Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 17

The male guests were celebrating in the male half of the outer courtyard of Qutidor’s house while the female guests filled the Ich Kari. Honored with a lavish meal of suyuq osh and rich halva and fresh nishaldah, all were shown every courtesy.

The constant interplay of instruments resonated from the outer yard; the dutars, tamburs, rababs, and nays were accompanied by the most renowned singers of the city; they watered the world around them with the ever-flowing spring of their songs, caressing the ears of the guests. The wedding brimmed with joyous spirits, reaching a crescendo…

In the Ich Kari, where the women were making merry, a clamor of revelry and a racket commingled: if we were to use a mother’s witticism, we’d say “There are more guests than sand in the desert; therefore, disorder reigns.” Wives crowded all the rooms and the entire Ich Kari. Some were eating cups of plov, halva, and other delicacies right in the yard. Someone else was busy calming crying children, attempting to put them to sleep. Other women were singing a wedding song and yelling “Yor-yor!” at the top of their lungs, while yet others laughed raucously, ruining the tranquility of the world. The tumult reached to the seventh heaven.

Amid all this exuberance, Oftob Oyim seemed lost in thought, consumed with low spirits, her face a shade paler than usual. Perhaps she had become tired of the guests, perhaps she was distracted for some other reason; we have seen her behave strangely before, especially while engaged in the event’s preparations. Yet, telltale signs, such as instead of going into a guest room for a guest’s belongings, she went into a storage area, were manifest to all. To the men and women who had come to congratulate her on the betrothal, she simply replied with a furtive “Thank you.”

Standing in the doorway of the granary, Oftob Oyim called to someone among the wives. Seeing the middle-aged woman she summoned, perhaps fifty years of age, walk toward her, leaving behind a gaggle of ladies who were joking among themselves, their sides splitting in laughter, Oftob retreated into the granary. Once the other lady entered, Oftob Oyim quickly closed the door so that it was open just a crack, her face bearing an expression of deep grief…

“Why do you look so miserable, Oftob Oyim?” asked the woman, looking into her sad eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Oftob Oyim peeked through the door and said in a small voice, “If they shone a light into my innermost soul, they would find a great hollowness inside me, my sister.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter…”

“What happened to your daughter?”

“Today is the seventh day of the engagement, and she has been crying day and night, shedding rivers of tears. When I ask her why she is so upset, she tries to hold back the torrent, yet in the end cries even harder. Today’s tears were the worst of them all. No matter how much we pleaded or tried to console her, we could barely get her to the bathhouse.”

The woman, surprised at Oftob Oyim’s description, asked, displaying the appropriate gravitas toward the situation, “What on earth? Maybe your groom is ugly?”

“I haven’t seen him myself,” said Oftob Oyim. “But according to those who have, he is very handsome. I have heard that he is a clever young man. Kumush’s father regards him highly; he himself chose him as the groom.”

“Does Kumush know anything about him?”

“She does,” said Oftob Oyim. “We all brag about the groom to her, but our praises aggravate her further, causing her to wail even more.”

All kidding aside, the woman now saw the seriousness of the situation, yet an answer to the bride’s distress eluded her. Attempting to console Oftob Oyim, she told stories from past weddings where brides-to-be wept before their nuptials, only to become intimate partners to their grooms afterward.

“Don’t worry, Oftob Oyim,” she said. “If your groom is so singularly handsome, we will soon see your daughter cling to him like a flowering vine.”

“Oh, sister,” said Oftob Oyim hopelessly. “My heart is not in it.”

“Let it go. Believe me! Oftob, how many crying girls I have seen who, upon leaving their wedding beds, have become even more enamored than the young men; your daughter is one of those cases! Don’t worry, Oftob!”

“Let it be so.”

“It will be so,” the woman cackled. “Wait, what will you give me if your daughter changes as I said?”

“A head-to-toe ensemble.”

“Remember your word, Oftob. If God wills it, we will see her entwined like a morning glory around her husband. Go and greet your guests with good cheer.”

With that, the women left the granary and moved among the others.

A bridal shower is a congregation as redolent as a bed of flowers; such slender tulips, such vibrant parrots, and such beautiful turtledoves! A garden redolent of delicious flowers abounded in the house of Kumush’s uncle.

Approximately thirty or forty girls were assembled together in the residence. The purpose of their gathering: to convey into the sublime sisterhood of wives, the world of the feminine, one of their most beautiful, most charming maidens as she blossoms into a woman. The exuberant shepherdesses wore their most elegant dresses, sparkling with precious stones. If you managed to infiltrate the four walls of this paradise, if your eyes were but once to pass over the conclave of beauties, from that moment on, without a doubt, you would be lost forever to another plane of existence, your mind transported in ecstasy. “This flower’s charm… No, the other one surpasses that one! Which one shall I choose? That one must be best of all!” In this manner, your composure would abandon you, you would be unable to decide; people would mock you, a disgraced fool for all the world to see.

Indeed, the members of the convocation surpassed each other – all precious spirits, beautiful as Pari. All of the heavenly host perform as the bridal shower’s poets, dancers, artists, and musicians. Only Kumush remained absent, not back from the bathhouse. Because of that the celebration had not yet begun. Even if it had, it would have lacked the proper enthusiasm as the guest of honor had not yet arrived. Everybody was confident that Kumush’s presence would animate the festivities – they were all impatient to begin.

At last one of the women exclaimed, “They are coming!” All the girls crowded at the room’s small window, looking out into the yard. Kumush entered with only her two yangas. If only Otabek could have witnessed this moment! If only he would come and see his beloved returning from the bathhouse… the souls who loved her at that moment would beg her to put them out of their misery, to shoot an arrow into their own wounded hearts. Her tender innocence would be that same arrow, piercing his heart with desire.

A white silk scarf covered her head. She wore a white silk dress under a fur coat embroidered with silver thread; wrapped around her neck, a beaver-fur collar kissed her chin; black braids cascaded like silken rivulets; her fresh face blushed… The yangas handed Kumush over to the girls standing in the yard:

“Ladies, we present Kumush to you! Lighten her mood, maidens!”

Two or three girls ran out into the yard, removing the paranji from Kumush and leading her to the house. After they had transferred Kumush to her attendants, the yangas made their retreat. The clearing was empty of men and women, only the girls remained. With the celebrants leading her by the hand, Kumush entered the room, filling it with her fragrance. The young ladies greeted Kumush with various good wishes: “How are you? Congratulations on your bridal robes.”

Kumush’s murmur barely echoed above the din. “May they bring happiness.”

She sat in the place of honor. Her female attendants encircled the room – a sudden hush descended upon them. All the eyes looking toward Kumush expectantly were suddenly overcome with gloom. What were they sad about? What concerns harried the girls? Can we ever truly know the impenetrable inner hearts of maidens?

The girls sat around the room like a wreath of flowers; serene faces lost in thought lent them a charming allure, multiplying their beauty a hundredfold. If we were forced to single out one flower from the arrangement as the most beautiful, our previous distraction would not apply – without hesitation, we would choose Kumush.

She stood out as a solitary rose among tulips, a full moon among stars. Yet the stillness persisted.

At every gathering, there are those who perform the duties of a master of ceremonies, those who enliven a dead celebration. This gathering was no exception. Gulsin Bibi could not contain her frustration about the low spirits among the attendees. She broke the silence, bursting with the words, “Why have we gathered here? Why are we sitting here, sadly looking at the ground? Did we come here for a funeral?”

Khanum Bibi joined Gulsin: “Don’t think too hard, friends. We all have the same fate. Stand up, Sevara! Make a fire in the yard and heat your childirma. Anorgul, pick up your dutar. Kumush, do not sit there and brood, lighten up. Tomorrow you will regret your heavy heart.” Khanum Bibi’s words made the party burst out laughing. Even Kumush begrudgingly gave her a slight smile, and pearly white teeth peered briefly from beneath her ruby lips.

At this, a spontaneous jubilance transformed the room. Dutar in hand, Anorgul played the song “Ortaklar,” giving form to the unspoken words of the girls’ hearts. Not waiting for the other girls to dance, Khanum Bibi jumped up from her seat and started to move to the music. When the childirma and the strings of the dutar worked in unison, the party became even livelier. Hands started to clap; the dancing became lively. Finally, after all the doors of the room were closed and candles lit on the shelves, the mood of the party reached its crescendo. The candlelight flickering in the wind highlighted the young women in their ecstatic state. The celebration brought to mind the fairies from the story “Alif wa Laylah.” The dutar player began the song “Ifor” as the childirma again gently joined in. Gulsin Bibi’s delicate dance steps now responded to the music. The dutar’s notes tugged at the heart’s strings, while the childirma quickened its pace. The bridal shower became lively, engaging all the senses. Stepping softly, Gulsin Bibi circled the room, becoming one with the rhythm of the dance and threatening to cause the men of the world to tremble with their whole beings.

You would be mistaken, however, if you thought that Kumush Bibi was interested in the festivities or enjoying them along with the others. Even though she was physically present at the gathering, her thoughts traveled elsewhere: her eyes watched the girls dancing, but her dreams had flown to some other land. If one divined the true underlying mood of the spectacle, one understood that Kumush’s joyous celebration was in fact reminiscent of a funeral…

After two hours of revelry, the attendees became tired and stopped dancing. Gulsin and Khanum Bibi now sat down together and started singing quietly while someone strummed the dutar. Gulsin was the first to sing, and her clear voice tinkled like a light bell as she sang “Yigilarman.”

“Friends, when I touch the strings of the dutar, my soul will cry for my love, painfully I recall my beloved.”

Khanum Bibi added her voice, repeating the stanza. The different melodies and voices accentuated each other, transforming the listeners down to the very blood in their veins, elevating humanity to great heights. Startled from her mournful reverie, Kumush sat up suddenly and shuddered, looking around at the girls.

The singers went on to the second verse:

Though I only glimpsed him for a moment, he captured my soul.

I have never beheld a man more handsome.

Upon seeing you, I stored your image in my heart.

You stole my heart, yet I would never see my beloved again.

Struck with the power of these lines, Kumush’s eyes filled with tears. The singers passed to the third verse:

If only I could see my beloved again, I would devote to him all that is sacred in me.

Fourthly:

Is the beloved who has tormented me aware that I suffer day and night?

Kumush was losing her poise… Fifthly:

Tell me, friends, truthfully, how long can I be apart from my beloved?

Lastly:

My patience has left, my temperance has left… all has left me.

I will break my dutar on the earth.

Nobody listened to the last verse because Kumush was crying, leaning on the girl next to her. Everyone grew alarmed and their eyes and ears were fixed on her.

“What has happened, Kumush?” “Why are you crying, Kumush opa?”

“Is something hurting? Are you in pain?”

Kumush opened her eyes, lifting her head off the shoulder of her friend, and looked around at everyone, her eyes moist with tears. Gaining her wits again, she quickly took a handkerchief from her pocket and dried her tears.

“Why were you crying?” asked Gulsin.

Kumush forced herself to smile at Gulsin Bibi. “Just – it’s nothing…” she said.

“Oh poor, poor thing, but damn you, Kumush! If I had a husband like that I would fly to the sky in joy!” said Gulsin Bibi, feigning annoyance.

The girls laughed heartily at Gulsin’s words. In light of Kumush’s despondency, they sought to lighten her heart and distract her. They stopped the other amusements and moved on to the most interesting game of the bridal shower: lapar. Gulsin played the role of groom while Khanum Bibi took Kumush’s part, and as the two exchanged double entendres, the crowd fell into sidesplitting laughter. No matter how they tried to amuse Kumush, however, it was not enough. Kumush would not reveal her pearly teeth. She sat alone, buried deep in sorrow. Girls were served plov and sweets from the toikhana. After the girls had finished eating, the yangas entered and asked permission to take Kumush. The celebration’s attendants, feigning defiance, joked with them, saying, “We will not surrender Kumush Bibi to you.” Kumush even believed her friends’ protests for a moment and, while leaving the room with the yangas, she looked to the girls as if pleading for help. But they were leaving one by one, having ferried their friend into a new world, a world of wives.