of Mizhappar



-Dear Mr. Sitmirat, early this morning, when I came to the headquarters office, a strange thing happened. That is, Qurumboy, looking at my tarpaulin boots, said:
- I order, on behalf of the revolutionary Committee, to immediately take off your boots, fellow Mizhappar!
- Why, Comrade camindon? Did a Scorpion or a spider (black widow) get into my boots? - I was surprised.
- Put it down, comrade! Don't ask stupid questions! The commander's order is not negotiable! Revolution on the verge of disaster! - Qurumboy shouted.
I had to remove my boots. Qurumboy took them off with a screwdriver pulled out of the sole.
- Comrade camindon these boots are my only shoes! What is this vandalism?! - I asked in surprise.
- Comrade, Mizhhappar, remember once and for all-secret agents of the special services can install a listening device in the form of small microphone chips in the soles of our boots. For this reason, we, and our loved ones should immediately to tear off the heels from their boots - said Qurumboy, giving me my boots back. Now we have boots without heels. Yuldashvoy and Mamadiar too.
- I think they've installed their listening devices in my house, too. So, today we have to do operation "cleansing" in my house. Forward, comrades! - said Qurumboy.
We dutifully followed the comrade commander. What to do? We're soldiers. And the soldiers must obey their commanders, unquestioningly carrying out their orders.
We go, one day on the street and see the guys near the school, who were returning home. There's one boy, the nephew of Qurumboy named Tuqumboy, ran to say Hello to his nephew. He immediately stopped him:
- Stay where you are and don't move! - he said in a loud voice. Tuqumboy afraid, is poor, as soldier stepped on an anti-tank land mine in the hot spot of the planet, weight pale.
- Come on, take off your shoes and throw them to me! - said Qurumboy. His nephew, not understanding what was happening, removed his shoes and gave it to his uncle. Qurumboy took the shoes and with a screwdriver and removed the sole. Then put the shoes back. Seeing this, the crowd of students laughed, some of them with astonishment, with fear and watched the strange process. Qurumboy again ordered his nephew to give him his backpack. He gave his uncle, who ripped the bag to shreds with his rusty dagger.
-Uncle! Don't! What're you doing?! - exclaimed Tuqumboy.
- I should check set whether the intelligence agencies are in your backpack! - Qurumboy, continuing to tear the backpack of Tuqumboy. Tuqumboy cried. Seeing this, comarades and classmates fearing , the students fled. Then we went in the direction of Lattaqishlaq, where he lived as Qurumboy. Seeing us, the mother of Qurumboy was happy. Qurumboy greeted her.
-  Are you alive my, son? Where did you go to? You've changed, grown a beard. Did you become a religious man? I guess you pray five times a day and you lose weight. Oh, was your father alive, he'd be happy to see your progress in the area of politics and religion - said the mother of Qurumboy, hugging his son.
- Thank you Mom, for your kind words concerning my humble political activities. But, I'll tell you a secret, that my beard is not insisted, that is, from the skin of the dog, which we ate. Yes, you don't lose the gift of speech, we ate it not in raw,  fried, and sometimes boiled. About religion, you're right, I've become a religious man. My faith is disbelief. My idols Charles Darwin Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin! - said Qurumboy.
Then he gave us an order that we would be armed with crowbars, axes, nail-makers and all sorts of other tools. We carried out his order and lined up in one line in anticipation of the further decree. Qurumboys picked up the hoe and ordered us to pull out the floors and ceilings of the rooms to check if there is somewhere an eavesdropping bug. We got to work, and Qurumboy, too. He began to hit with a hoe on the wall and from it the plaster began to crumble to the floor. Seeing this, the mother of Qurumboy asked in disbelief:
- What you doing?! What else has crossed your mind! Wait! Qurumboy, son, what's wrong?! Don't destroy it! Your late father would turn in his grave! Stop right now!- she begged.
But we continued to work. Then the mother of Qurumboy began to call people to help.
People, vigilantes! Help me! He is destroying my house! My son is out of his mind!  she screamed.
After hearing the plea of the poor mother, she went in the house owened by Shishrilda who works in the mosque.
- What happened, why are you shouting for help? - he asked.
The mother of Qurumboy cried even louder:
- Oh Mullah Shishrilda, God himself must have sent help! My son and his accomplices are destroying the house! You're a Mullah, after all, maybe they'll listen to you. Talk to them, please - she said.
Mullah Shishrilda went into the room where Qurumboy worked  and said:
- Hello, my son! Stop! Parents ' home for a man as a temple! Destroying the temple is considered a terrible sin! Come to your senses, my son! - said Shishrilda ibn Osrilda. Qurumboy suddenly attacked Mullah Shishrilda like a tiger that rushes at the deer and grabbed him by the throat with tenacious fingers. Mulla Shishrilda began to snore from suffocation. His mouth and eyes widened from the lack of air to an incredible size from fright.
- Who are you?! Tell me, who sent you?! Who do you work for?! Who's your handler, you say, you bastard?! Or I'll rip your mangy beard off alive!  Qurumboy, jerking the Mullah's beard. Here the Mullah lost his mustache with a beard. Qurumboy from fright temporarily released the throat of the Mullah, and he sat on his knees and began to beg:
- Mr. Qurumboy Qoramoygutalin Moriqultezak Tappitutuniy, don't kill me! For God's sake!I'll tell you. Yes, I really work closely with the internal Affairs bodies, informing them about the events in the Chapaev collective farm on a daily basis. I work as a set-up Mullah in a local mosque. What can I do about it? That's my credo, my business, you know?! I have a big family, that is, I have many wives. Their total number in my harem is fifteen beautiful and young women. If you let me live, I'll give you the most beautiful one! I swear! My wives are still very young, and they will be lost without me! The oldest wife was only sixteen. Let's make a deal! You let me go back home, and I in return will release your sins on all four sides! You will get, as they say, to Paradise without interrogations and examinations.
At this time, a buzzing siren, with a car came which came from the mental hospital, and out of it came a team of doctors with nets in their hands, with which veterinarians catch stray dogs in landfills and in city alleys. Apparently, one of the villagers managed to call a mental hospital. But Qurumboy immediately took Mullah Shishrilda hostage and began to dictate his terms. In case of failure to comply with his requirements, he threatened to kill the fake Mullah of the local mosque, sacrificing him to the birthday of his idol, Satan.
Then the doctors quietly loaded the gun with a silencer, and shot Qurumboy using a bullet with a tranquilizer. Qurumboy managed not to kill Mullah Shishrilda ibn Osrilda, and in a few minutes fell with a clatter on the floor. After that, he calmly picked it up, put on a stretcher and pushed the stretcher along with Qurumboy in the carriage. And we, pretending to be a victim, remained at large.

The next day, we, that is, Yuldashvoy, Mamadiyar and I, cooked a therapeutic soup from a dog for our sick man, who was taken to the hospital. Then poured the soup into a thermos and went to the city to visit the permanent and valiant leader of our party, Commissioner Qurumboy Qoramoygutalin Moriqultezak Tappitutuniy.

When I saw the mental hospital, my jaw dropped in surprise. Around the huge trees, all shady and cool, clean benches, especially the track, which is buried in the greenery and thickets of colorful marvelous white roses. There is peace and quiet around like a resort. From the Windows of the medical corps of smile politely sick in the striped pajamas. You see, our friend and Director of our party Qurumboy engaged in whitewashing of trees in lime, with the help of a broom. He was dressed, like other patients, in striped pajamas without buttons, on his feet he had boots with cut off tops. On his head he slapped a paper hat made from the newspaper " Yosh leninchi " Near him stood a doktor in a white coat. When we came up and said Hello, Qurumboy didn't recognize us. Just looking at the thermos of medicinal soup, asked a strange question.
- Tell me, friend, what is the weight of this your thermos? Hearing this, we cried. Fate, huh? Such a wise and intelligent man...
- Eh...  I thought.
Then the doktor got mad at Qurumboy and hit him on the head with a wooden sledgehammer. The result is a paper hat of Qurumboy flew off, revealing his tonsured head like a badly mown field of rye. Seeing this, we cried in chorus. It turns out the most important thing in a person is health.


With great respect, guard of Qurumboy martial artist Mizhappar.


March 30, 2008, 12 hours and 30 minutes at night.

 

 

 

 

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 7th letter of Mizhappar




-Mr. Sitmirat, now is not the time to even say Hello. There is extraordinary news. Qurumboy went into opposition. He emigrated to a small island, which is located on the river "Karadarya", where the wind in the Delta of the river and blooming water lilies.He lives alone in a foreign country, having built a hut of reeds. The night before last, someone knocked on the window of the room where I sleep. You know that in our village there is no light for several months. On moonless nights our village plunges into darkness and reigns a dead silence. Hearing a strange knock, I was afraid. Lifting the kerosene lamp, I carefully went to the window and asked:
- Who's there?!
-It is I, Mr. Mizhappar , open the window, there is a thing - someone said in a whisper. I heared a voice , - it was Qurumboy. But when I opened the window, I was even more frightened when I saw a man with a red beard and a mustache of the same color. The man in the sailor's cap with the orange eyebrows was Qurumboy ... It turns out, escaped arrest, he carefully disguised, gluing a beard, mustache and eyebrows from the skin of the same dog, which I killed.
-  Hello, Qurumboy, come on - I said to be nice and wanting to appear hospitable man.
- Thank you, Mr. Mizhappar , some other time. I'm wanted, I'm wanted everywhere. You go to an abandoned pigsty at midnight tonight. There You will meet a member of the revolutionary Committee Commissioner Yuldashvoy, and he will lead You to an underground meeting of the revolutionary Committee. This meeting will address organizational issues. Be sure to come and don't be late. The Chairman of the revolutionary Committee, Commissioner, Qurumboy Qoramoygutalin Moriqultezak Tappitutuniy - said Qurumboy and walked away.
Within a few seconds as he disappeared from my sight, dissolving in the darkness like a Ghost, I closed the window, lowering the wick of the kerosene lamp and went to bed. But I could not sleep any more, and at midnight I put on my boots, carefully opened the window so as not to disturb my stepfather and stepmother, and leaping through the window, went towards the abandoned pigsty through the cemetery, where the eagle owl had gone. When I came to the pigsty, at the entrance, I was greeted with Yuldashvoy. It was worn a skull-cap with a red star. He came up to me, walking in a soldier's way, rustling his dermatin jacket with his collar up, and saluted me:
-   I wish you health, comrade Mizhappar . The Chairman of the revolutionary Committee comrad Qurumboy Qoramoygutalin Moriqultezak Tappitutuniy and Commissioner of Mamadiyarenco waiting for you at the headquarters, follow me - said Yuldashvoy.
We went to the headquarters of the office through the dark corridor, in which two sides darkly glittered cages, iron bird feeders, where once lay a pig. I saw it all when the light is lighted matches which burned in the hands of the Commissioner Yuldashvoy. Although there have not kept pigs, but strong, stinking smell, everything has been preserved. When we went to the headquarters of the ceiling, where a huge blackened doorway like a dark hole of the universe, I saw Qurumboy  and Mamadiar. They sat at the table, which was missing one leg, and on which stood a lamp "Chaitanya", increasing the dark shadows of my friends on the walls of the office. On the table, like an old still life of the artist, there were empty cans, a half-drunk bottle of wine and a piece of bread with crumbs. All this was laid out on the old yellowed newspaper "the Lie of the East".
- Ahhh, come soldier Mizhappar ? Come and sit down, please, here - said Qurumboy , pointing to the inverted iron trough, from which once voracious pigs, greedily grunting and pushing each other, with a great appetite ate slops.
Thank you, Comrade comander -camindon - I said and sat down on an overturned trough. Mamadiyar wrote something on paper in the light of a kerosene lamp "Shaytan Chirac". Before starting the meeting, Qurumboy  tore off pieces of the yellowed newspaper "a Lie of the East", and stuffing them densely the tube and lit. Then, as if wishing to buy Mamadiar, handed him the phone:
- Would you like to smoke, comrade Commissar?  he asked the Mamadiar.
Well Yes, said Mamadiar and picked it up.
But he after the first puff, choking on the smoke, began to cough heavily, sticking his tongue like a sick sheep with leaky lungs. From tension his artery on neck swelled up to the maximum size, his eyes shed tears, and his face was very red. Qurumboy quickly poured in a tin of wine and handed it to the Mamadiar:
- Here, comrade, Mamadiarenco, drink healing balm - he said. Mamadiar, gave up Qurumboy, took a jar of wine and drank to the bottom. Yuldashvoy gave Mamadiar tomato for a snack, poured with fifty grams of wine for himself and drank. Qurumboy  held out me up and asked:
- You want to smoke, comrade Mizhappar ?
- No, no, thank you Comrade Camindon, Smoking is bad for my body. About it warned me in writing by the Ministry of health - I replied, cautiously looking into a Smoking pipe.
Well, as you said Qurumboy s dokurivat the remaining tobacco from a piece of yellowed newspaper "a lie of the East", which still smoldered in the tube. Then he went up to the podium, also made of wooden feeders for pigs and began his fiery speech:
- Members of our party, "valiant beggars "! Enough! The knife has reached the bones! How much can you tolerate oppression and humiliation! We must fight evil, that is, democracy and religious obscurantism, without sparing our blood, in the name of the bright future of our long-suffering people! This book will help us in this fight!.. With these words Qurumboy  showed us some book in a red cover, and I asked him:
-Sorry, Comrade commander is "Capital of the Karl Marx"?
- No, comrades! This book is called"folk tales". We must learn this book by heart! Because these tales contain unique ways of dealing with the wicked, triceps takanami dragan - "Ajhdarcho" and other abominations. For example, on these pages... Now, I read this tale somewhere here... Ah, here! In short, one poor old man had three grown sons, and they were unemployed. From morning till late at night they slept and woke up just to eat. One day, the elder built them in one line and began to read them morality:
"My sons, you have become adults and strong! Now you have to fight for your own happiness. To do this, you must unite as never before. If you walk through life together, no enemy can defeat you. Here, I'll show you a unique example... With these words, the old man gave his sons one cotton stalk and told them to break them. Sons easily broke the stems. Then the father gave everyone a sheaf of cotton stalks. The sons broke easily, and the sheaves of cotton "guzapoya". Seeing this, my father was surprised. He gave his sons one wooden pole each and told them to try to break it. Sons without any labor broke and these poles, and began to wait for the next test. Then the old man got angry and shouted to them:
- You freeloaders! Bedpans are miserable! With such strength, lie at home and live off my pension?! And the cashier does not give us our pension in time, letting it into circulation and getting a score! I can't feed you anymore! Get a job, you parasites! Go to the market and roll the cart! Come on, get out of my house, don't sit here, get out! So the old man began to expel his sons, pushing them out. But the sons clung to the door jamb and begged that the elder did not expel them from the house.
- Father, don't kick us out, please! We're afraid to go outside! It's full of police officers! They will catch us and, without noticing, put forbidden literature or leaflets in our pockets, send us to prison. From there, we are shocked into camps where innocent people die of malnutrition and tuberculosis!
- Don't be afraid, jackals cowardly! I will tell your mother, and she will sew up your pockets with a fishing line, having filled them with sand, and any cop will not be able to put to you in your pockets religious leaflets or shells - the old man told.
- Hih-hih-hih-hih! - laughed senior son, and other sons, too, began laughing at me, showing her teeth, blackened from regular Smoking shag.
-Father! Pockets-sew mom, but there on the street even more dangerous and ruthless types, your countrymen who hunt for slaves, their own kind. They can trick us into taking us to neighbouring countries and, by taking our passports away, sell us to slave traders for eternal use! Then what?! You want us to become slaves and work in the woods with shackles around our necks and legs, rattling iron chains sadly?! - asked sons at the old man.
-Nothing, you are so strong that will easily cut steel chains with shackles and escapes- the old man said...
Here is the story of Qurumboy  interrupted. The window without glass appeared clean shaved face, donkey mug Hubbigul, who worked in the part-time confidential informant, that is, a Snitch.
- Ah, gotcha, you bastards! Well, congratulations. So they created an underground party against the Constitution of our country, right?! I have everything recorded on my dictaphone, and today I will pass all the information where it should be... You now cover, hobos! - said Hubbugul, procesa his wooden leg, dressed in tights.
Qurumboy in a panic grabbed the bottle and shouted: "Comrades! The striped revolution is in danger!" Then this bottle with all the force he hit Hubbugul on the head. From a crushing blow, Hubbugul fell on the earthen floor Chancellery owned our party. Mamadiar, checking the pulse Hubbigul, made a sign that the informer dead.
- Camrade Camidon you killed the Snitch!  I was glad.
Although he was a Snitch, still a pity - said Yuldashvoy, sadly removing from the head a skull-cap made of cat skins.
-Cheer up, comrade Yuldashin! Politics is art! But art always requires sacrifices. - said Qurumboy , holding a half-broken bottle. Then he commanded:
- Pick up this bastard's body, throw him in the river! We dutifully agreed with our camindon and raised the dead body of the deceased rat. At this time in the sky over the pigsty there was a moon, which sadly floated among the curly clouds, illuminating our way.
- Comrade Camidon , shouldn't we bury him in the ground than to throw in the water. After all, this corpse will sooner or later come out like a bloated donkey corpse and get stuck somewhere, what will happen then? - Meanwhile, he begins to deteriorate and stray dogs flock there, from time to time jealously growling at the crows, - which will circle in the sky. Do you think that farmers will not notice it and will not call the district Shgabuddinov? - Mamadiyar asked.
- Before we throw a body in the river, we have to tie that plow to his leg - and it's over. The plow is heavy, and no one will guess about our heinous crime - said Qurumboy .
- Good idea - we said in unison.
Then the four of us rose and brought to the shore a heavy plow from an abandoned tractor "T - 28 - x-4" and we tied it to the feet of the Hubbigul, and threw it into the deep river "Karadarya", where the whirlpool raged.
- That, finally, we got rid of the insidious Snitch-and the revolution is saved! - said Qurumboy , sighing with relief.
And the moon was still shining over the pigsty. When we returned to the headquarters of the office, we put out a kerosene lamp and went home.
- Yes, Mr. Sitmrat, to be a revolutionary is not easy. Sitting here in his cabin, I write this letter to You, listen in silence and think about how if they came for me, the precinct of Shgabuddinov, sneaking up quietly and pointed his pistol "the Mauser".
- Okay, goodbye, Mr.Sitmirat - the carcass of a kerosene lamp.
- Fuff! Oh, man, my mustache burned again.
With respect to all, revolutionary soldier Mizhappar .



Written during the dark night, in the Collective Farm "Chapaev".

 

 

 

 

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 6th letter of Mizhappar



Let this letter fly, fly with the speed of an electric current, which hit my friend Qurumboy and let it reach the hero of the paper war Mr. Sitmrat!
Hi, Mr. Sitmrat! Qurumboy opened his company and, finally, provided us with work. In this company, Qurumboy - Director of the company, Yoldashvoy works as a cashier, Mamadiar - chief accountant, and I - a bodyguard. The office of our company is located in the cemetery, where old, inverted coffins and tools for digging graves are stored. We sleep there. Qurumboy, as Director of, sleeping in a coffin, wrapped in the old a shroud. And we sleep on the ground, making a pillow of raw unburned bricks. Although not political spring has come, it is still cool at night. We lie one night, floating sadly lonely moon high in the sky, twinkling stars as salt on the wound, in the distance on the horizon, somewhere behind the river tired barking dogs, croaking frogs, in a word - romance. Suddenly, in one of the coffins played a strange music, and we jumped in fright with their earthen pastels, thinking that it is evil ghosts or ghouls. It turns out, called clients in a phone. Qurumboy quickly pushed the button of his grave phone, as the button from the atomic bomb, and there was a hoarse voice of the client.
- Hello, is this the Deep grave office?! - a customer asked.
- Yes, how can we help? - Qurumboy politely asked.
- Who am I talking to? -  a customer asked.
-Is, Qurumboy Koramoygutalin Moriqultezak Tappitutuniy, Director of the company "Deep grave". Do you want to order anything? I mean the grave, the tombstones or the crosses and all the accessories?! - Qurumboy asked.
- The grave should be dug out three-room-the client told in a hoarse voice.
- Well, who is the grave, if not a secret? Tell me his name, I should write this down in my notebook, in order not to stray from the account!We have many customers! - Qurumboy, pulling from the inside of his pocket of his overcoat a pen and a Notepad.
Then write it down. Surname, name, patronymic of the deceased - Bairam Barabanovich! - the customer said.
-  Is the Governor of the city Bairam Barabanovic?!  - Qurumboy asked.
- Yes - the client answered.
- Oh, the poor man kicked too?! Uh, he was cursed, you say? People cursed him?! What for? Ah, bastard... He put thousands and thousands of innocent people in jail?.. Yes, that you, of course, this conversation remains between us, do not worry. No, no, what You, our phones are not being tapped by the competent authorities. No, we have a democracy in our country, here respect for human rights. So you're ordering a two-bedroom apartment, huh? What should the interior of the grave look like? So-so, should it be painted in beige... yeah, and on the living room wall, you have to paint a landscape with a tiger that's about to attack a deer that came to a watering hole, right? Oh, don't you have to draw crocodiles? Well, no problem, it will be done. On the ceiling patterns in the Gothic style? Good. Yes, dear customer, you can pay in cash. Because we hate non-cash payment, since the money must still be cashed out, sacrificing half the amount. How should we dig a two bedroom tomb?.. You know, it's not very expensive. Two bedroom tomb of our price is only $ 500  - said Qurumboy, scratching his tarpaulin boots.
-And for the materials separately?
- Of course, separately. Today I will send you a list of materials in the form of a text message on the grave phone. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Our work is harmful, that is very dangerous. For this we are allowed to drink alcohol in unlimited quantities during operation. I hope You understand me and do not forget to buy a box of vodka with a snack when you buy the necessary materials. In General, we agree?  - Qurumboy, rounding out the conversation.
- Yes - the client answered.
The next day the client brought all the necessary materials together with a box of vodka. We first drank four bottles of alcohol and started to work. Having worked well before lunch in the light of a kerosene lamp, we did almost half of the work. After drinking four more bottles of alcohol, we again took up work. Suddenly Mamadiar ran out of the grave and began to cry:
-Help me!
We thought he was being attacked by ghosts. We look, a large lizard, two meters in length runs after Mamadiar, ruffling his orange tongue, trying to bite the victim, who runs ahead. Mamadiar ran among graves and gravestones to escape from the lizard with a red mouth and disgusting color of a skin. He ran crying. We wanted to help him, but we didn't know how. Here Mamadiar suddenly fell into an open grave and the monitor lizard that was chasing him began to spin over the pit. Mamadiar yelled even harder : - Mizhappar! Qurumboy! Yoldashvoy! Help me! I'm scared! I stepped on a soft and warm corpse, wrapped in white cloth! Get me out! I fight! - he screamed in fear.
Qurumboy threw in a monitor, the shovel held in hand, and he, frightened, hid in the Bush. We raised Mamadiar from the grave and calmed him, pouring him a hundred grams of turpentine, in a hurry confusing the bottle. Mamadiar drank turpentine and calmed down. Then we continued to work again. Aside from a couple of two-meter-long black snakes, one big turtle, a bunch of toads, half a bag of Scorpions and worms, when digging the grave, there were almost no difficulties. After we finished the finishing work, Qurumboy painted an oil paint on the wall of the living room landscape, swallowing in addition to the solvent with turpentine. By the evening the customer came and saw the landscape, and said:
- The landscape you can say turned out more or less. But, excuse me, it's not a tiger, most likely a donkey pattern or a devil knows what kind of beast.
- This is not a problem - said Qurumboy and drew a bold arrow that points to the animal he drew. Then on the tip of this arrow wrote: "Citizens, be careful, it is a tiger!" Then, as in the comics, I drew a ball around the mouth of this so-called tiger, and made a circle inside this inscription. "Rrrrrrrrrr!"
When he finished drawing, Qurumboy looked back to the customer and asked:
How about now?
- Now better - said the customer.
- I used to think tigers roared."wolves: "woooooooooo!"horses." hoooooooooo!", donkeys " dooooooohh!", dogs: "doooooooooooo!"and birds "beeeeeee!" It turns out, not so, the tigers growl ", Rrrrrrrrrrrrr! - I said.
In short, we passed the "object" and began to change. When I took off his plaid jacket and wooden pagename, then stiffened, seeing his body. It was all painted. It seems that when I painted the ceiling and painted Gothic patterns under the chandelier, the paint, quietly draining from the brush, flowed through the sleeves of my shirt down. In order to clean my body from oil paint, I began to wipe with a cloth moistened with solvent. As a result, the colors of green light are even worse smeared on my stomach, like a surreal picture of Picasso. My clothes smell like acetone, man!
The weather was cool, so I had to get dressed. At this moment there arrived a carriage with a body of the deceased Governor, and we handed over the object to the customer. Circle of relatives and disciples of Bayram Baraanovich. Sobbing, lights, pillows with awards, tears and all that. While buried Bayram Baraanovich under the funeral March, we are on the sidelines drank the rest of the vodka and walked over to the customer. He gave us five hundred dollars, which we earned by honest work. Our joy knew no bounds. We collected the tools, put them in a bag and went outside.
Forever wise, and indispensable leader of our party Qurumboy Koramoygutalin Moriqultezak Tappitutuniy said: - Dear party members! We just have to go to the black market to convert our bucks earned by slave labor to the cemetery! What to do if there is free convertibility of currency in our country, where there is a dictatorial regime?Where there is no free conversion, there is a rapid decline in the exchange rate of the national currency, causing serious damage to the country's ecanomics and this is alarming foreign investors. And without foreign investors it is difficult to develop the economy.After these words of our partbase, we went to the black market, where changing the currency in sum, our poor countrymen.
We went to the market, where carefully looking around, currency traders.
One of them came up to us and asked:
- You want to change dollars?
Yes, we said in unison.
-How much? - asked speculator in foreign currency.
-500 said Qurumboy and pulled out American money from the tops of his tarpaulin boots without the soles. The speculator in foreign currency took them, and here there were strange people in civil clothes. When they began to wring his hands of Qurumboy, we fled. Yoldashvoy with Mamadiar was caught immediately, and handcuffed him. You know, I do karate, so throwing a huge bag of tools for digging graves, ran that there is urine towards the tea house, but inadvertently hit my forehead on the post and fell. The cops who were chasing me caught me and handcuffed me.
In the detention center, one of the investigators began an explanatory conversation:
- Who gave you the right to trade foreign currency. In addition, these dollars were false. Now, gentlemen, we're going to have to freeze your Bank accounts, because you've grossly violated business laws and received cash from clients. This is contrary to the Constitution of our state. Here it is clearly written that all banking operations should be carried out only by transfer. You, getting money from customers in cash, seek to deceive the state, that is, brazenly evade taxes. All, your firm will close forever!  he said, rounding off the conversation.
In order not to close our company, we had to say goodbye to five hundred dollars.
After that, our company was left open, but we began to have disagreements with clients, that is, none of the clients wanted to transfer money to our Bank accounts, fearing that they are under the hood of the tax office. As luck would have it, our competitors appeared in the labor market, who dug graves at a much lower price and did it not with their bare hands as we did, but with the help of an excavator. Swine. Now we're out of a job.

Greetings to all people of the planet,
gravedigger Mizhappar.



February 27, 2008.
City cemetery the name "Vasily Ivanovich Chapaev.


 

 

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 5th letter of Mizhappar



Hi, Mr.Sitmrat!

"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 :

My husband told me to leave!
I'll tell him:
There will be a court, decision!
You will be awarded child support!"

Looking at Qoryahan, Qurumboys smiled angrily, then he spit through his teeth, walked away. But, Qoryah-han's mom, which is engaged in supplying a live product, that is, the girls in a far country, sued Qurumboy a lawsuit. She gave bribes to lawyers and doctors and got the conclusion it is judicial-medical examination which States that Qurumboy Qoramoygutalin Moriqultezal Tappitutuniy is the father of two girls, which Qoryahan gave birth to. The court rendered a verdict of double, leaving Qurumboy chance of selection. He had to choose whether to pay child support or serve time in prison with a lousy rape article. Qurumboy chose the first punishment, agreeing to pay child support.
These extra costs have worsened the already meager family budget of Qurumboy. For this reason, he was simply forced to engage in the shadow business.

One early morning when I was doing Kung Fu on the flat roof of our closet, he came and said:

- Mizhappar, I decided to go into business. The pension my mother receives is not even enough to pay child support . So yesterday I signed a large, contractual agreement on the stand of high-quality aluminum to my business partners - he said, lighting his pipe clogged with sawdust.

- Wow,where do you get high-quality aluminum? - I was surprised.

- I'll go climb the iron poles that stand in the fields like the Eiffel tower on the banks of the Seine in Paris, and cut the wires with these gardening scissors. There's no electric current in those wires anyway. If someone asks, I will tell that a pier, update a line of electric wires, and I work in power networks.
- And if they require an electrician's certificate?  - I asked.

- Then, I will show the certificate with a red cover which was given to me in crazy hospital when I was treated - Qurumboy told.

- Oh, then you can. Just be careful not to climb too high. You might fall down... I don't want your little children to be orphans - I warned my friend.

- Thanks, Mizhhappar - said Qurumboy and went in side field. Having had a hearty Breakfast with bread, I put on a padded jacket and went to work. On the way I saw my friends Mamadiar with Yuldashvoy. They painted, doing whitewashing the walls of the building of the collective farm with lime using brushes with long wooden cuttings. Both wore caps made of newspaper "Pravda Vostoka".

- God help, guys! Well, well, congratulations. Finally, found a prestigious job - I said, greeting them.
- Yeah, it's not a regular job. The party Committee promised half a liter of vodka. They say that Mr. President himself comes to our collective farm. Look, out, the teachers and the students are cleaning the ditches and cleaning up the trash.

I see, really, the little guys are cleaning up the trash and raking the grass along the road with the help of big hoes. Near the building of the village Council, journalists are interviewed by farmers. I even heard one farmer was interviewed. The journalist asked him a question:

-Dear worker now in Your farm arrives, our esteemed President. Your feelings about this, please... don't grab on to the microphone... yeah, talk here.

The farmer began to speak:

- Thanks to our wise President and our state, the sky over our heads is becoming cleaner and cleaner every year... And most importantly - bread on the shelves there... We get paid prematurely, that is, in advance... Recently, our dear manager gave us pasta two pounds for every trooper cotton plantations. Gas in our village burns under such pressure that sometimes even we are afraid to include a gas stove. Electricity is also buzzing in the wires so that the transformers can not stand the ultra-high, terrible voltage, sometimes explode. Taking this opportunity, on behalf of the workers of our collective farm, who, responding to the calls of our government with their military work, work day and night, from early spring to severe winter, despite any vagaries of nature, I want to Express my gratitude to our wise President and ask that our guide will guide us until the end of his life!
Another request to give him Chernobil nuclear station worker the award he said, adjusting his bald cap with earflaps, which moth ate. At this point, Durmail Evogar, master of anonymous letters and gravedigger the Tulane Gorkov dressed in heavy coats, canvas boots, ran home.

- Why are you running, master of anonymous letters Mr.Durmail Evogar?! What happened?! - I asked the master of anonymity.
- In honor of the arrival of the President in our collective farm, we decided to give light today! Gas already in! Now at least one day we will live like modern people! Fifteen minutes will give electricity, Ur-rra-a! - crucial master of anonymous letters Durmayl Evogar and ran as a proud member of the Komsomol in the battle with the white guards and Basmachi gangs, sometimes on holidays was on TV when he was giving light only for a few hours.

Hearing this made my heart skip a beat.

It is necessary to immediately alert Qurumboy, I thought, and ran towards the field where my friend and kinsman Qurumboy  from the village "Lattakishlak" cut aluminum wire. I ran, stomping on my boots. The run that is urine, not to be late and shout:
- Qurumboy-ooooy! Come down quickly from the post-ahhh! Hear-s-IISI, Qurumbo -o -o -o -o! Current into the wires!..

Qurumboy - zero work on the pole like a monkey, which is sitting on the top of the tree, gorging on succulent leaves in the rainforest. Not hear me. When I reached the abandoned pigsty, from afar I heard a friendly cry of the villagers. They shouted hooray. This meant that the light was given, that is, I did not have time to warn my friend about the danger. Just at this point in the post where Qurumboys cut a line of electric wire using gardening scissors, flashed a big flash, like ball lightning, and Qurumboy flew down. When I ran to the scene, Qurumboy was lying like a clown, holding scissors. From his overcoat and hat of red army soldiers was smoking. He lay on the field of the collective farm "Chapaev", looking at the boundless sky with the blackened face like the devil. I sat on my knees beside him, closed his eyes and cried loudly.

- Oh, my friend, forgive me, for God's sake! I couldn't warn you in time, you know, I couldn't! Did not have time! Poor! Then I did wrong to you when you were arrested the precinct of Shegabubutdinov. If I hadn't fought you back then, you wouldn't have suffered in prisons and camps! Qoryahan  also lied to you. She's the reason you took that risky step and died. You're a victim of injustice! If I, without knowing, accidentally offended you - sorry, mate. I know that it is even very difficult to exist in our country. Now who's going to pay child support to your daughters?! Who will educate them?! Here in our country, the leaders are given the title of hero! It's not fair! Because they live in luxury, eating black and red caviar every day for Breakfast, and ordinary people like you, in search of a piece of bread risk their lives! The title of the hero should not be assigned to the leaders, but to ordinary people, who continue to exist and feed their children even when they do not have a penny in their pockets! You died with honor, and we must bury you as a national hero! May you rest in peace, Qurumboy! I'm going to go to the village and show you to the President! Let him look at you and imagine what is happening in the country and what is happening to ordinary citizens of the country from total unemployment!  I cried.
Then, having carried a body of the native friend on a shoulder, went towards the village. I walked like a warrior who carries his dead brother. The body of Qurumboy was heavy. Therefore, before reaching the village, I was tired and decided to rest a little. I gently lowered the body of Qurumboy down and sitting on the ground, wiped the sweat off my face with a hat, which he made from the skin of a mad dog, the one that we ate. Poor Qurumboy was lying on the wet ground, still holding the scissors. I looked at him and cried. After resting a bit, I again raised Qurumboy shoulder and froze in surprise - Qurumboy hoarsely groaned and opened his eyes. I quickly lowered him to the ground and checked her pulse. Qurumboy was alive!
- Qurum! Qurumboy, you alive?! Oh, thank God Almighty! You returned my friend! Oh, good thing we didn't bury him alive! Qurumboy, can you hear me?! Say something! - I shouted. Then picked him up again and walked quickly towards the village. In the center of the village villagers surrounded me.
- Where is the President?! I want to show him my poor friend, who was a victim of universal poverty! Let Mr. President look at him! - I shouted.
The President didn't show! He drove past our village! As soon as he passed, so immediately turned off the light, turned off the gas, bastards! - said Durmail Evogar.
There it is, Mr.Sitmrat. Please forgive me for such a short letter.

Sincerely, the farmerMizhappar.



February 21, 2008.
The Collective Farm "Chapaev".


 

 

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 4th 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".

 

 

 
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