Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 9

Otabek’s eyes passed again and again over the two strangers greeting him – clearly showing wariness about their intentions… Ziyo Shohichi noticed his apprehension and introduced them to Otabek: “Naturally, you are unacquainted with these gentlemen,” he said. “Let me introduce one of your father’s closest friends, Mirza Karim Qutidor, as well as Akram Hajji, a merchant from Andijon.” Mirza Karim Qutidor appeared to be about forty-five years old, with strong brows and dark eyes; he was well dressed and had a handsome face. Akram Hajji was roughly fifty-five years of age.

Otabek again regarded Mirza Karim.

“Thank you for introducing me to my father’s closest friend, taksir,” he said, showing his deference toward Mirza Karim and Akram Hajji. “My father also entrusted me with paying his compliments to his dearest friend…”

“Thank you, we wish you health and very much appreciate your greetings,” they replied.

Ziyo Shohichi’s household was hosting the party. Those attending were Hamid, Rahmat, and Hasan Ali, as well as the individuals just introduced – and all were assembled in Otabek’s honor. After their introduction, Otabek’s and Qutidor’s eyes met. Qutidor attempted to ask Otabek something, but Akram Hajji and Ziyo Shohichi continued to ramble, cutting him off.

When their eyes met a third time, Qutidor smiled and asked, “Do you remember me?”

Otabek, giving him his attention, answered, “No, Amaki.” “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four years old.”

Qutidor seemed to be engaged in some sort of reckoning. “Perhaps you cannot remember me,” he said. “You were a five- or six-year-old boy when I lived in Tashkent… It seems like yesterday I was last in Tashkent and a guest in your house… But really, more than fifteen years have passed since then, and you have become a young man… Life seems to have shot past like an arrow.”

“You have been to our house?”

“I have been a guest on many occasions,” said Qutidor, “when your grandfather was still with us.”

Leaning into the edge of the conversation taking place next to him, Hasan Ali put in a few words: “His Honor came to our house many times to visit. You were very young, Bek,” he said. “Your uncle would occasionally take you with him to the serai.”

Otabek gave Qutidor a shy smile.

“I regret not being able to recall your visits,” he said.

Qutidor wanted to brush away his embarrassment, but Akram Hajji cut him off, asking, “Your father, Hajji Akamiz, what work is he doing these days?”

Otabek said, “He is the adviser to the bek of Tashkent.” “Azizbek is still the mayor of Tashkent these days?” “Yes, he is.”

“Betrayer Bek, be gone! Aziz the Bacha!” scoffed Hamid, whose broad grin, aimed at Akram Hajji, seemed to insinuate some sordid knowledge. “Muslim Cho’loq’s gatherings have recently reached a most lascivious level because of Azizbek’s incessant pursuit of cavorting with the bachas.” he guffawed, beaming proudly at all those gathered as if he had arrived at some earth- shattering revelation, some profound truth. As for those witnessing the strange, indecorous, even illicit display by Hamid, it only produced an exchange of raised brows.

Several moments passed among the circle of men as they attempted to gather their thoughts, until finally Akram Hajji broke the spell, asking, “I’ve heard that your hakim of Tashkent is quite the tyrant. Is that true?”

“Absolutely true,” said Otabek. “The population tires of Aziz’s oppression.”

Otabek’s unvarnished answer struck not only Akram Hajji dumb, but all those present. To speak so boldly and openly about Azizbek’s abusive rule was inconceivable, especially considering Azizbek was his father’s own master.

All of Ferghana knew of Azizbek’s reputation as one of the most despotic and coldhearted leaders in all of Turkistan, a ruler who governed the population of Tashkent with a heavy-handed and chillingly brutal authority. However, the underlying purpose of Akram Hajji’s line of questioning was to determine the loyalties of his dearest friend’s son. He was not disappointed by the thoughtfulness of his response. He looked wonderingly at Otabek, but he nevertheless maintained his distance, since Otabek’s honesty could be nothing more than a cynical ruse to conceal some deeper motive not yet revealed.

“Your father is Azizbek’s adviser,” said Akram Hajji. “Why can’t he exert some influence over Azizbek and guide him away from his present course?”

“Alas, Amak,” said Otabek, smiling. “You seem to have misjudged the importance of my father’s rank. As for our laws, it is impossible to enact them when the leadership undermines them by passing extralegal, cruel judgments. Even if my father is considered Azizbek’s closest confidant and adviser, his is just a title with no power; Azizbek only heeds my father’s advice on superficial matters. I will give you an example, something that happened recently. During a Friday gathering, a man praised Azizbek. Another man confronted this supporter, retorting, ‘Why do you praise Aziz, a man whose sole experience is that of a bacha?’

“A spy eavesdropping on the debate went to Azizbek and informed him of the contents of the discussion. The next day, Azizbek summoned these two men. He assigned to the man who had praised him an important position and sentenced the other to death. When my father, present during the sentencing, appealed for leniency regarding the condemned man’s fate, Aziz shouted to the executioner, ‘Dispatch the condemned man immediately!’ When my father again appealed for leniency on the man’s behalf, Azizbek joked that ‘Maybe we should send Hajji to this man’s same fate.’ So, you see how he is valued?”

“Then why don’t people petition or protest against this sort of behavior?”

“Ask me how many complaints we have submitted already…” said Otabek. “In addition to those filed by the victims of Azizbek’s oppression, we have sent ten complaints… but what can we do if Azizbek’s master is many times more disheartening? One point I must bring to light: Recently Azizbek has begun to ignore Qoqan’s orders and decrees. All our complaints are based on the hope that Azizbek will acquiesce to Qoqan’s power, but it could be that Qoqan is turning a blind eye to our petitions for redress. All the same, though the people of Tashkent are fed up with Azizbek’s oppression, they do not know where to go to seek justice.”

With Yusufbek Hajji’s impossible position clarified for everyone, especially Akram Hajji, nobody continued the line of questioning. Since the guests had been invited to share a meal, the dinner table was then prepared for them. Ziyo Shohichi and Rahmat urged on the guests’ appetites by encouraging them to take more – Oling, Olinglar! – yet Otabek ate very little and sat seemingly lost in a daydream. The yet undiscovered reasons for his distraction persisted throughout the meal and remain worthy of our further observation.

While in his meditative state, his eyes unconsciously fell on Qutidor. As soon as his eyes met those of Qutidor, he looked away, picking up something from the tablecloth he had no intention of eating… While the other attendees did not notice Otabek’s condition, Hamid continued to watch his every shift in mood…

“What cities have you gone to for your business, Bek?” Qutidor asked.

“I have seen many cities in our country,” said the bek. “And I have traveled to the city of Shamai as well.”

“Indeed! You have even been to the city of Shamai?” said Ziyo Shohichi in wonder.

“I went this past year. My visit was most unseasonable, and I endured many hardships.”

“You are a true tradesman,” said Qutidor. “Even at our age we have not seen our own major cities, yet you have already seen Shamai.”

“ ‘Those who walk are a river; those who sit are a reed mat,’ ” said Akram Hajji.

Few in Turkistan had ever traded in Russian cities. Otabek, who had actually been to a foreign country, had a unique perspective among the men in the room. Qutidor and Ziyo Shohichi, who had heard all sorts of fantastic tales about Russians, were very interested to investigate the truth of those rumors from Otabek and asked him to give his impressions of Shamai. Otabek relayed his memories of the city. His audience sat fascinated by Otabek’s clear articulation of Russia’s political, economic, and social development.

“Before going to Shamai, I thought that all government systems were like ours,” stated Otabek, “but my travels there changed this opinion. My experiences deeply affected my beliefs about life, transforming me. When I saw the Russian government’s policies, I realized that our leadership’s approach and tenets are frivolous, as if we are playing at governance. I cannot imagine what will happen to our situation if our government continues with this current anarchy… When I was in Shamai, I thought that if I had wings, I would fly to my motherland, I would descend directly upon the khan’s palace and implement each and every one of Russia’s governmental policies. The khan would take heed of my proclamations, writing decrees benefiting all levels of society, ruling by enlightened Russian ideas. In one month I would see my people on the same level as the Russians. But when I returned to my homeland, my dreams and aspirations showed themselves to be mere fantasy. No one would listen to me. Even when there were people who were willing to listen, they would retort, ‘Will the khans listen to your dreams, and will the beks even carry them out?’ With this simple question they shattered my dreams. At first I could not fathom that they actually believed their own words, but later I found that they spoke the truth. Indeed, who will listen to the prayers of the dead baring their soul to the living? Will those already buried in a cemetery listen to calls for help? Who will listen?”

The group was held in rapture by Otabek’s impressions, listening in disbelief to ideas and views they had never before encountered. These “Fathers of Turkistan,” who had never even considered such a course for their motherland, fervently latched onto Otabek’s vision of a future that rose deep from within his pure heart and was clearly expressed with the most sublime intentions.

“If we had a khan like Umar Khan,” said Qutidor, “we would overtake those Russians.”

Ziyo Shohichi disagreed: “We find ourselves in this situation because of our own behavior.”

Not wanting to be left out, Hamid added, “God gave the unbelievers wealth and power.”

“In my opinion, maybe the Russians’ superior position comes from their solidarity,” said Otabek. “We regress more every day, and the reason for this is our infighting. I think, to put it another way, Uncle Ziyo’s ideas are particularly poignant. No one among us appreciates the dangerous implications of our present condition. It is just the opposite: There are those who spoil the peace and create conflict. The roots of this conflict and disorder have spread, and each time this tragedy only destroys simple people. Think, for example, of the Qora Chopan and the Qipchaqs.

“Consider this: What benefit do we gain from this conflict, and what do the Qipchaqs really achieve? It is those same leaders I mentioned previously who benefit politically from scattering the seeds of hostility among common people. Who would have thought that the unscrupulous man in this situation is Musulmanqul? What did he ever do for his homeland other than cause bloodshed? “Without any justification, Musulmanqul invented divisions among us only because of a personal grudge. He provoked a conflict and, for no reason, killed his in-law, Sher Ali, and in turn allowed innocent Murad Khan to be martyred. He then did away with Tashkent’s mayor, Salimsoqbek – who was as harmless as a lamb – and elevated a despot like Azizbek to power, Azizbek who then declared himself ming boshi. Impetuous Khudayar Khan, a mere child, became khan through Musulmanqul’s backing. Throughout this entire period, he rode on the shoulders of the population. At first, could anyone have blamed Musulmanqul if he undertook these actions ostensibly with the good intentions of destroying oppression and bringing peace to the homeland?

“But in fact, control of Tashkent was delivered to the savage Azizbek by Musulmanqul’s own hand. If Musulmanqul is truly a member of the human race – and I have my doubts – it is hard to imagine how a human can give birth to such a savage. Until we shake off the bonds of leaders who secure power through violent means, salvation will never be delivered. Only by eliminating those who harbor ill will toward the people and replacing them with leaders who seek justice and goodness, only in this way will we find our road to redemption.”

Otabek continued to expound on innovative and unprecedented ideas to the men at the gathering, all of whom sat in amazement, staring at him with their mouths open… Indeed, Otabek’s ideas about the reasons and consequences of the constant infighting in his land rang true. His ideas gave to those present a means to discover and clarify their own feelings on the subject; he expressed in the open what they had always kept to themselves and never dared to voice aloud.

Otabek went to take ablution.

“He is indeed his father’s son,” said Ziyo Shohichi, looking at his guests.

“Let him live long and faithful to the call of his heart,” said Akram Hajji. “The boy is vastly more intelligent than other boys. If it were in my power to appoint rulers, I would make him a khan… Where did he graduate from?”

Overjoyed by these compliments and unable to contain himself, Hasan Ali replied, “He was one of the leading students at the Beklarbegi Madrassa, but after three years, upon his father’s request, he went into trading.”

“Allah has bestowed many blessings on the boy,” said Qutidor. They all praised Otabek to the skies, but Hamid remained silent and appeared irritated. Qutidor’s questions about Otabek’s marital status— and what they had revealed – made Hamidboi especially nervous, and he struggled to maintain the appearance of nonchalance…

But he could only suffer so much through Hasan Ali’s insipid responses to these queries, his infernal blathering regarding the bek’s unnatural indifference to the fairer sex, not to mention his myopic obsession with his charge’s apprehensions about marriage, before he finally lost his patience.

“Maybe the bek believes he is worthy even of the hand of the khan’s daughter,” he said sarcastically. “People of his sort make girls suffer even if they do finally marry…”

Hamidboi’s unprovoked impudence defied all bounds of civility, so Hasan Ali was justified in losing restraint.

“I do not know if fate intends that he marry the khan’s daughter,” he said, throwing a sardonic grin in Hamid’s direction. “However, if the khan accepts him as his son-in-law, he is more than suitable. Even to me, a mere slave bought with gold, he has never once uttered a rude word, so a girl born free should not expect to suffer from this boy. In my view, he is far from the type of person who beats his wife, who marries again and again, and who oppresses women as if they were animals. He is far from that type of person, my brother Mullah Hamid.”

We the readers will remember that Hasan Ali heard from Hamid’s own mouth that he whipped his wives. Hasan Ali’s rejoinder shamed Hamid in front of the others, and he was unable to muster a word in his own defense. Ziyo Shohichi, embarrassed by this turn in the conversation, looked to Hamidboi as if to say, So you got outdone? Then he turned to Hasan Ali and said, “Sorry, Father, our Hamidboi was created for the sole purpose of offending others with the most egregious remarks.”

Qutidor came to Hasan Ali’s defense: “Your words are true, Father. Otabek is suitable for a khan’s daughter.”

These words were meant as balm to Hasan Ali’s injury, leaving Hamid with no room to continue this war. Hamid’s eyes to fell to the ground in mock shame, yet he continued to aim a malicious grin at Hasan Ali.

After the plov, Hamid was the first to make his farewells, and he was soon followed by the others as they spread out to their homes. Since Otabek’s way took him on the same road as Qutidor, Otabek joined him. As they neared Qutidor’s house, Qutidor said to Otabek, “We expect you to be our guest the day after tomorrow. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed, Amak.”

“We are the corner door… Maybe you will be our guest tonight?”

“Thank you, goodbye. Go in health,” Otabek replied, neither accepting nor rejecting the invitation.

At last they bid each other farewell.

At that very moment, a shadow crept out from around the corner, wrapped in a chopan. This shadow had been covertly observing their conversation, and now it faded away back into the darkness, moving in the direction of the other guests.