Холдор Вулқоннинг ижодий саҳифаси.

          

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

My interest in creative literature began very early. At this time the poet Olimjon Matmurodov lived on our street. He was a short, thin man with hair down to his shoulders, joking eyes, a moustache like Stalin’s, and a tattoo of Lenin on his chest. He loved to drink wine, wrote beautiful lyrics and poems, and from time to time would have satirical drawings published in the newspaper. I envied his unconventional life.His works were true art, the kind that bewitched the person reading it; they were poems written with soul. Unfortunately, so very unfortunately, there was no use for his poems in literary society. At this time our neighborhood was called Krupskaya, pronounced kirpiska as it wasn’t part of the old language. We would walk on the street along with Olimjon Mamurodov. On one side of the street there was a canal called Qurama and a lot of trees. Willows grew on either side of the canal and huge poplars bent in the wind. People planted flowers along the heights of the canal; if there was a point to the canals, it’s that they cleared things away. In the summer we children would become full like that, students overflowing like the water from the Qurama canal from morning until night, yelling in excitement and being immersed, constantly splashing in the canals, the shores of our hot desert, taking to the water like frogs.Sometimes when we would get dressed we would cast off our clothes along with our friends’ clothes, undoing our shirtsleeves and pants: "Bezgak shoomol beeez bez! Yaaalong'ochga eees es!" we would cry. I would dress quickly and with surprise would discover that I would have on the clothes of my friends.One day we were out on the street, not doing much, when a mute child by the name of Arabboy came up to us. We considered him like an Arab as his build was small and thin and another child by the name of Isroil would get in fistfights with him. They would also pick fights with my older brother Adham.
His fighting was also amusing as he would point with two fingers at Arab and Isroil and say "Which one are you?”, and the opponent would point to the biggest finger. You see, when Arab and Isroil would be going at it like two biting dogs, out in streets, which were covered in sand and dust, the children would shout: "Israel and Arabia are at war! Go get him, Arab! Hit him, Israel!” Arab and Isroil would fight each other and put on quite a show. In terms of fighting, although Isroil was smaller in size and didn’t give a lot of hits, he did not lose, he was unequalled, refusing to become crippled and defeated in the "battles”. On our streets the Israel-Arab war reached the desert of Arabboy’s family. Years passed and Arabboy’s father’s family returned to our village. But our friend Arabboy did not return. It is rumored that Arabboy was involved in a tractor accident. His leg slipped, got caught in the plow, causing a loud clanking sound. His body was dragged mercilessly by the tractor. The man driving the tractor did not hear him cry out as he died. Such was the way in which Arabboy met his tragic demise. Isroil is still around. Let him live long and prosper.In the far-away time of our childhood, our street was not paved with asphalt, and if it rained, it would turn to mud. The rocks and bricks would cede, wooden branches would appear in the rice fields, and storks would fly searching for frogs that floated about. Sometimes people who were not cautious would get their shoes and boots stuck in the debris.The head of the collective farm and other lower-ranked officials were indifferent to this situation. It was around that time that Olimjon Matmurodov’s article "Suvonqul suvoqchi” was published in the journal Mushtum. The poet used as his basis an advertisement popular in Uzbekistan at the time: "When you need to wash your home, give us a call. When the rain covers our street into crushed straw, passersby will be ready with straw-caked mud in no time. We will plaster your home with this mud of the highest quailty. Sincerely, Suvonqul Suvoqchi,” he concluded.After this article was published, they began paving our street. The most interesting thing was that they did not pave the road near Olimjon Matmurodov’s home. Naturally, the poet made his displeasure known. 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.