Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

The execution in the electric chair

(The story)

Saidvakkas is about twenty-five years old, of medium height, with large cow eyes, a hunched nose, and black eyebrows and hair like oil. He works as an electrician in the local power grid and is madly in love with his profession. He's over there every day - then he fixes it by climbing high poles on his electrician's claws. He works in an orange protective helmet, leaning slightly away, holding the chain around the post in a stretch, and humming a cheerful song to himself. Over the post where Saidvakkas works,  huge clouds float like giant airships, and nearby on the spring slender poplars, chickadee sing, singing a trill, like: -Chicka- dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee! The best and most interesting  thing  for Saidvakkas is that he can see everything from a height, as in the palm of his hand, houses, courtyards, trees, streets of an urban-type settlement, distant country roads, pathways, meadows and cows, cotton fields and behind the fields high mountain slopes and snow peaks. Usually people hardly pay attention to it. But when the electric wires are cut off in a winter snowstorm or a Blizzard and the lights are turned off, Saidvakkas instantly becomes the most important, dear and close to the heart of the towns people, as an irreplaceable eternal President of the country, as a heroic person. Oh, how happy the residents of the urban-type settlement will be when Saidvakkas fixes and fixes the problem! Old and young, even children at the top of their voices, will shout in chorus: - Hurraaay!. Hearing this for the first time, a person may even think, that angry people finally rose up against a vile tyrant and a bloody dictator to make a revolution. After the light turns on, everyone will immediately forget about Saidvakkas, and he in turn, treating this with understanding,  not offended by them. Often, the electricity is cut off, the lights are turned off and the urban-type settlement is plunged into pitch darkness. Especially in winter, when old electric kiosks explode, people live without electricity for weeks, sometimes even months, drowning their shacks and huts with dung in an antediluvian way, eating and reading in the light of kerosene lamps,  in frosty silence. On days like this, when children are doing their homework by candlelight, the angry people will sing a chorus of curses at the electricians and all civil servants who are thus oppressing  their own people who voted for them in the election, trusting them with their fate, when they promised that there would be no problems with electricity and gas if the people voted for them.

Such thoughts Sadvakkas worked on the pole, and then rang his mobile phone.

Saidvakkas pulled out his cell phone, turned it on.

-Hello! Go ahead speak, I hear you! - said Saidvakkas .

Then the man began to speak in a rustling voice: - Hello! Is this electrician Saidvakkas?! Well Hello there, man. In short I know you but you don't know me. Well, Listen to me carefully and do not interrupt, do not ask who I am, where I come from, if of course you value your life!.. Your life hangs on a tightrope over a bottomless pit and you have very little time. They want to arrest you today.The authorities have put you on an international wanted list. So run and don't look back. That's it, I can't talk anymore. It's dangerous for me. The situation is extremely serious. After our conversation, you must break your mobile phone with a rock and try not to talk to anyone on the phone. sincerely, your secret friend -said an anonymous.

The person who called was silent.

- Hello!Who are you? Why are you silent? Speak up, I'm listening carefully! Hello!.. - said surprised Saidvakkas.

- What are you talking about, I was just joking that the company had fun and talked about some of our officials in the highest Government of the authorities, who steal people's money and send them to foreign banks through zones, in the form of gold and diamonds in place in order to improve gas supply in the country and to upgrade the ageing transmission system. I did not say a word about the authorities that sell natural gas, oil and other minerals almost for free to other countries. And our poor people are drowning their huts, shacks and concrete apartments the antediluvian way in the harsh winter.That is, coal, wood or dung. Especially in winter, in the absence of electricity and gas, the population of our country suffers from the cold. Especially children. They do their homework at the light of a kerosene lamp in cold a house in the siege of Leningrad in the forties of the 20th century. When for the money stolen by some state officials of our independent country, you can easily build powerful ultra-modern power plants, hundreds of giant plants and factories, where our patrons are suffering from total unemployment even though they could work. They wouldn't travel the world looking for work and becoming slaves. If they had a normal job at home, our young fellow citizens would not have turned into marauders, in the hot spots of the planet, where they blow up and destroy beautiful cities, turning them into ruins, killing each other and innocent people, especially the homeless children....

 

-Hello! Hello, can you hear me?! - said Saidvakkas . But he heard short beeps from the phone , similar to the beeps of the ventilator of the lungs of a patient, who died. That is, the connection was broken.

 

Saidvakkas frightend, looked around and quickly went downstairs and went to the side of the block where he lives with his mother. On the way, all the people began to look for undercover policemen in civilian clothing. Before he went to his apartment, he again looked around and going inside, closed the door of his apartment. Seeing his pale face and anxious eyes, his mother became concerned.

 

-What's wrong, son? - she asked.

 

- It's okay.Only, you know... there is such a thing... well, how do you explain it? More shortly... he said barely hearing the thud of boots outside the door, the fear stopped. Then, approaching the door on tiptoe, he looked through the peephole and saw the people standing there. Saidvakkas immediately recognized one of them . It was the local policeman Lieutenant Carbabaev, who began to knock at the door.

 

-Who's there? Open the door - said Saidvakkas's mom.

 

Saidvakkas putting his index finger on his mouth and said in a whisper: - Shh, Mom, there is the Lieutenant Carbabaev with his squad. They want to arrest me. Don't worry, mom, it's gonna be okay. I'm going out the window right now and tell them you didn't see me. Take care of yourself, mom. I love you - said Saidvakkas, hugging his mom and saying goodbye to her. From these words Saidvakkas's mother almost fainted.

 

Saidvakkas opening the window, jumped on the booming tin of the roof of a nearby house and ran as a stuntman who performs dangerous and difficult stunts, replacing the actor on the set. After him, said the local policeman Lieutenant Carbabaev, people engaged in catching stray dogs. Downstairs they gathered the people and began to observe what is happening, they sheilded their eyes from the Sun rays . They thought that in their hometown was a shoot action-Packed exciting feature film. Saidvakkas recklessly ran across the tin roofs. He ran and thought that in this world he ran everything as a hampster in a cage which is turning a wheel. People run because they are chased by the merciless grim Reaper. And people twist their wheels, big and small, gold, iron, wood and clay, quietly turning gray and aging at the same time. Who's got the legs for untold wealth. Even those who have paralyzed legs, too, running for their pension, that move with the help of crutches, who is in a wheelchair with the wheels of a bike. And the Earth, Is spinning like a mysterious wheel of the universe so great that no one can stop it. And the blue sky was too similar to an hourglass, where seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and centuries are flowing from above like the Sands of the torn bag like heaven in the hourglass of eternity... Such thoughts Saidvakkas ran on, leaping from roof to roof, like a flying squirrel in the forest as suspense in a jungle.

 

- Saidvakkas ! Wait! Stop! Otherwise I will be forced to open fire with my service weapon! - shouted the Lieutenant Carbabaev.

 

Saidvakkas did not obey him. On the contrary he started to run even faster. He jumped from roof to roof like a monkey in the jungle, like a flying squirrel from tree to tree and ran recklessly. Lieutenant Carbabaev and the hunters of street dogs ran with nets in their hand, deftly leaping from rooftop to rooftop, never losing sight of Carbabaev. At the bottom of all this with admiration he watched the crowd of onlookers, as tourists at the Canadian Niagara falls . Then disaster struck and Saidvakkas fell into a old deep ventilation shaft . As he fell crashing down, he heard shouting in the dark. Someone coughed and sneezed in the soot and dust. On the roof all the people still stomping their boots .

-Oh, my! He's gone! As if the landing failed! Oh Satan!, where has he gone?! I really missed the bastard. - said the Lieutenant Carbabaev and said: Well, we'll do a stakeout on his apartment and he won't escape us! After these words, stamping the echoing roof detachment Lieutenant Carbabaev began to leave. When they left, in a dark ventilation shaft, someone lit a match and Saidvakkas saw a man of about thirty-five or forty. He lit a candle. Saidvakkas immediately asked for forgiveness from the owner for jumping into the housing.

 

- Dont worry about it, its okay- said man and continued.

 

- I am a lone writer and poet my name is Dahabebaho - he explained.

 

- I'm glad to meet you Mr. poet Dahobebaho. Call me Saidvakkas. I have a special secondary education. Before that, I worked as a electrician.

- Well, then we're almost colleagues. As you electricians are covering people's houses and roads and we poets illuminated the human soul like a weary street lights in the quiet dawn - said the poet Dahobebaho . Then he read his new poem.

Listening to the verses of Dahobebaho, Saidvakkas took a deep breath.

 

- Oh, such a great poet lives in an unlit ventilation shaft! What an injustice, my Lord! How do you even live in a hole like this covered in cobwebs? Such poets as you have to live in mansions, where the moon peaks through the window . Where, outside the window are rings of white-trunked poplars in the wind, and the fall of the maples drop their leaves in silence as tears. In the winter twilight poets have to sit silently next to a large window, especially turning off the lights and gaze for hours on snowy snowstorm, listening to the howling of wolves - he said.

 

-No, Mr. Saidvakkas , on the contrary I am glad that I live in the ventilation shaft. It's much better than living in luxurious mansions. Here reigns peace and quiet. No one's bothering me here. I'm not running, I'm not in a hurry, I'm not late. Im doing what I like - said the great poet Dahobebaho.

 

Saidvakkas paused for a moment, looking at the hands of the poet covered with tattoos. Then asked:

 

- I apologize, Mr. poet, it is clear that you have been in prison for many years. What for?

 

-No, Mr. Saidvakkas , I wasn't in prison -said the poet Dahobebaho.

 

- Then why are your hands covered with tattoos? - said Saidvakkas .

 

-Aaa - said Dahobebaho. Then went on to explain:

 

-I have not only my hands, almost all my body is covered with tattoos, where the text of my poems is written in small print, which can be read only with a magnifying glass. I wrote them on my body with ink and a needle so my poems wouldn't get lost. In short, I live the manuscript of poems. That's the way I will save money to buy new shoes, but I still can not. I walk, as you can see, in these old footsteps, wrapped in my footcloths. It's like gold for the rich to me. I rarely would like to share with paper he said - then he continued,

 

-Mr. Saidvakkas , I'm glad you came. Although you came into my miserable home without warning, but God sent you to me as a guest, you should be able to treat the poet more than that - said Dahobebaho.

 

- Well, I'm ready to take treats, Mr. poet. I know you want to punch me in the face for the fact that I bothered you with my stupid visit - smiled Saidvakkas .

 

- No, really I dont want to punch you in the face, you truly are an expensive guest. I do have some treats for you. There's got to be a piece of dried bread around here somewhere .I didn't eat it, even when I was facing starvation. I saved it for random guests. Where is it?.. With these words, the poet Dahabebaho began frantically fumbling in his old and tattered bag, made of fox leather.

 

- Don't worry, Mr. poet I'm full- said Saidvakkas .

 

-Yeah? - said Dahobebaho, and made a sad sigh. Then he got very excited, feeling his torn jacket and pulling out the inner pocket of the pouch.

 

- Here, I have an excellent shag, made by me from the fallen crimson leaves of autumn maple, which sadly drops in deserted autumn parks and alleys in the misty silence. That is, I will treat you with sacred smoke -he said, hastily unleashing a ribbon from his pouch with his hands shaking with excitement.

 

-Mr. poet Dahobebaho, don't. I'm not Smoking or drinking.That is, I lead a healthy lifestyle. with sports - said Saidvakkas .

 

-Don't be afraid, Mr. Saidvakkas. The tobacco heals - explained the poet Dahobebaho , stuffing his pipe with tobacco,on the thin mouthpiece, specially made of reeds. Then, lighting his pipe, took a few puffs and handed it to Saidvakkas.

 

Saidvakkas picked up the pipe and also made a puff. Then the toxic smoke entered his lungs and he began coughing heavily, sticking out his tongue like a sick old sheep, gasping for breath. Dahabebaho began to laugh. He barely was able to breathe due to him constantly laughing and said: -You cough as quail, who sings in the predawn darkness of the clover field. The quail was also coughing, the quail's throat was frozen when it drank the cold dew.

 

- Hmmm,the tabacco that you made with fallen maple leaves which you picked up from the foggy autumn park - said Saidvakkas smiling - just recovering.

 

Dahabebaho asked him about why Lieutenant Carbabaev and his team following him.

 

Saidvakkas told in detail the reason for the prosecution to Dahabebaho. Then, lighting a pipe he stuffed it with healing tabacco, made of fallen crimson leaves of the autumn maple, he began to speak.

 

-Yes, Mr Saidvakkas like you - a rarity not only in our society but on the planet.Not everyone is given the courage to tell the truth about the hard life of people, risking their own lives. I envy you in white in this regard, honestly.And I live here, hiding from the stupid crowd like an eagle nesting on a high rock. Since this property has no Windows, every day I go up to the roof through a compact folding staircase to meet the dawn and sunset, sitting on a tin roof and write new poems. At night I admire the starry sky and the shining moon in silence. I especially love to look at the dawn from the roof down, watching the movement of the crowd, hurrying to work or somewhere else.The flow of crowds moving along the sidewalk as the caravan of ants and headed toward the subway. Hurrying the people obedient to remind me of grains of sand, which the winds easily control and direct them wherever it wants...

 

Then suddenly someone began to shout at the top:

 

-Oh, crap, he is here, in the ventilation pipe. Talking to his accomplice!Hurry up, comrade Carbabaev! - he shouted.

 

And again there came the sound of tarpaulin boots echoing on the tin roof. Saidvakkas and the poet Dahabebaho with horror, stared upward, as prisoners in the deepest dungeon of the ancient Bukhara.

 

They are terribly scared seeing the angry policeman Lieutenant Carbabaev, which looked at the ventilation shaft, as in the well with a service weapon in hand.

 

-Come on, hands up, bastards! No one can escape from us! Now Saidvakkas, and your accomplice too!.. Hey, you bring the rope quickly. Let them rise voluntarily, unless of course they still want to live in this world! -he shouted, raising his cap slightly with the barrel of a silenced pistol.

 

Hearing this Carbabaev's heart sank. He and the poet Dahabebaho stood with their hands raised as a warrior captured in war.

 

-Wait, Lieutenant Carbabaev! I've got tranquilizer Darts! He just ran to the dog hunter, who is engaged in catching of stray dogs, and pulling a brass tube from his pocket began to throw his Darts at Saidvakkas and his friend.But he couldn't get in.Then the Lieutenant Carbabaev lost patience and abruptly pushed him away.

 

-Oh, you poor dog hunter! Who shoots like that! Move, stupid! I'll do without your poor services, without the rope! I've got a smoke bomb that'll make them go upstairs! - he said, lighting a smoke bomb, and threw it into the windpipe, which resembled an old dried-up well.

 

At this time, the Lieutenant Carbabaev pushed the dog hunter who rolled on the tin roof and barely stopped at the edge.

 

-Don't be afraid, Mr. Saidvakkas , without panic. There is a back door in the air duct - the poet Dahobebaho said in a whisper coughing the smoke. After that, pulling out the old mattress, they opened the doorway and dived there.

 

Saidvakkas with the poet Dahabebaho out of the doorway and ran, not looking back on the sidewalk, knocking passers-by, in order to get away. Lieutenant Carbabaev and his partner the dog hunter. They were still above the ventilation pipe, hoping to catch the two fugitives, that is from the pit of the ventilation pipe, filled with a caustic smoke. And runaways-adherents ran on the sidewalk with all their might, overtaking each other as participants of the Olympic games on a treadmill. When they started to cross the street, as if changing direction on the run, Saidvakkas almost got hit by a truck.The driver of the truck, sharply twisted the steering wheel to the right and in a panic pressed the brakes. As a result the truck sharply left on a roadside and with a roar crashed into a column. From a powerful blow a wooden pole broke like a mast of an ancient pirate ship in the stormy sea.There were heart-rending cries of women, like whistling, swearing and screaming, like an alarm. Fortunately, there were no casualties. The friends fled until, they began to suffocate. Saidvakkas suddenly got a unique idea and he forced one man's bike with biker handlebars.

 

-Mr. poet Dahabebaho! Jump quickly to the back of the 2 wheeled wagon of Satan! - he shouted.

 

The poet Dahabebaho jumped on the back of a stolen bike .He deftly sat on Satan's wagon, go prompt the Indians on the horse and together they raced down the sidewalk, screaming: -everyone this satans's wagon does not have working brakes!

Passers-by leaned against the walls of houses and showcases of restaurants and cafes, freeing them from the sidewalk.There was trouble. That is Carbabaev's pant leg caught in the chain and the fugitives, losing balance fell to the pavement. To get rid of the two-wheeled trap, from satan's wagon, Saidvakkas had to say goodbye to the Trouser leg of his trousers. After that, they started running on the crowded sidewalk again.

 

There were screams.:

 

-Lieutenant Carbabaev! Here they are! Shoot! We'll miss them again! - the driver of a pickup truck shouted, densely approaching the populous sidewalk.

 

- No, it's crowded here! I'm going to miss and shoot innocent passers-by! You are a dog hunter, go ahead and shoot poisonous darts for fugitives from this stupid brass tube! -shouted the Lieutenant Carbabaev.

 

-Well, comrade Carbabaev! - said the dog hunter, and he grabbed the brass tube from his pocket, began to shoot Darts, taking aim at the neck of the fugitives. But he missed and immediately a couple innocent citizens fell, clutching their neck.

 

- Fool! Be careful, stinky dog hunter! - Lieutenant Carbabaev reproached the hunter of stray dogs , slightly raising the visor of his cap with the barrel of a service weapon.By this time the fugitives sharply changing their directions, dived into a narrow alley, where the car would not fit.

 

After this detachment of Lieutenant Carbabaev began to pursue the fugitives on foot. The persecuted ran towards the railway station. Saidvakkas started howled like a werewolf under the full moon from the unbearable pain, he started limping, clutching his leg. It turns out he stepped on a rusty nail that pierced through his leg.He could no longer walk, and fell to the ground like a bag of soil.

The great poet Dahabebaho had to go back to help his faithful friend in the difficult moments.

 

- What's wrong? - he asked, running and breathing heavily.

 

- Aaaahh!..A nail pierced through my leg! - said Saidvakkas .

His face twisted into a grimace of pain.

 

-Be patient, mister electrician Saidvakkas .Get up.

Let me help you with that. It's dangerous for both of us to stay here. After the squad Lieutenant Carbabaev, you understand? - said the great poet Dahabebaho, trying to help lift up his fugitive friend.

 

- No, don't help me. I like something better of myself... You run, I got your back.While I'll hold them off, you will have time to escape, blending into the crowd in the station of the flea market. I'm sure. Goodbye, my friend Dahabebaho! You have no right not to be saved, run for God's sake, for the sake of our long-suffering literature, for the sake of our oppressed people! said Saidvakkas , groaning from the unbearable pain.

After that Dahabebaho there was nothing for it but to run on.

-Goodbye, Mr. Saidvakkas ! Thank you for helping me, staying in trouble and sacrificing yourself for our friendship! - cried the poet Dahabebaho. His eyes glistened with tears. Saying goodbye to his friend he ran on.When he disappeared from sight, there was a detachment of Lieutenant Carbabaev and caught the fugitive electrician. Lieutenant Carbabaev sitting on the back of Saidvakkas, put lowcost handcuffs on his hands.

 

- Well, got the stinky electrician, evil enemy of our suffering people?! We will catch your crazy rich friend poet living in a luxury ventilation pipe!

 

- Ah stop... come on, chief, that hurts! Don't put pressure on my leg, which was pierced through by a rusty nail! - said Saidvakkas , lounging on the ground.

 

After that, he was taken to the basement of the detention center for questioning.

 

The investigation lasted long. The criminal case consisted of several volumes. Finally, the trial took place and the jury handed down an indictment. After all this, the Prosecutor asked the court to sentence Saidvakkas to death.

 

- The court having consulted on a place, decided! Since our convict Saidvakkas worked at the will of the electrician, he will be executed in the electric chair! - the judge said.

Then ordered:

 

- Rise, condemned!

Saidvakkas stood up.

- Do you understand me?! - the judge asked.

 

Saidvakkas replied: -Yes, your honor.

 

-Sit down! - ordered the judge.

Saidvakkas sat down on the defendant bench.

 

- At this court session is declared closed! - the judge said, tapping with a wooden hammer.

 

Saidvakkas never thought that he would ever commit such a heinous crime and will be executed in the electric chair. Oh, how his mother in court, was crying! The worst thing happened before the execution. When he heard the barking of angry dogs and keys rattled the iron door, Saidvakkas thought with horror that the executioners coming from the dark corridor to take him to the room for the execution. But it was not .The lawyer came with the muslim priest. Beardless young priest with a black velvet skullcap on his head with a sacred book in his hands.

 

-Electrician Saidvakkas , so you are going to the afterlife, I came to read your memorial by Sharia law - said the beardless priest with a velvet black skullcap.

Saidvakkas was silent, looking at the priest indifferent gaze as a crazy person.

 

-I also came to say goodbye to you, my dear client Saidvakkas. I apologize that I couldn't protect you from a death sentence-the lawyer told and bitterly began to cry.

 

After this they brought Saidvakkas his last meal.

 

- This is your last meal. Excellent plov, cooked with very delicious sheep kabbob. Eat. If you want to drink vodka or wine lastly, tell me do not be shy-said one of them and uncorked a bottle of wine, gently pulling the tube with the help of a corkscrew.

 

-No, thank you. I don't want to eat or drink, how could I have anything at such a time, what's wrong with you? - said Saidvakkas .

 

-Well, well.If you don't want to drink, we will toast to you, that is, the sight of your soul -the other said and they drank in silence, clinking glasses, and ate.Then they took Saidvakkas , dragging him along a narrow, poorly, conferences hall. Before putting him on the electric chair, the Barber shaved his hair with a razor in the top of his head, wet his head with a wet rag so that his skull effectively passed the high voltage electric current. Then put him in the electric chair, the executioners tied the hands and feet with belts, blindfolded his eyes, with a dark blindfold, so his eyes don't pop out during the execution.

 

After the judge read the verdict , Saidvakkas with a rag in his mouth thinking about that here is the main executioner nodding to his assistant and he pulls the switch and scary sitebest electrical discharges like lightning in the black sky, throwing sparks and he's done.

 

Finally it was the time of the execution and the assistant chief executioner solemnly pulled lever. Those present in the hall covered their face with their hands, with magazines, who else than that, not to see the terrible event. But just at this time the power went out throughout the district, thereby saving Saidvakkas from apparent death.

Saidvakkas woke up in a cold sweat and saw his mother, who stood with a candle in her hand.

 

- Oh, mom, why are you holding a burning candle? - he asked with fright, thinking that he really died after the execution and is already in the dark world.

 

-What is it, my lamb, I think you are sick? What to do if power each day turns the light off, under the pretext economic electricity? Turned on the TV to watch movies and again turned off the light - electrician Saidvakkas's mom said .

 

- Oh, thank God, mother, thank God, that all this was not in reality! - said Saidvakkas hugging his mother.

-What happend to you, my son, did you have a nightmare? - asked the Saidvakkas's mother.

-Yes, mother, in the dream I was executed in the electric chair! Good thing the lights went out during the execution! Oh, how good it is to live without electricity!Look, mom, how the moon looks in our open window!As the distant twinkle of countless stars! Do you hear the frog choir whispering?How they croak! croak!croak!croak!! And how selflessly crickets sing! - said Saidvakkas , looking in through the open window, which gently fluttered the net curtains.

 

- Yes, son. Frogs are humpbacked, bug-eyed, ugly, in a word. And how they sing under the bright shining moon, in silence! - said the delighted mother of Saidvakkas.

 

Mother and son wondered, silently glaring through open window on moon and on distant the blue stars.

 

 

 

02/05/2018.

9:46 in the morning.

Canada, Ontario.

 

 

 

Ўзбекистон Республикаси Маданият Вазири этиб тайинланган, Ўзбекистон халқ ҳофизи Озодбек Назарбековни юксак мартаба билан чин дилдан муборакбод этамиз!

 

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилар уюшмасининг аъзоси

Ибрат Сафо

 

 

Ватандан ташқарида Ибрат Сафо деган бир ўзбек журналисти бор. У "Би би си ўзбек" радиосида фаолият олиб боради. Ибрат Сафонинг бошқа "журналистлар"дан фарқи, у ўзи тахлил қилаётган воқеаларга ҳеч қачон бир ёқлама ёндошмайди. Воқеаларни ёритиш жараёнида ҳечкимнинг тегирмонига сув қуймайди, ҳечкимга ялтоқланмайди ва ўз манфаати йўлида суҳбатдошига провокацион саволлар бермайди. Тўғриси, мен шундай профессионал ўзбек журналисти борлигидан ва у билан бир замонда яшаётганимдан фахрланаман.

Холдор Вулқон

24/09/2019.
Тонги 7:20.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Ибрат Сафонинг ибратли сўзлари

Ўн гулидан бир гули очилмаган... Одатда бу ўхшатиш қайғули кайфиятга эга. Ҳазон кетган умр шундай тасвирланади.
Аммо, “ўн гулдан бир гули очилмаган”ни ижобий оҳангда ҳам айтиш мумкинмикан? Менимча, мумкин. Тескари тарафдан сананг. Одатда, гул очилгандан кейин нима бўлади? Сўлийди. Ўнта гул тўпланган гулдаста гулдонда сўлиб қолганини кўрганмисиз? Унинг бу ҳаётдаги вазифаси тугади - у энди сарғайиб, кукунга айланади.
Инсон умриниям бунга қиёслаш мумкин. Бугун бир дўстимнинг “Ўтмаган кунлар” номли ҳикоясида мана бу мисраларни ўқиб жилмайдим: “Хушбоқ бугун ишдан эртароқ қайтди. Тунги соат ўн иккиларда ҳайдовчиси уни уйига ташлаб кетди...” Ҳушбоқлар бизда кўп, ҳаёт пойгаси қизиган, иш-уй-соққа-иш-мажлис-соққа-соққа ва яна соққа-иш-мажлис. Ўнта гул гуркираяпти, хуллас. Куни билан кўрмайдиган ва тарбиясига вақт ажратолмайдиган фарзандларининг ўқиши ва тўйига, уйига йиғади. Бир неча кун олдин фейсбукдаги бир дўстим пул топишнинг кайфи ҳақида қизиқ бир пост ёзди. Уни ўқиб икки йил олдин саратон орамиздан бевақт олиб кетган дўстимни эсладим. Унинг пули кўп эди. Бор вужуди қандайдир бизнес лойиҳалар, суҳбат чоғида тинимсиз тинғиллайдиган телефонидаги келишувлар, янги-янги пулни туғдираётган пуллари. Харажати ҳам шунга мослашди, данғиллама уй, машина, атрофида ҳар ким гирдикапалак. Лекин, ўлганидан кейин, у ўзи нега бунча пул йиғди экан деб ўйлаганим эсимда. Вафотидан кейин, камига, катта қарзи бор эканини билдик.
Уни ҳаётда кўрсангиз, қаранг, мана унинг ўн гулиям очилган, боракалло деган бўлардингиз. Очилди, ва тезда сўнди.
Одамзот балки тўққиз гулини очиб, бир гулини очмай тургани яхшидир? Бор имкониятингиз ва салоҳиятингизни ишлатиб қўйсангиз, гугурт чўпидек бирдан ёниб, пуфф этиб ўчмайсизми? Балки одамзот каламушлар пойгасидан ўзини сал четга олиб, бир ўйлаб кўриши керак - менга нима керак бунинг ҳаммаси? Биргина ғунчам қолди, шуни авайлай, деб?
Ўн гулдан ҳеч бўлмаса бири очилмай турсин.

Фурқат Алимардоннинг ФБ саҳифасидан олинди.

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

Зимняя симфония

(Посвящается памяти великого узбекского певца Батыра Закирова)

 

Стучит в окна снежинками зима,
За окном снег шепчет молитву.
Глядят устало на дорогу дома,
Поет на ветру скрипучая калитка.   

Деревьям ветви раскачивает ветер,
Перелистывая зимы нотная тетрадь.
Снежинки ни очем не жалея на свете,
Симфонией белой невесомо летят.

Ветры все рвут на улице баяны,
Снегом покрыты дороги и дома.
Зима на оледенелом белом рояле,
Играет старинный романс.

24/11/2017.
9:56 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Key

(The story)

Holder Volcano


Key
(The story)


When the letter from the commander-in-Chief of The Air And Land forces, General Thomas Yakkabaloon, and his Deputy, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfonso de Valdemar, reached the presidential office, the Press Secretary of the President, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, thought deeply, staring at the envelope, not knowing what to do.
Then came the terrible command of the guards:
Attention, all members of the presidential staff! Close the door of their offices on the bolt and clear the corridor! Mr. President is coming! -the guards shouted through a tin horn. The President's press Secretary stood at attention as if in a photograph. Finally, the President appeared in the corridor, surrounded by heavy security. After a while, the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, came and stood for a moment at the entrance of his chic favorite spherical office. Before entering his office, he glanced briefly at the Press Secretary's Desk, where a pile of letters lay.
Well, what news? What are they? Again from the citizens, or what? I am so tired of these stupid letters. Like I don't have anything else to do but read those stupid letters where they only write about their own problems. There is not among them at least one person who could write about the global economic problems, at least about those which concern problems of our state. Give me that big red envelope." Here I see something extraordinary. This letter is either from the leaders of other Countries, or from the diplomatic corps of the Commonwealth countries -said, as if guessing, the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, taking and examining the envelope with interest. Then he smiled broadly at the address of the letter.
Oh a letter from a mental hospital? - looking at the letter, and he started laughing, shaking his whole body. - Huwah-hah-hah-hah-haaaah! Iehh-hah-hah-hah-haaaaa! Ahahahahahahaaaa! See, the letter from the mental hospital?! no way... This is the first time I've received this kind of letter in my 45-year presidency, honestly! I wonder what they wrote about. It's supposed to be funny... the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, said, wiping tears from his eyes with his huge checkered handkerchief.
Entering his spherical office, he opened the envelope and began to read the letter of the patients of the mental hospital with interest , the commander-in-Chief Of the Air And Land forces, General Thomas Yakkabaloon and his Deputy Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar.
To the President of our beloved country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic.

Mr. President!


Although healthy people consider us fools, crazy, but we, patients of the Central mental hospital of the capital of our independent country, paradoxically, are the most intelligent, the most brilliant people on the planet. We have famous poets, thinkers, philosophers of all stripes, there are psychics, clairvoyants, soothsayers, great scientists, astronauts, valiant invincible generals, telepaths, reading other people's thoughts, who declared themselves prophets and even gods, nomads of time, masters of the universe, defenders of humanoids in solar systems and in the nebulae of the universe, great Opera singers with soprano voices, baritone, tenor. There are also disgraced leaders of opposition parties, human rights activists pyan yes ragged, that could not become your "colleagues". This raises the question: why can't our state use the free services of these capable, talented patients in solving the problems that have arisen in the political arena of the world? To solve questions our forces, patients of our mental hospital in area defense. We often hear that hundreds, sometimes thousands, of innocent, mentally healthy young soldiers of our country are dying in the hot spots of our planet. And what if we, psychopaths, paranoids and schizophrenics, were drafted into the army in the place of healthy children, in the spiritual sense of the word? First, we are strong, healthy, brave, courageous people. Second, we have nothing to fear and nothing to lose. Thirdly, we will not sit here idly on subsidies, as they say, on the neck of our poor independent state when our innocent young compatriots die in hot spots. We are not interested in money, position, awards, titles, orders and medals. We also do not need any apartments, no family and no other completely unnecessary things. We, that are valiant, brave, and mentally ill of our homeland, can protect our territories from any invaders, including aliens! And we think we'll have a lot more fun at the front than we have here in a boring treatment center, believe me, Mr. President. I never tire of repeating that we are very capable people and, once we are taught how to use firearms, how to operate an anti-Aircraft Missile System, bombers and fighters and how to hijack them, how to fly military helicopters such as "shark", "Apache", use nuclear submarines with cruise Intercontinental ballistic missiles and so on, then I assure You and guarantee that our brothers in healthy talented cadets. They will fly freely on modern supersonic aircraft bombers like hawks and bomb city points in hot spots of the planet, comparing with the earth beautiful cities, Orthodox and Catholic churches, mosques, synagogues, residential neighborhoods, factories , schools, hospitals, pharmacies, kindergartens exactly, without leaving there a single living soul. Be sure that the army of schizophrenics and paranoids, using anti-Aircraft Missile Systems, will shoot down thousands of civilian Airliners with hundreds of passengers on Board, getting missiles in the top ten, then in this monstrous crime blame the air force and air defense of the enemy!
With great respect, Commander-in-chief, Air Force and Land Forces General Thomas Yakkabaloon. Deputy General Thomas Yakkabaloon , Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar ."
After reading the letter several times, up and down, the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic thought, looking bleary-eyed through the armored bulletproof window of his office, like a Hitler bunker.
Yeaaaah, here is this letter! Unlike healthy people in the spiritual sense of the word, they did not write about their problems, on the contrary, they wrote about the urgent problems of our society and about strengthening the defense capacity of our long-suffering country. Although this letter is from a mental hospital, it is still worth thinking about their initiatives. Moreover, they promise to protect the Fatherland for free. If we realize their dreams, then immediately decrease the financial costs for defense, for the army, for weapons, for provisions, for clothing and for canvas boots without soles millions and millions of pairs for our soldiers and officers. We are spending enormous amounts of money, which we annually allocate from the state budget.
And these schizophrenics of ours are ready to fight anywhere in the world, protecting the interests of our country, without military uniforms, barefoot.They don't have to pay a monthly salary. They promise to perform any task of the party, at any time of the day, even in the forty-five-degree frost in winter and fifty-five-degree heat in the desert. Oh all the money we can save with this idea! Why didn't we think about this project before? These living robots have nothing to lose. After all, they are kamikaze-suicide and are not afraid of death. And these our so-called soldiers and officers, at the first danger run away, or, lying in the trenches, shoot themselves in the leg and return home a hero, ringing clusters of orders and medals on their chest. To be honest, I have not received such an offer even from my military specialists, from experts who receive a huge monthly salary in dollars. Parasites! They're no good! I must confess that I used to laugh till I cried when I heard anecdotes about the insane. I guess I shouldn't have laughed then. On the contrary, it was necessary to cry and sob in a huge and leaky plaid handkerchief. That's how they reason! It is necessary, such ingenious people languish in mental hospitals of our immense country! And we ostensibly treat these brilliant people ! It seems to me that people who consider themselves healthy should go to psychiatrists and be treated properly before their mental illness worsens. Yes, these people with unstable mentality, people prone to violence are dangerous for society. But if you think about it wisely, I am one hundred percent sure that we can solve a lot of problems. We will put all the responsibility to their doctors, nurses and caregivers, calling them together with their patients in the army, and sending them to the hotspots of the planet. Today in the world establishes total control not only over the people and over the Media, over the opposition, but even over tsunamis, typhoons, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and so on. Are we worse than them? We, too, are able to establish control over patients, through their doctors in white coats, who have ultra- modern equipment, stun guns, sedative tranquilizers and durable straitjackets with long sleeves. Most importantly, we will automatically get rid of unnecessary pickets and rallies that are organized by human rights screamers, grant-eaters who protect the rights of the mothers of millions of dead soldiers who return home in sealed zinc coffins from the battlefield, where they heroically die defending the economic and geopolitical interests of our state. And death mentally ill on the field battlefield, not only causes pity, on the contrary, causes people to uncontrollably laugh at, seeing on tv or having heard about their ridiculous death in bloody battles. In short, this bill I must immediately submit to the Parliament of the country.Let our so-called illiterate MPs-parasites of both chambers and senators- sycophants, discuss and approve this strategic issue in closed sessions of Parliament without free journalists, unanimously in the first reading of the draft. It is clear that these so-called deputies and senators with slave psychology will never vote against what I offer them. I shouldn't worry too much about that, thought the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, lighting a gold pipe with diamond ornaments, stuffed with expensive flavored tobacco.
The President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, before submitting the project to the Parliament, decided to first secretly meet with the authors of the secret letter and instructed his security forces to organize a secret negotiation with the authors of the unique project from the psychiatric hospital. Security forces accurately executed the order of the President, and brought two geniuses in a straitjacket barefoot and without a headdress and, having dressed them in suits of officials and in white shirts with starched collars and with tight ties on necks. They worked so well that even the aides of the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, seeing those two patients in civilian clothes, took them for high-ranking guests from abroad and hastily saluted, pausing like sticks. During the conversation, it turned out that these two are not only able to solve problems related to the strengthening of the country's defense, but also to create absolutely unthinkable fantastic things, to come up with unique, unheard-of ideas and hypotheses.
President Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic hugged them both and wept.
Excuse me, gentlemen, and don't be surprised. These are tears of happiness in my eyes sparkle and tremble like distant stars in the December cold sky of our independent country, when our people drown their bourgeois stinking dung, barely recognizing each other through a veil of acrid smoke, coughing like frowning wipers in the thick fog of an autumn Park. I want to ask your forgiveness, gentlemen, for our psychiatrists, who incorrectly diagnosed, locked you up in psychiatric hospitals of our country, forcing you to drink disgusting liquids and pills. Care-givers beat you like punching bags suspended in sports underground training halls. I also apologize for our compatriots who laughed until they fell and still laugh at you, telling each other funny anecdotes about you. I saw with my own eyes today that you, the so-called patients with mental illness, are a thousand or even millions of times smarter than our deputies and bribe-taking officials! It turns out that we mistakenly locked you brilliant people in mental hospitals not only in our country, but also the planet! I will issue a decree tomorrow to release all your brothers in sickness from the mental hospitals of our independent country, and to lock up the physicians, psychiators, and care-givers themselves in their stead. I will order that all my assistants - sycophants, poets and writers, officials and deputies-bribe takers and Ministers-parasites are immediately arrested. They do nothing, but receive large salaries in American dollars, and the citizens of our country because of total unemployment go to other countries, hoping to find at least some work there. They agree even on dirty work, sake of moreover, to find a slice of bread and feed their family. They work as janitors and watchmen, work in garbage dumps, almost for free. That's all, I will carry out a reshuffle in all spheres of our society, that is, I will appoint you both as my main assistants, and I will also order that only those people who were previously treated in the mental hospitals of our long-suffering and vast state are appointed as deputies of the Parliament of both houses and senators of Congress.
Governors of regions and districts, including chairmen of collective farms and committees, will also be appointed from brilliant people, that is, from your sick brothers. All governors and chairmen of the current system will now be treated for life and involuntarily in psychiatric hospitals until they fully recover. You can both accept the post of any Minister at once, and I congratulate you in advance, gentlemen! - said the President, concluding his speech.
General Thomas Yakkabaloon and Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar, in return, expressed their gratitude to the President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic for the warm welcome, mutual understanding and high trust. Before leaving, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar appealed to the President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic:
I have a little surprise for you, Mr. President, close your eyes, - he said. The President closed his eyes with a Hollywood smile on his lips.
Now open your eyes, Mr. President! - Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar - said, smiling toothlessly.
President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic opened his eyes and saw the key that Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar handed him.
The President's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the key, and his eyes widened.
Well, thank you, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar ! What an honest man you are!
Where did you find it? - It was in my pocket!..
With that, President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic quickly checked his pants pockets and blushed with shame when he found a hole in his pocket where a key might have fallen on the carpet.
I found this key here, under this chair where I was sitting. Let me, I think, I will pick it up and give it to Mr. President of our country Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, maybe I think Mr.
President accidentally lost the key to his modest one-room apartment, located on the outskirts of the capital of the country, where he lives with his large family plus with his hungry fat grouchy mother in law
explained Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar.
-Oh, no, no, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar ! This key is not for a one-room apartment, but instead for the nuclear football! You have no idea what heroism You have committed before my eyes in the face of our long-suffering people! You saved the nation! It is a good thing that this key did not fall into the hands of my crazy Ministers, whom I have long distrusted. After all, these corrupt parasites could easily sell villains religion fanatic terrorists this priceless key for a wad of dollars! And there would have been a third world atomic war! Nope, in my opinion You saved not only the nation, but also saved humanity and the entire Universe from apparent destruction, from thermonuclear war! I award you the order of the Hero of the Fatherland of the first degree! You are now the national hero of our country! From now on, your military rank is not Colonel, but Marshal! Thank you on behalf of our long-suffering oppressed independent and hardworking people and on behalf of all mankind, Mr.
Marshal Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar! - the President said enthusiastically.
Serving the Fatherland!" Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar shouted, saluting President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic. When the two high-ranking officers left the Palace of Mr.
President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, General Thomas Yakkabaloon congratulated his colleague and brother on his high military rank.
I congratulate you, Marshal, On your high rank." "Oh, no!" - he said, turning blue and green with black envy.
At ease, General, at ease!" Thank you for your congratulations, - said Marshal Pascal Salvatore Alphonse de Valdemar, clapping General Thomas Yakkabaloon on the shoulder and head.
General Thomas Yakkabaloon continued:
Excuse Me, Monsieur Le Marechal, but on the one hand, it is good to achieve such success. But on the other hand, I'm afraid we've missed a historic opportunity. By seizing the key to the nuclear briefcase, we could force the President to dissolve the Government and Parliament and resign as President. After all This, you would sleep well tonight, and Wake up in the morning the President of the country! Oh, what a missed chance, my God! - said General Thomas Yakkabaloon .
Yeah, don't you worry, General Lattapagon (Rag shoulder straps), I'm not such a fool as you think!
When I went to the bathroom, I secretly and carefully removed the mold from the key of the nuclear suitcase, pressing it on this piece of soap. Now we can make a duplicate of the key of the nuclear suitcase from this cast. As they say, it is not yet evening. There is still time for me to become President of the country, and you - the Minister of Defense! The weight of the world is in our hands! - said Marshal Pascal Salvatore Alphonse de Valdemar, with a sly smile.

28/08/2014.
3:40 of the day.
Canada.the city of Brampton.

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

"Я горжусь тем, что мои предки - узбеки, и в моих жилах течет узбекская кровь."

Алишер Усманов.

 

Богатство

(Посвящается узбекскому миллиардеру Алишеру Бурхановичу Усманову)

 

Богатые тоже иногда от счастья,
Тихо и безмолвно плачут.
Слезу, на алмаз похожую они часто,
От глаз посторонных прячут.

Вам, Алишер Бурханович, несложно,
Купить себе острова на Гавайях.
Но вам дружба народов дороже,
Важнее Байрон, Пушкин и Наваий.

Самое бесценное богатство - это,
Наша Родина за океанами и морями.
Родные берега, бродячий ветер,
Трель жаворонка над полями.


29/10/2014.
9:36 утра.
г.Бремптон, Канада.

 

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилари уюшмасининг аъзоси

Ҳамдардлик

Ўзбекистон халқ шоири, устоз Шукруллонинг бевақт вафотлари муносабати билан, марҳумнинг яқинларига, дўстларига, шогирдларига ва муҳлисларига чуқур таъзия изҳор қиламиз.

Шоирнинг жойлари Жаннатдан бўлсин.

Қуйида Холдор Вулқоннинг рус тилида ёзилган "Далекие огни", "Олисларда ёнган чироқлар" номли повестидан Шукрулло домла ҳақида ёзилган бобни ҳукмингизга ҳавола қиламиз.

Хорошие люди

 

(Глава повести Холдора Вулкана "Далекие огни")

 

Я зашёл в уютное кафе пообедать и там кто-то зовет меня. Смотрю - это Народный Художник Узбекистана, скульптор, Узбекский Микеланжело Равшан -ака Миртаджиев, который является автором великолепных изваяний в Ташкенте, таких как скульптуры Алишера Навои , Аль Беруни, Гафура Гуляма, Айбека и многих других деятелей литературы и науки. Кроме того он - автор огромной статуи Захириддина Бабура и Чулпана в городе Андижане. Случилось так, что тот день Равшан-ака приехал в Андижан по делам. Мы поздоровались, сели за стол, ели, пили и беседовали о литературе об искусстве.

- Ну, как у вас дела, Холдор? Как творчество? Когда вы нам подарите свою книгу с автографом? - спросил Равшан-ака, вежливо улыбаясь.

Я рассказал ему о своих проблемах, о том, что ищу спонсоров на этот счет. Равшан-ака задумался, потом сказал:

- Да вы не падайте духом. Мы же с вами представители изобразительного искусства. Мы должны жить, помогая друг другу. Если публикация вашей книги требует не очень большую затрату, то я готов попробовать вам помочь в этом плане. Я поблагодарил его за заботу, но мне не верилось, что он на самом деле сможет помочь мне в качестве спонсора. Даже когда Равшан-ака станет спонсором, издатели, возможно, побоятся издать мою книгу, книгу такого диссидента, как я. Но несмотря на это, я решил попробовать.

- Тогда я сначала поговорю с издательством, а потом позвоню вам - сказал я.

- Да, да, вот мои координаты - сказал Равшан-ака Миртаджиев и протянул мне свою визитную карточку. После долгой беседы мы распрощались.

На следующий день я поехал в Ташкент и зашел в издательство "Янги аср авлоди" (Поколение нового века)", чтобы поговорить с тогдашним директором, Народным Поэтом Узбекистана Нормурадом Нарзуллаевом.

- Ну, как поживаешь, шоири замон (поэт эпохи)? - сказал Нормурад-ака.

- Слава Богу, не жалуюсь - сказал я, и продолжал:

- Нормурад-ака, если я найду спонсора, моя книга выйдет? - спросил я.

-Конечно, выйдет. Издавать книги такого поэта, как ты, для нас честь - сказал Нармурад Нарзуллаев.

-Тогда пусть ваша бухгалтерия посчитает расходы на публикацию моей книги и даст мне калькуляцию. Эту калькуляцию я передам своему спонсору, и он перечислит деньги на банковский счет вашего издательства - сказал я.

Нормурад-ака согласился и дал поручение своим бухгалтерам. Они взяли мою рукопись и подсчитали расходы. Я взял эти расчёты и позвонил Равшану Миртаджиеву. Он спросил, какая сумма денег, и я назвал.

- Триста тысяч сумов - сказал я, боясь, что он сейчас скажет, что это слишком большая сумма и что, простите, мол, не могу перечислять такие большие деньги. Но, вышло наоборот.

- Триста тысяч? A я думал - издательство просить колоссальную сумму денег. Всё, не беспокойтесь, Холдор, я обязательно перечислю деньги. Только вы оставьте мне их банковские реквизиты - сказал Равшан-ака.

Я так и сделал. Потом снова поехал в Андижан и продолжал жить, как и прежде. Я даже забыл на время о своей книге. Вдруг мне звонит сам Нормурад Нарзуллаев и говорит:

- Эй, шоири замон, (Поэт эпохи) где тебя носит? Приезжай скорее, твой спонсор перечислил деньги, и мы должны начать публикацию твоей книги стихов. Приезжай и подпиши корректировку и документы! - сказал он.

Я тогда своим ушам не верил. Ну, думаю, неужели это правда? Я в тот же день поехал в Ташкент, окрыленный светлыми надеждами. Подумайте сами, для поэта слышать о публикации своей книги всё равно что услышать о том что у него родился сын!

Приехал в Ташкент, зашел в издательство и, прочитав корректировку, подписал её. Моя первая книга "Песня туманных полей" тоже издавалась именно в этом издательстве, и я никогда не забуду тот счастливый момент, когда я зашел типографию, где издавалась моя первая книга. Запах бумаги, и страницы моей книги и обложки с рисунком одинокого поэта в плаще и в шляпе, уходящего под моросящим осенним дождем по просёлочной дорогой, где блестят лужи, которые чеканит холодный дождь.Гляжу на свою тоненькую книгу, похожий на тетрадь и никак не нарадуюсь.

Итак, вышла моя третья книга "Ночной снегопад". Она была для меня словно термоядерная бомба, которая способна уничтожать армию враждебно настроенных завистников по отношению ко мне и моему творчеству. Те жалкие завистники, особенно после дормонских событий, радующихся и наслаждающихся "ошибкой" которую я совершил спяну, с твердой уверенностью думали, что, мол, теперь Холдору Вулкану конец и власти не допустят публикацию его книги никогда. Но, правильно говорит русская поговорка, что человек полагает, а Бог располагает.

Я подарил свою книгу с автографом великому скульптуру Равшан-аке Миртаджиеву и поблагодарил его за помощь. И сказал:

- Как только получу положенный мне гонорар за книгу, я верну вам деньги, которые вы перечислили на банковский счет издательства.

Тогда Равшан ака взял бумагу с ручкой и написал, что он не намерен получить обратно те деньги, которые он перечислил издательству.

Когда он подписал и отдал мне этот документ, я просто ошалел.

Оказывается, мир не оскудел ещё добрыми людьми.

У меня слезы наворачивались тогда на глаза.

Я никогда не забуду тех добрых людей, которые оказали мне безвозмездную помощь, когда мне трудно жилось. Они не забывали и не бросили меня, несмотря ни на что, хотя я часто забывал о них .

Но это ещё не всё. В литературной газете «Адабиёт ва санъат» - "Литература и искусство Узбекистана" по инициативе тогдашнего редактора, великолепного журналиста и хорошего человека Ахмаджана Мелибоева напечатали 5 или 6, сейчас точно не помню, моих стихов вместе с моей фотографией.

Таким образом, мои стихи получили широкое признание среди массы читателей.

Однажды, приехав в Ташкент, я зашел в журнальный центр, чтобы навестить своих друзей, поэтов и писателей, которые работали тогда в газетах и журналах. Заглянул в редакцию журнала "Шарк юлдузи" и увидел там одного из талантливых поэтов Узбекистана Икрама Атамурадова. Человек среднего роста, черноволосый и чернобровый, с орлиным носом. У него были бакенбарды, как у Пушкина. Его кумиром был знаменитый казахский поэт Олжас Сулейменов, который тоже носил в свое время бакембарды. Икрам Атамурадов говорил медленно, но мудро и бархатным голосом. Я посвятил этому талантливому поэту стихотворение и назвал его "Канглум" так как он любил использовать слово "Канглум", то есть душа в своих стихотворениях. Это слово присутствует почти на каждом его стихотворение. С Вашего позволения, ниже я приведу это стихотворение.

 

На снимке один из талантливых поэтов Узбекистана и хороший человек Икрам Атамурадов.

Душа (Канглум)

(Стихотворение посвящается Икраму Атамурадову)

 

 

Душа моя рухнула давно,

как заброшенная, старая могила.

Теперь её не поднять никому.

А там, ведя за собой врагов заклятых

спешно идёт нужда-предательница

проклятая...

Почему я не уничтожил нужду,

почему? - сказал я самому себе

и сжег висячие деревянные мосты,

которые заполыхали над пропастью

бездонной.

Прочитав этого стихотворение, Икрам Атамурадов поблагодарил меня. Потом сказал:

- Пламя Вулкана видно даже из далека. Спасибо, укажон (братышка), что посвятили мне стихи. Я рад.

Потом вспомнив о чем - то важном, он продолжал.

- Ах, чуть не забыл. Прочитав ваши стихи, которые были опубликованы недавно в литературной газете "Узбекистон адабиёти ва санъати" поэты и писатели ищут вас. Особенно поэт Шукрулло. Он унес с собой вашу книгу, которую вы подарили мне с автографом, чтобы прочесть.

- Икрам, если приедет Вулкан, ты немедленно сообщи мне - сказал Шукрилло-ака.Вот его телефонные номера. Срочно позвоните ему. Он Вас ждет вот уже месяц - сказал Икрам Атамурад.

Я позвонил.

Трубку поднял сам поэт Шукрулло, который побывал в Сталинских лагерях и написал книгу "Захороненные без саван".

- Ассалому алейкум, Шкрулло-ака! Это я Холдор Вулкан вас беспокою - сказал я.

- Аа-аа, поэт, приехал? Ну, как у тебя дела? - спросил Шукрилло, домля.

-Хорошо - ответил я коротко.

- Слушай, если я скажу мой адрес, ты сможешь приехать? - сказал Шукрулло- ака, продолжая разговор.

- Конечно - ответил я снова коротко.

Шукрулло домля дал мне по телефону свои координаты, и я, попрощавшись с Икрамом Атамурадовом, поехал в район, где жил Шукрулло-ака. Приехал и нажал на кнопку на воротах. Аксакал Узбекской литературы, не заставляя ждать себя долго, вышел ко мне навстречу в домашней пижаме. Что было характерно, этот тощий поэт, который отсидел в свое время в сталинских лагерях, в пижаме напоминал мне узника концентрационного лагеря "Бухенвальд". Мы поздоровались, и большой поэт пригласил меня войти в дом. Он, оказывается, жил в роскошном двухэтажном коттедже, с подвалом, разумеется. Мы зашли в огромный зал, посреди которого стоял длинный и широкий банкетный стол и вокруг стола было расставлены дубовые стулья. Стол был покрыт белой скатертью, и когда мы сели, невестка пожилого поэта быстро накрыла стол. Шукрилло-ака указывая на стул, который я сидел, с гордостью сказал:

- На стуле, где ты сидишь, когда - то сидел мой друг Расул Гамзатов. Рядом Кайсин Кулиев, Чингиз Айтматов, Давид Кугультинов и многие мои друзья. Многие из них ушли из жизни. Теперь остались я, Одил (Одил Якубов), и Чингиз (Чингиз Айтматов).Ты, поэт, это, не стесняйся, ешь, бери кишмиш, фисташки, фрукты. Приехал из далека через горные перевалы. Наверное, проголодался, как волк. Дай-ка я тебе чая налью. Ты ешь, ешь, не стесняйся. Сейчас принесут вкусную шурпу - сказал Шукрулло домля. Мы ели, пили и беседовали. Долго читали стихи. Тут кто-то звонил на домашний телефон. Шукрулло-ака, побеседовав по телефону с тем человеком, который звонил, обернулся ко мне:

- Поэт, в чайхане нас с тобой ждет целая махалла. После того, как мы с тобой поговорили по телефону, я им сказал о твоем приезде. Они сварили плов и ждут нас. Айда в чайхану - сказал он.

- Нет, Шукрилло-ака, как-нибудь в другой раз. Я устал - сказал я.

- Ну , как знаешь - сказал Шукрилло-ака. Мы продолжали читать друг другу стихи, не замечая даже о том, что во дворе уже ночь. Я начал собираться уходит, но поэт остановил меня.Куда пойдешь сейчас, на ночь глядя. Ты можешь переночевать у нас. Я своей старухе скажу, и она постелит тебе постель на чорпае во дворе.

- Хорошо -сказал я. Мы вышли во двор. Смотрю - жена поэта Шукрулло-аки, постелила мне постель на чорпае.

-Ладно, поэт, спокойной ночи тебе - сказал Шукрилло-ака.

-Спокойные ночи - сказал я.

После этого Шукрулло домля пошел в дом со своей женой. Я лег спать. Перед сном я лежал на чорпае, глядя на звезды, которые мерцали высоко в небесах, над Ташкентом. Одинокая луна сонно бродила где-то там, над Хадрой. Глядя на звезды, я не заметил, как уснул. Проснулся утром. Гляжу - поэт Шукрулло прогуливает по двору в полосатой пижаме, держа руки за спиной, точь-в-точь узник концентрационного лагеря "Маутхаузен". Когда я встал с постели, поэт поприветствовал меня.

- С добрым утром, поэт! Ну как спалось? Отдохнул маленько? - сказал он.

Я поблагодарил его за гостеприимство. Потом помылся, и мы с аксакалом прошли в зал, чтобы позавтракать. Когда мы сели за стол, Шукрулло домля разламывал лепёшку. Потом сказал:

- Слышь, поэт, я наверное разломал хлеб на слишком мелкие куски, словно Садриддин Айний.

- А что, разве Садриддин Айний ломал хлеба на мелкие куски? - удивился я.

-Ещё бы - сказал поэт. Потом продолжал:

- Садриддин Айний иногда, когда муха утонет в его первое блюдо он, для того чтобы зря не выливать шурпу, брал ту муху за крылья с двумя пальцами аккуратно и, хорошенько пососав муху, ел шурпу до конца - сказал Шукрулло домля. Он так артистично рассказывал о трапезе Садриддина Айний, что когда он показал, как Садриддин Айний держал муху, мне казалось, что он на самом деле держит ее двумя пальцами.

Мы смеялись.

Через некоторое время я встал, и, взяв свои вещи, направился к воротам. Шукрулло-ака пошел за мной. На улице мы попрощались в обнимку, и я ушёл. Пройдя метров сто, я обернулся и увидел, как знаменитый поэт Шукрулло, стоял, держа тощие руки за спиной, в своей полосатой пижаме, словно, заключённый сталинских лагерей, задумчиво глядя мне вслед.

 

 

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилари уюшмасининг аъзоси

 

Нормурод Нарзуллаевни ёд этиб

Ўзбекистон халқ шоири Нормурод Нарзуллаев нафақат устоз шоир, балки кўнглида кири йўқ, ҳалол, ҳақиқатпарвар инсон эдилар.

Бир куни китобим нашри учун ҳомий топилиб, қўлёзмани қўлтиқлаб Тошкентга, "Янги аср авлоди"(собиқ "Ёш гвардия") нашриётига бордим.

Нашриёт директори Нормурод Нарзуллаев (Нарзий) экан. Катта шоир мени танимаса ҳам керак дея ўйлагандим ўшанда.

Аксинча, у мени кўрибоқ, ўрнидан туриб, менга пешвоз чиқаркан, сенлаб: -Ие, кел, шоири замон, қалайсан? Яхши юрибсанми? Ижодларинг яхшими? - дедилар. Мен шоирга раҳмат айтиб, муддаога кўчдим. Суҳбат адоғида, ишонқирамай: - Китобим чиқармикин ўзи? - дедим. Ие, нага чиқмасакан, жуда чиқадида. Сандай шоирларни китобини чиқармай, кимнинг кимнинг китобини чиқарамиз? -дедилар Нормурод ака, менинг кўнглимни кўтариб.

Ўша куни калкульяцияланган қўлёзма нархини аниқлаб, ҳомийга қўнғироқ қилдим. Китоб нашри учун пул ўтадиган бўлди.

Бир куни уяли телефонимга Нормурод ака ўзлари шахсан қўнғироқ қилиб: - Шоири замон, қаёқларда юрибсан? Пулинг нашриёт хисоб рақамига тушди.Корректурани ўқиб, имзо чекиб кетгин, китобни нашр қиламиз - дедилар.

Бордим. Корректировкани ўқиётсам, Нормурод ака: - Шоир, қўлёзмада "Ҳотиржам одам" деган бир шеър бор экан. Ўқиб, тўғриси, кўзимдан ёш чиқиб кетди. Шунақаям ёзасанми? Нега энди санинг қўй сигир эчкиларинг бўлмаслиги керак? Яхши нийят қилгин. Сан унақа ҳотираларда яшашга шошилма, бола. Кел, яхшиси, биронта бошқа шеърингни қолдиргинда, ўша тушкун кайфиятдаги шеърингни тўпламдан чиқариб ташлайлик -деди. Мен таклифга рози бўлдим.

Шундан кейин китоб "Тунги лайлакқор" номи билан Ватанимиз пойтахти Тошкентда, "Янги аср авлоди" нашриётида чоп этилди.

Ўша пайтлар "Холдор Вулқон Чўлпондай қораланди, энди унинг китоблари ҳеч қачон нашр қилинмайди" дея ўзича башорат қилиб, ич ичида севиниб юрган ёғийларнинг, дастхат ёзиб, бепул совға қилган китобимни титроқ қўлларида тутиб, хасаддан кўкариб кетганларини кўрганман ва Худонинг қудратига яна бир бор қойил қолганман.

Нормурод Нарзуллаев шунақа ҳалол, бировнинг дилини ранжитмайдиган, ҳаммага бирдай яхшиликни раво кўргувчи, қалби пок, меҳрибон инсон ва улуғ шоир эдилар.

 

Ўша инсоннинг панду насихатлари билан кейинчалик яхши нийятли, ёруғ шеърлар ёзадиган бўлдим.

Устознинг жойлари Жаннатдан бўлсин.

17/07/2020.
Кеч соат 7:42.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Зебо Мирзаева

Бадиий ижод бошқа ижодкорлар истеъмол қилмаган, янги, ўзига ҳос ташбеҳлар билан инсонга муайян кайфият, туйғу ва ҳайрат бахш эта олиш санъатидир.

Замонавий ўзбек адабиётида давр ўтиши билан ўзгармайдиган, ўз моҳиятини ҳеч қачон йўқотмайдиган мангу мавзу - муҳаббат лирикаси ривожига улкан хисса қўшган ёниқ шоиралардан бири - бу шубҳасиз нафис ва юксак шеърият эгаси Зебо Мирзаевадир.

Унинг шеърларида, ҳамма айтавериб увадаси чиққан сийқа жумлалар, ўқувчининг медасига тегувчи оддий, одми, газетавий сўзлар, макр, ғийбат, фитнаю фисқу - фасод, ўткинчи, муваққат ижтимоий сиёсий бақир - чақир, миллатчилик, ирқчилик тарғиботи ва  шеърни овора қилиб ўтирмай, шундай, даханаки айтиб қўйса ҳам бўладиган примитив ёзғавалар йўқ.

Зебонинг янги ташбеҳларга бой, ўрик гуллаётган ойдин кеча каби осуда, қорли далалар тонгидай ўйчан, масех сўзлар нафаси билан жисмларга жон бахш этиб, руҳ билан ёзган шеърлари ҳақиқий санъат асарларидир.

Унинг шеърларини ўқигувчи юз марталаб қайта - қайта ўқиса ҳам зерикмайди, қайтага, яна ўқигиси келаверади, у шеърларни муттасил соғинаверади.

Арши аълодан илкис кўтарилиб, курраи замин узра айланаётган, қанотлари қордай оппоқ, гала гала малоикаларга қалбини қўналға қилган илоҳий истеъдод эгаси, шоира Зебо Мирзаева, умрида ҳеч кимга ёмонликни раво кўрмаган, разилликнинг, қабохатнинг остонасидан ўтмаган, бировнинг дилини оғритмаган, Худо раҳматига лойиқ ва ёниқ шоир, устоз Муҳаммад Раҳмон бешигини тебратган, гулларга бурканган гўзал Кифти об (яъни теварагида Сиёб каби дарёлар ўркач ўркач туяланиб, хайқириб оққан серсув - сероб жаннатий гўша) Китоб шаҳрида дунёга келган.У Тошкент Давлат Университетининг журналистика факультетини битирган.

Холдор Вулқон

20/11/2019.
Тонги соат 9:41.
Канада, Онтарио.

Зебо Мирзаева

 

Сев мени!

Оловли

вулқонни ютгандай замин,

Кўтаргани каби жаннатни осмон,

Қовжираб кутгандай томчини саҳро,

Сақлагани каби сиррини уммон!..

Сўнгги нафасдаги...

бир ютум ҳаво...

Ҳаёт каби азиз, қадрли жондай!

Ўлса хиёнатдай,

қолса – бахтсизлик,

Кетса – бирга кетадиган имондай;

Руҳлар оламида бирга туғилиб,

Бирга ўладиган ёлғиз ёр каби,

Осса ўзин осиб,

бироқ ўзгага

Ўзини бермаган баланд дор каби!..

Ҳеч кимга ҳеч нарса демасдан,

бориб

Ғаюрлар бошига ёғилган тошдай,

Қаҳратон қишларни

бепарво ёриб,

Яшринган ғоримга кирган қуёшдай!..

Бу ғаним тошларга аччиқма-аччиқ,

Қисмат йўлларига қарама-қарши,

Худонинг қошидан келган

Нур янглиғ,

Кўтариб келгандай муҳаббат Аршин!..

Сев мени!

Мен сени севганим каби!

Кўзларим кўзингда турсин жаранглаб...

Руҳингга туташсин

Исмим гулхани,

Шундай ёнки, ҳеч ким тутолмасин лаб!

Қаҳримда,

зулмимда,

борим-йўғимда

Шу қадар севгинки, сўрмасдан: “Нега?”

Наинки – бу дунём,

у дунёмда ҳам,

Сендан ўзга инсон бўлмасин эга!..

Сев мени.

 

 

ҚАЙТИНГ

 

Уйга қайтинг...

Юракка қайтинг...

Агар қолган бўлса.... Севгингиз омон...

“Ниҳоят... Мен келдим!

Келдим!..” – деб айтинг...

Қолсангиз-да, зулмат ичида пинҳон...

Йўлга тушинг,

Тушинг ғурур отидан...

Бу ёғи Ёлғизлик – Руҳият йўли...

Чиқинг бу қафасдан...

Хасм ёдидан...

Чирмашиб тортса-да чирмовуқ қўли...

Дунёни қолдиринг...

Қолдиринг танни...

Илон терисини ечгандек... Ечинг!

Изланг... ичингизда кутган Ватанни...

Занжир Олтин бўлса-да... Кечинг!..

Онангизга боринг...

Тирик бўлса – У!

Кетган бўлса, агар... қабрига боринг.

Ёруғ дийдорини кўрмоқ бўлсангиз,

Кўксингизнинг ўртасин ...ёринг!

Бир пиёла чашма...

Бир оби ҳаёт...

Сизга берган кўз ёш –

томган томчи Нур!

Тирик томирингиз тупроқда токи...

Демак,

Руҳингизда Ҳақ этар зуҳур!

...қайтинг. Уйга қайтинг...

Лойсувоқ... девор...

Ўчмагансиз ҳали хотирасидан...

Бир дилни топасиз...

Румий ё Машраб...

Ва ёки Навоий чодирасидан!..

...агар унутмаган бўлсангиз йўлни,

Тиконлар қоплаган бўлса сўқмоқни...

Исодан...

Мусодан сўранг... Дуч қилсин

Расуллуллоҳ байт қилган тоғни!

...агар тош устида бўлса мусича,

Агар ғор оғзини тўсса ўргимчак...

Қайтинг!

Белингизда ҳали зуннор бор,

Ҳали ичингизда Бутлар бор... демак!

...жойнамозга йиғланг...

Кўкка очинг кафт...

Чўк тушинг...

Энг гўзал васлдир Сужуд!

“Ахир борлигингиз учун дунё бор,

Ахир ёрлигингиз учун Ишқ мавжуд!”

...ҳижоб – Сиз!

Девор – Сиз!..

Эшик – ўзингиз!..

Тақиллатинг уни!..

“Келдим!..” деб айтинг!

Сизни кутиб турган шу дийдор ҳаққи...

Парвардигор ҳаққи,

Асл Ёр ҳаққи...

Ичкарига киринг!..

Юракка қайтинг!

 

 

2020 йил. 30 март.

***

 

Юрагимга босиб ухласам
Ёдингизни, дийдорингизни.
Болам каби қучиб йиғласам
Менга берган озорингизни.
Кафтингизда очилсам гулдай.
Тунингизнинг моҳи мен бўлсам,
Ҳеч кимсага билдирмай чеккан.
Кўксингизнинг оҳи мен бўлсам,
Нигоҳингиз паноҳларида
Ойдиндаги майсадек ўссам.
Нафасингиз титроқларидан
Оқиб кетса минг йиллик ғуссам.
Арш устида ўқилса номим,
Дарвозасин очса фалаклар.
Кўкдан тушса ғайб инъоми,
Никоҳимиз қийса малаклар…
Севаверсам сизни билмасдан,
Севилсаму ўзим билмасам..
Бағрингизга бориб ўлсаму
Бағрингиздан қайтиб келмасам…
Шундай севсам,
шундай яшасам,
Дилга етса пичоқларингиз.
Кетай десам икки дунёда
Қўйвормаса қучоқларингиз…

 

 

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилари уюшмасининг аъзоси

Миннатдорлик туйғуси

Худога шукур, мен ҳам умрим давомида бир қанча бадиий асарлар ёзишга улгурдим. Озми кўпми, муҳлислар ҳам йўқ эмас. Албатта менинг бадиий асарлар ёза олиш даражасига етишимда устоз Фарид Усмоннинг хизматлари беқиёс. Мен илк бор устознинг столи устида қалам билан ёзилган шеърларга кўзим тушиб: - Домла, бу шеърлар кимники? - дея сўрадим. Фарид Усмон у шеърларни ўзи ёзганини айтганларида, мен ҳайратдан анграйиб қолганман ва: -Ие, сиз шоир бўлиб ҳам ишлайсизми? - дея савол берганман.Шунда устоз кулиб, ҳеч ким шоир бўлиб ишламайди. Шеърни оддий одам ҳам, министр ҳам ёзаверади -дея тушунтирганлар. Бироз ўйланиб туриб: -Мен ҳам ёзсам бўладими? -дея савол бердим. Ҳа - дедилар Фарид Усмон.Шу куни мен шеър ёзишга ахд қилдим, аммо юз бора уринсамда, бирон мисра ёзолмадим. Эртасига келиб, домлага, ҳарчанд ҳаракат қилсамда, бирор мисра шеър ёзолмаганимни афсус билан маълум қилдим. Шунда устоз менинг шууримда илк бор манзара туйғусини уйғотиб: - Мана, ҳозир баҳор. Дейлик, шаббода ҳақида тахминан мана бундай ёзиш мумкин дея, тўрт мисра шеър ёздилар. Ўша мисралар ҳамон ёдимда.

 

Эй шаббода, майин шаббода,

Елганингда рақс этар барглар,

Ўйноқласанг кўкда, ҳавода,

Қанот қоқиб силкинада пар.

Эртасига домланинг ёзиб берган юқоридаги мисраларини давом эттириб, шеър

ёзиб келдим.

 

Тунда эссанг кўкда тўлин ой,

Табассумла беради далда.

Тўлқинингга чидолмасдан сой,

Ўз кучини синар амалда.

Янги чиққан момақаймоқ ҳам,

Саломинга алик олади.

Бу ҳаммаси, чексиз яйлов ҳам,

Оғушингда ўйга толади.

 

Бу менинг биринчи бор ёзган шеърим эди. Шеърни ўқиб чиққач, устоз менга бир лахза ҳайрат билан термуларканлар, шеърни чин юракдан мақтадилар. Шундай қилиб мен, буюк бир шоирнинг назаридан ўтдим.Бугунга келиб, шу устоз туфайли адабиётда униб, ўсиб, ҳатто рус тилида ҳам, қўлдан келганича кўплаб насрий асарлар ва манзара лирикаси билан суғорилган юзлаб туйғули шеърлар ёздим. Фақат бир нарса менга армон бўлиб қолмоқда. Устозга, ҳеч йўқ битта чопон кийдиролмадим. Бу дил сўзларимга кўзи тушган инсофли яхши одамлар устоз Фарид Усмонга менинг салом ва дуоларимни етказишларидан умидворман.

Қадрли устоз, мен океанлар ортида, Америка қитъасида яшасамда, сизни ҳар доим миннатдорлик билан эслаб юраман.Сизга таъзим қиламан. Умрингиз узоқ бўлсин. Адабиётимиз бахтига доимо соғ бўлинг. Илоҳо, яхши кунларда учрашиш насиб этсин.Қуйида сизга бағишлаб ёзган шеъримни илова қилмоқдаман.

Ҳурмат билан, Холдор Вулқон.

 

19/06/2020.
Кеч соат 7:32.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Фарид Усмонга

Қон томирлар риштадир, шундан жарангдор созимиз,

Бизга шундай соз ато этган Худодан розимиз.

 

Шеър ёзишдек бедаво бир дардни юқтирган азиз,

Камтарин шоир Фарид Усмон бизим устозимиз.

 

Шум қадамлар етмаган тош қоялар мангу макон,

Кўкда бургутлар каби кўз илғамас парвозимиз.

 

Қилмағаймиз эътибор ёғий ғанимлар ҳайлига,

Бор адолатли Худо -явмул қиёмат Қозимиз.

 

Йиғламай қувноқ яшармиз бу фано тупроғида,

Титратар оламни гарчанд оҳ ила фарёдимиз.

16/06/2016.

Кеч соат 8:02.

Канада, Онтерио.