Холдор Вулқоннинг ижодий саҳифаси.

          Холдор  Вулқон

               Маслахат.    
        "Олисларда  ёнган  чироқлар"
                   номли   қиссадан.

 
                                               
                                                                                                                            





Ох,   қандай   шовуллардия   у   қадрдон   тераклар. Ховлида   ўғилларим   билан   шахмат  ўйнардик.   Абдулланинг   мот     бўлаётганини,   жиғи   бийрони   чиқаётганини   кўрган   Цезар  стол   остига   кириб   уни   елкасида   суриб   қийшайтириб   шахмат   доналарини  ағдариб   юборарди.Гохо   югириб   келиб   бизни   туртиб   ўтиб   кетар,  биз   билан   ҳазиллашарди. Юнглари   пахмоқ,  калта   думи   қадимий   лашкарбошиларнинг   туғига   ўхшаш  бу   итимиз   билан   ўғилларим  бўйнидан   қучоқлаб   курашар,  бир   тишласа   таёқни   иккига  бўлиб   юборадиган   Цезар   ўғилларимни  беозор   тишлаб   олишар,  уларнинг   атрофида   катта   тезлик   билан   югириб   айланарди,   шодланарди. У   то   умрининг   охиригача   бизга  садоқат   билан  хизмат   қилди. Охири   касал   бўлиб  озиб - тўзиб   овқат   еёлмай   қолганда  ҳам  дардини   индамай,  қаноат   билан   тортди,  шикоят   қилмади,   нолимади. Бир   куни   ишдан   келсам   ўғлим   Абдулла   қайғуга   ботиб : - Дада,  итимиз  ўлиб   қолди - деди. Ховлимиз   қўрғон  бўлгани   учун   чиқиб   кетолмай   Цезар   уйимиз   ортида   жон   берибди. Уй  ортига   ўтиб   қарасам   бечора   итимиз  олд   оёқларига   тумшуғини  қўйганича  ўлиб   ётибди. Худди   тирикдай. Менинг   кўзларим   ачишди,  беихтиёр  кўзёшларим   қайнаб   тошиб   худди   симоб  доналари   каби   юзларимни   куйдирганича   думалай   бошлади. Цезарнинг   юнглари   кучсиз   шамолда   ғамгин  хилпирар  эди. Мен   унинг   юнгларини   меҳр   билан   силадим,   дардига   даво   тополмаганим   учун  кечирим   сўрадим. - Ит   бўлсангда,   дўстларимдан   кўра   садоқатли  эдинг,   Цезаржон,  бизга   қилган   хизматларинга   рози   бўл. Биз   сени   ҳеч   қачон   унутмаймиз - дедим. Шундай   қилиб  Цезар   бизга   сабр - қаноатни,  садоқатни,   шикоят   қилмай   ўлиш  илмини   ўргатиб   кетди. Биз   Цезарни   соғинамиз,   Цезар   билан   кечган   у   ёруғ   кунларни   эслаймиз.

                                Давоми  жуда  қизиқ

 


                               



                      (9) "SPTU" Chapter
            of the Powest

  

           "Lights far away" of Volcano

  

 

\

          Translated by from

  the    Uzbek language

   Sarah Kendzyor. U.S.A

One day an influential person from an organization left for his house with a drawing of a worker"s daughter drawn on a stand. When morning arrived, that same girl"s picture had been smeared over. I was really furious and began to investigate. That night the leaders were in their offices drinking alcohol and eating dinner. As they became drunk, one of the deputies kissed the picture of the girl in an inappropriate way.

                        

                  Chapter of the powest
           "Lights far away" of Volcano
Then Po'kis told the story of his experiences in the war in Afghanistan.

                                                             continuet

 

 Chapter of the powest "Lights far away"

                                                       

            7: Don Quixotе




                                                          Translated by 

           Sarah Kendzyor. U.S.A.


When I first read "Kashtanka”, the noted literary work by the writer Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, I was overcome with melancholy as in this book reflected suffering like a faithful lapdog. For a few weeks I no longer wanted to speak but wanted to live alone with this work. It was "Don Quixote” that brought me out of this self-indulgent mood.
In this amazing work by Miguel de Cervantes, the protagonist is a man from La Mancha, the hidalgo Quixano. Quixano, who was tall with a pointed beard and a mustache like a cockroach on his face, was suffering from malnutrition, but nonetheless became a knight. Riding a donkey with his short, stout companion Sancho Panza by his side, he had many adventures, which I read about with wonder.

                                                                                 continued

     

           
                   
       
Chapter from the   powest        
     "Lights far away" of
         Holdor Volcano



                                Translated by 

   Sarah Kendzyor. U.S.A.

                First  Love

I don’t subscribe to the saying "There is no love in this world, the road of love is to the bed.”
                                                                              continued

Chapter from the  powest        
"Lights far away" of
         Holdor Volcano
                                Translated by 

   Sarah Kendzyor. U.S.A.

                                                           

                 "Party”

Mirzavoy was frightened, because the villagers had told about their bad luck with distributing water in these fields. They said that at night a lone man had seen two wise women singing a sorrowful lullaby to a child cloaked in a white burial shroud, his hands covered up. The man’s voice became a croak as he told of how the exorcism rites performed had no effect. Thinking of this ominous tale, Mirzavoy-aka grabbed his hoe and fled toward the village. The rustling sound continued to follow him, as if something were hunting him down. Mirzavoy the irrigation expert ran home in terror, feeling like he was being pursued by whatever was making this sound. When he arrived at his house, his wife, who was standing in the yard, looked alarmed.

"Oh my God, what happened to you? Why are you running?” she asked.

"The two wise women were chasing me!” he cried and ran into the house. As his wife asked him questions, Mirzavoy the irrigation expert explained that he was pursued by something making a rustling sound and that it had followed him all the way to his home. Witnessing his fright, his wife began to laugh. "Hey, don’t worry too much. You may notice that you have a piece of paper caught in your belt. That sound you heard was the wind rustling the paper as you ran!” she said, cracking up.

                                                                                   continued

                                           




Chapter from the powest "Lights far away" of Holdor Volcano
Translated by 

   Sarah Kendzyor. U.S.A.

  

  

  4) The Death of a Poet

One day a builder named Qoravoy took an enormous chunk of gravel from the street and hurled it at Olimjon Matmurodov’s head, injuring him. But the poet seemed almost indifferent to this, and did not depart from the road he had chosen. He continued to wield his pen in the fight against injustice. In the end someone stabbed him. The headstrong poet from our neighborhood ended up dying in the hospital.Before the "Andijon events” took place, I would walk under the high precipice of the Qoradaryo river. I would see Bahodir, the son of the poet Olimjon Matmurodov, herding hundreds of ducks along the shore. Moving along, they would flicker like bits of snow. Once in a while, I remember the poet who had lived this beautiful life, particularly when I feel lonely. The pain of being a poet, to face off in that way against tyranny – to me Olimjon Matmurodov was nothing short of amazing.


                                                                          continued

               

Holdor  Volkano

2. Chapter of the powest "Lights far away"

                                                         

            DISSIDENT

I’ve been a dissident ever since my early years, when the pain, suffering and unjust tyranny I experienced made me so. Although my younger brother and I were brought into the world by the same mother and father, we were total opposites in terms of character. My brother was hot-headed and industrious, whereas I was a romantic. In December I would gaze into the pitch-black sky for hours as the snow fell and the cold wind blew. I could never sleep on the nights when the snow was falling. Watching through the window as the snow fell heavily was for me the most pleasurable experience, particularly when morning would come and the trees, the roofs of houses, and the fields and gardens would be covered in pure white snow! On these snowy dawns when the limbs of the trees were bent under the burden of snow, I would go onto the street and yell out "Heeeey!” in delight and surprise.  I planned on tasting the snow that lay in a canal under the concrete bridge with an iron barrier. In doing so, however, my tongue became stuck to the iron. A person whose tongue is stuck to iron is not able to speak.

"Aaaaa!” I’d always yell. It was lucky for me that my stepmother would see me from outside. "Voy, if I don’t die,” she’d say, dismayed at what I was doing. Once submerged in the hot water of the tea kettle my iron tongue would thaw out, and I was freed of the "trap”.A long time has passed since these events. I remember that I especially loved spring. On the roof of the mud-walled warehouse I would watch the kites flying in the clear blue sky, the apricots in bloom in the garden, the friendly children yelling and the birds somersaulting in the air. One summer day I was sitting on the roof when the voice of the womenfolk came from our neighbor’s yard. I saw that the 16-year-old daughter of my neighbor’s wife was swimming completely naked in an area blocked off on the ground on four sides. It was the first time in my life I had seen such an erotic sight. An unfamiliar sensation entered my body, a strange feeling, and I felt an uncomfortable lump in my throat. I gulped audibly. As I was going to again take a look at this, my brother called out to me impatiently. Startled by his voice, I fell from the roof with an unpleasant "obbo!” --We’re going to herd the cattle,” said my brother, pulling up on a bicycle with a sickle in one hand. "They are out to pasture. Are we going again? What about the heat? The sun will be on us!” I said. My brother, anger in his eyes, clenched his jaw and stared at me: "We can’t buy hay in winter,” he said. I said that I wasn’t going. My brother replied: "I’m telling you what’s going to happen. I’m going to count to three. Oonnne, twoooo.” At this point my father called to us from the house. "What’s going on?” he asked my brother.

"I told him that we’re going but he won’t budge,” said my brother.

My father stared at me like a pumpkin growing and said to my brother, "If words don’t work, kick him in the stomach.” I had no choice but to join my brother. We trod through the heat to the Qoradaryo and arrived at its shores at a watering hole near the edge of the cliffs. It is not difficult to fall down in this area. Coming back hurts like a dog. We entered the grassy area where the grains grew. My brother began gathering, I harvested and carried the grasses. We began to bundle it. As we prepared the bundles, intending to take them on our shoulders, my brother let out a cry: "What are you looking at, help me!”

I helped my brother with his bundle of hay. My brother managed to lift it but still lost his balance and fell over into the mud. I saw his stooped appearance in the mud and began to laugh. My brother spoke to me angrily: "What are you laughing at? You are laughing at your grandmother’s falondaqasi [???], eh?” he said and threw a rock weighing about half a kilo. The situation had become serious. I began to flee. My brother yelled out again: "Stop! Stop! I’m telling you to stop! If you know what’s good for you you'd get back here, kid!”

I stopped: "If I come, you will hit me!” I began to cry. My brother replied: "Hit, Hamzani!” and threw the rock at me with the strength of one hand. The rock smacked me with a "gup” and hit me in the waist. "Ahhh!” I cried and moaned to the sky, the pain spreading throughout my body. It had knocked the wind out of me.

         Holdor  Volkano

2. Chapter of the powest "Lights far away"

Translated  by  Sarah Kendzyor

           

                                                       

                 

           SEPARATION

If I didn’t write of my long-suffering mother in this section, it would be as if I were neglecting a great duty. As my poor mother was bedridden for a long time, my father had intended to marry other women. As my dear grandfather Mirjalol and my dear grandmother Maf’firat have said, they loaded my mother’s luggage up on a donkey wagon, wrapped my ill mother up in a quilt, and sent me to lift her up. I was around five years old at this time. After a short time my father married, and jealousy completely wore my mother out. My blessed aunt would say "Let children raise themselves” and to my father say, "Hey, raise your child!”, as she was sent to the so’ri tangled in swaddling clothes. Having been informed of these events my uncle, that is, my father’s younger brother Fazil, took me. "Take, consider it yourself,” said Mirjalol to my elders.

As I bounced back and forth between them like a tennis ball, my grandfather Abdusalom heard was what happening and scolded my father and uncle, saying he would take care of it himself. My aunt Patila who was divorced and had no children began to raise me. When my aunt left to marry a man named Ismon aka, my father’s second wife, my step-mother, who was childless, began to bring me up as if I were her own child. I was around seven years old at this time.

And so my little brother and I began to grow up with our step-mother. I slowly made my way through school. At the beginning of school a friend at the time named Erkin was raising cattle along the shores of the Qoradaryo. I still remember mosquitoes would fly near their tails, which would wave indolently, carefree, the cows spouting horns overnight, myna birds looking them over, moving en masse down the river, loud noises urging them on towards the shores, escavators into the far distance, the rice fields sparkling like the glass of a mirror, the far «Zilolmas», or "Green bridge”, through which the train would pass by, shrieking, the far side of the river bright green in the aerodrom where the AN-20 airplanes would fly overhead. Erkin and I were two untamed savages, building a shallow ford of rocks in the river, the thickets in sight far in the distance, high and imposing cliffs casting the waves of the river. Sometimes my mother would enter my dreams in this heavenly part of my most wonderful homeland.

        

            1. Childhood

                  Chapter
            of the Powest
                     




  Translated  by  Sarah Kendzyor

                  

It is winter in Bishkek. As my children and I sit in the balcony of our rental home, I lean back and watch as the snow falls to the ground. Sometimes it falls in a rush, sometimes it drifts lightly. These days my hair is coarse, my beard has grown, and I have lost weight. As a stork makes its way through the gusts of snow, I sit quietly, and think about the insanity of my life. If I were to meticulously draw you a picture of my life, you would see an image of a canoe, about the size of a pistachio shell, ceaselessly riding the waves of a Polanesian ocean in the middle of a tropical storm, struggling like a fisherman trying not to drown.The tragiocomedy that is my life is full of both laughter and tears. When I think about it, it seems like I was born a dissident. I remember one evening when I was a kid playing football with other children in the pighouse by the shores of the Qoradaryo and my father became furious with me. That is to say, I was chased from my home. I asked for political asylum from my grandfather, the neighborhood stableman and mullah Abdusalom. Luckily for me, Grandpa and Grandma were no bureaucrats; they granted me political asylum despite my lack of visa or proper documentation.My grandfather lived a long time. He was a man with a long face, a broad forehead, and a short moustache particular to the Islamic madhab of Imam A’zam. Even though he was a stableman, he was also a scholar of the Holy Qur’an. As for my grandmother, she was short and squat, with barely any teeth, but she prayed regularly, and was a kind old woman. Although they were mismatched in the style of Don Qixote and Sancho Panza, my grandfather and grandmother lived together amicably. Because our small home did not have a floor, we would write on a piolos above a thick layer of hay. A man standing over the piolos filled water to drink like it was from a great bit hot-water bottle, in the house there was no radio or TV and silence reigned over the room. In this silence even the sound of a lizard scuttling about sounded like the ticking of a clock.My grandmother spread out soft bedding for me, and as I would lie in bed I could see the full moon gently rising over the enormous poplars near my Aunt Ko’ki’s house. My grandmother would work, mending my grandfather’s robe. My grandfather for 30 years had worn eyeglasses like round discs, a fact blamed on his reading of all kinds of ancient books written in Arabic script, leafing through pages yellowed with age. I began to think about Aunt Ko’ki, whose husband had never returned from WWII, she was an old widow, built as lean as a fish, small in size with a head like a goose, a bad hand, and one blind eye, which would wink like a pigeon egg in a hole of eyes, her thin face having almost no chin.I would pray to God, wondering what the reason was for her husband not having returned from the war. Ko’ki was not the standard name for my aunt, it was more like a pseudonym. The name fit her because she loved her husband greatly, in any case, she did not marry again after her dear husband had passed. She was cheerful to her children, pure of heart, beautiful in spirit, a woman of strong faith who prayed five times a day. In my memories I will forever cherish her. Sometimes an image of Aunt Ko’ki from the window springs to my mind, busying herself in the evening in her hovel, polishing the cotton gin. Some of my poems and stories are written about this old faithful woman, who lived her life alone, unmarried due to the disappearance of his husband in the war.I was thinking about Aunt Ko’ki, how my grandfather would look at her through his thick glasses and say, "Hey, you look familiar, rag lady!” It’s true, these amusing words were among the first I heard. I would end up laughing, but I would try to restrain my laughter saying I was going somewhere even though it was dark. I would turn red, straining my face from holding in the laughter. In the end I did laugh, and seeing me do this, my grandfather laughed too. When I look back on it, my grandmother was also laughing as she polished the cotton gin, showing her toothless gums like those of an infant.The three of us laughed happily. Tears came to my grandmother’s eyes.