Аннотация: These stories are read in one breath. Read it, we recommend it.
Holder Volcano
Member of the Writers' Union of Uzbekistan
A collection of short stories of Holder Volkano.
Translated by the author.
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Jumanchik Bedanaboz
(Fantastic story)
An independent astronomer, Jumanchik Bedanaboz, invented a unique radio telescope and, in order to establish contact with extraterrestrial civilizations, sent a radio signal into space with a message on behalf of humanity.
To make the text of the message easier to decipher, he wrote using pictures resembling cave paintings drawn by primitive people.
The transcript of the letter was something like this:
- I want this radio signal to fly across the expanses of the universe, by meteorites, asteroids and reach intelligent extraterrestrial life in other constellations. Assalamu alaikum, dear aliens, dear humanoids, that is, little green men! How are you? Are you all flying to neighbouring galaxies and nebulae on your flying saucers in search of work and a piece of bread? I apologize for the poor handwriting, as I am writing this letter in the moonlight. Because the authorities turned off the lights in order to save electricity. I have only one request. Please let us know as soon as you receive our message. Otherwise, we earthlings will be very worried about you. Contact us and do not hesitate if you need our help protecting the population of your planet or in military terms. We also have extensive experience in the construction of nuclear power plants. A reactor facility will be built at your place. There is only one small, tiny nuance, that is, you dear little green men, will make the payment for priceless nuclear fuel, for isotopes that are being developed here. To sum it up, you will be dependent on us. In other words, we are always ready to help you and develop trade, economic and military cooperation with you on a first-priority basis. For example, we just need nickel, as we are actively working on creating unheard-of, scary, top-secret weapons with which we can blow up not only entire galaxies, constellations and nebulae, but also the entire universe. How? I'll explain now. You may also be aware that our nuclear scientists invented nuclear energy by splitting nuclei by hitting them with a neutron, right? So, gentlemen aliens. The universe where you and I live side by side is the most gigantic reactor where we can conduct an experiment called the Billiard Effect Game to create this terrible weapon. To do this, we need to determine which constellations can play the role of a nucleus, which proton or neutron. By influencing the constellations that play the role of the nucleus of the neutron constellation, we will receive unprecedented energy, with which we can create intergalactic cruise missiles with nuclear engines that fly at the speed of light. This weapon will become our cosmic nuclear baton, with which we will frighten and blackmail everyone who lives in the boundless cosmos. We will establish control over the inhabitants of the universe, manipulating them and openly mocking them. We are also well aware that you do not have fertile land on your planets. Air and water are also very expensive. As they say, their weight is gold. Don't worry too much about this, gentlemen aliens. Come as soon as possible. We will sell you our land, air and water at a reasonable price. Almost for free. We have a lot of water! We will load the soil of our planet into your flying freight trains, (unbeknownst to humanity, of course) organizing the shipment of priceless cargo exactly where it should be. You can take away the earth's soil, water and air as much as you want. As long as you pay for it, of course. We will agree on the price and discount.
With utmost respect, your humble servant, the great scientist -astronomer, Chairman of the Union of Writers and Academics of the Universe, Jumanchik Bedanaboz .
When sending humanity's messages in the form of petroglyphs into the boundless cosmos through a radio telescope, Jumanchik Bedanaboz himself did not believe that anyone would ever respond to them.
But no, a few weeks later there was a response to the radio signal, and after deciphering the text of the reply in the form of pictures and a drawing, Jumanchik Bedanaboz stiffened with fear.
The encrypted text of the letter looked something like this:
- Va alaikum assalam, earthlings and a great scientist-astronaut, chairman of the Union of Writers and Academics of the Universe, Jumanchik Bedanaboz! We have received your messages! After our experts performed a graphologist analysis and deciphered the text of your message, we could not control our laughter. We laughed so hard that our bladder almost burst. Then, barely suppressing our laughter, we came to a consensus and decided to inform you that we aliens do not intend to have any relations with you, that is, with Earthlings. Strange. Do you earthlings even think with your head when you write such letters to someone? After reading your messages, we began to doubt that you Earthlings have heads on your shoulders. It seems to us that you don't have heads on your shoulders, but rather an hollow tumour that needs to be surgically removed. The question is: What the hell do we care about your polluted air, off-scale levels of radiation, and the soil of your filthy planet, packed with extremely dangerous toxic chemicals such as pesticides and herbicides? The scariest thing is that you call the poison you drink water, which you consume every day, miraculously staying alive? Oh, my God, how awful! Thank God that we aren't crazy enough to buy your so-called ocean and sea water, where you dispose of harmful substances from chemical plants and factories, and secretly bury radioactive waste, spent nuclear fuel, and man-made radio nuclides. So, gentlemen of the Earth! You will immediately change your name. Because you are not people, but some kind of scary, evil being unknown to science! You fight among yourselves, as if with your own reflection in a mirror, violating the territorial integrity of independent countries, throwing millions of young soldiers and officers into the meat grinder of war, killing innocent people, the elderly and children, destroying infrastructure, razing cities to the ground, turning the country's economy into a swamp of international sanctions, which turn people into refugees, threatening each other with nuclear war! You are a monster, a suicide bomber, a kamikaze! These names are just right for you! We thought for a long time, then we came to the consensus that the best way to rid the universe of you is to destroy your planet, before you start polluting neighbouring galaxies with radioactive nucleoside from your antediluvian spaceships and stations and start an aggressive war, threatening with your so-called secret weapons with which you can blow up not only entire galaxies, but also the whole universe. We have already launched our state-of-the-art intergalactic cruise missiles with atomic warheads, which will fly to your Globe in an hour and destroy you along with your planet, blowing you to smithereens; turning you into poisonous ashes!
Sincerely, the press secretary of the president of the planet of green humanoid men, Comrade Bibon Bibon Jiblajibon.
After reading this, the great scientist -astronomer, chairman of the Union of Writers and Academics of the Universe, Mr. Jumanchik Bedanaboz, ran out of his hut and began shouting at the top of his voice: - People! Save yourselves who can! Run to the bomb shelter now! The humanoids of the neighbouring galaxy have declared war on us! In an hour, the interplanetary cruise missiles with nuclear warheads that the aliens have launched will arrive! They intend to turn us into nuclear ashes!
Hearing his words, people started laughing, thinking he was drunk. After some time, local police officers detained him. Then an ambulance arrived with a psychiatric team from the central madhouse of the capital. After examining the detainee, they immediately diagnosed him with Schizophrenia and put him into a straitjacket.
"What are you doing, you bastards?" I'm perfectly healthy! Let me go now! I'm telling the truth! In an hour, ultra-modern three-stage interplanetary cruise missiles with nuclear warheads launched by aliens will arrive! In an hour, do you hear, in an hour! Jumanchik Bedanaboz shouted, struggling with the doctors.
The doctors pushed him into an ambulance and the doctor politely said, "Don't worry, my dear... What should I call you? Oh, Jumanchik Bedanaboz? So, Jumanchik Bedanaboz, don't you worry right now. Yes, we believe you. But, there is a completely different time and other dimensions in space. That is, millions of years will pass on our planet before the alien cruise missiles arrive. So don't worry so much about insignificant things, Mr. Patient.
After these words of the doctor, the great scientist -astronomer, chairman of the Union of Writers and Academics of the Universe, Mr. Jumanchik Bedanaboz began to shout: - Bibon Bibon! Jiblajibon! Bibon Bibon! Jiblajibon!
23/09/2023.
12:05 a.m.
Canada, Ontario.
The Lumberjack
(Short story)
I used to work as a migrant worker, a lumberjack in the distant Taiga, where they illegally cut down forests and exported the felled trees to China. They didn't pay me much there, but it was a pretty interesting job and I liked it. Have you ever been to the Taiga? No? Well, then you didn't live in this world at all. Oh, this taiga! How I loved it! You know, well, there's nothing like the smell of pine trees, which crumble to the ground with a plaintive creak and roar, scaring forest birds and animals when they're cut down with a chainsaw. Cones, similar to souvenirs, are falling from huge creaking pines and cedars, which decorate the New Year tree. After logging, the forest subsides, and the air is filled with such a smell of fresh corn and tar that I get drunk from this fragrance! One day, after working hard, all my friends and I are sitting by the campfire, drying our soaked footcloths and old worn soleless canvas boots . Meanwhile, somewhere out there, in the distance, a lone woodpecker began to peck at a dead pine tree, like "Trrrrrr! Trrrrrrrr!". We lumberjacks listened with special attention to the romantic knocking of the woodpecker. wood peckers here and there constantly hammering and hammering at a dead pine tree. The deep taiga echoes with the sound of its pounding, and the bonfire was burning with a bang, throwing orange sparks into the air and incredible smoke rose like a gray dragon. I sat and listened to this magical fractional sound created by the hard beak of a woodpecker and I can't get enough of it. Here I look, my footcloths are on fire, which were drying over my official soleless canvas boots .
"Damn! I shouted wildly in panic, jumping up abruptly, started to put out the fire with my feet, but it was not there. The flame quickly spread to my trousers. I began hitting the burning trousers with my hands, but alas, I still hadn't managed to contain the fire. The more I hit, the more terrible the fire raged. As a result, my trousers turned into shorts in a matter of seconds. It's good that my friend Turik, that Tapparov from Tyumen, poured water from a bucket into my boots and-oh my God! - there was gasoline in the bucket for refueling the chainsaw. Then my boots burst into flames! I'm screaming and running away, shouting at Turik . There was thick, tall grass in patches, burdocks, hogweeds, sweet clover, nettle ferns, daisies, cornflowers, forget-me-nots, thistles and all that, which waved in the wind like a green sea. Like a botanical garden, by God. The flames, of course, quickly spread to the grass, a terrible forest fire broke out and the endless, dense taiga began to burn with a bang. The burning forest began to hum terribly. Fortunately, just at that moment, as if by order, a thunderstorm broke out, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and heavy rain poured noisily. A miracle had happened mother nature localized the forest fire for free, saving us, along with birds and animals, and trees from obvious death. After heavy rain, I found severe burns on my legs. But no matter what, I continued to cut down centuries-old pines and birches left and right with a chainsaw.
By evening, we had to put on mosquito nets, because at that time hungry mosquitoes came out to hunt, buzzing and buzzing in swarms like a whirlwind in a field. They mercilessly began to bite us, biting into the open areas of our bodies with sharp proboscis. They bit even through thick sweatshirts, trying to feast on the free blood of poor migrant workers from Central Asia. There were swamps all around, providing a favorable atmosphere for mosquitoes and other families of vile blood-sucking insects. Lying there, especially drunk, was very dangerous. These small, harmless-looking insects can easily kill a drunk person by sucking all the blood out of him. But we, migrant workers, are not donors, and we need our blood ourselves. We'll sit by the campfire, wearing mosquito nets, and as soon as the stuffiness in the taiga subsides, it will get noticeably colder. That's when the cloud of winged vampires abruptly disappears.
There are other dangers in the taiga, such as wolves, bears, and rodents. You can somehow escape from wolves by climbing a tall tree. But it's useless to run from the bear, it climbs a tree no worse than an experienced electrician who climbs an electric pole with the help of iron claws to check the wiring and at the same time look into his mistress's yard to find out if her husband has gone on a business trip. In short, there is no escape from an angry club-footed bear. And we, migrant workers, can escape from anyone, from a bear or a hungry pack of wolves. When we saw a bear at night, near our camp, we started making noise together, hitting empty rattling cans and buckets with a ladle or a poker. This huge beast, despite its intimidating size, is afraid of noise. He gets to his feet at full height like a man, growls angrily and goes back into the dense forest, just like in a painting by the great artist Shishkin.
Somehow I'm lying in a hanging position in a sleeping bag, like a bat in a dark cave. The moon is shining over the taiga, the stars are twinkling, suddenly I fell asleep, not even counting the stars to four thousand eight hundred and fifty-seven. In my dream, I was walking through some kind of bazaar, there was a huge crowd, jostling, noise and uproar. I see people running towards the flea market, surrounded by a tight ring of one type who advertised something in a loud voice. It was a broker named Abu Abdullatif ibn Lahnatullah. He spoke quickly, like an experienced broker at an auction.
- So you want to buy a boy, right? Well, then, here you are, gentlemen! We have a wide range of products, as they say, for every taste, that is, in these cages there are boys, and in these there are girls. You can buy them and force them to work on cotton plantations as a slave under a whistling long whip. They range in age from one to ten years old. Don't worry, they're not stolen. Each of these products has their own birth certificates, and just like that, their parents are also standing here. They are ready to bargain with you. Don't forget, dear customers, that you will find the cheapest children in the world only here. Almost for free! You won't find sellers like these parents, goods like these children, and an honest broker like me anywhere else! For example, I would suggest this boy Ibn Bushlat to you. He's very smart and obedient... With these words, broker Abu Abdullatif ibn Lannatullah solemnly opened the cage door to let the child out.
- Come on, come out, Ibn Bushlat, the buyers have come for you... - he said, helping the child out of the cramped cage with a stick. The child got out of the cage on all fours. Broker Abu Abdullatif ibn Lahnatullah continued:
- Come on, Ibn Bushlat, show us your art quickly. What can you do? Would you like to read us some poetry by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin?
"I can count to a hundwed," the child replied, bragging, and began counting smartly: "one, two, thwee."..
- Well, that's enough, that's enough, Ibn Bushlat, well done... You see, gentlemen, what kind of prodigy you are going to acquire. And you, dear parents, name the price quickly! How much are you asking for your child?!
The child's father and mother named the price.
- Well, it's almost free, come on, drive the money faster, gentlemen, customers, and take the boy! Otherwise, Ibn Bushlat's parents will change their minds," said broker Abu Abdullatif ibn Lahnatullah, frantically shaking hands with one of the buyers. The buyers wanted to bargain, but then poor Ibn Bushlat, hugging his mother's leg tightly, wept bitterly and began to beg with tears in his eyes.:
- Mom, Dad, don't give me up, please, I will obey you. I'll keep an eye on my bobik and I won't take anything out of the fwidge. I can beg fow money beside the bus stop. Then I'll give you the money I've collected, evewy last penny. I will miss you and my baby bwotha, and ouw dog Bobik. I love you Dad, Mom... I will neva ask you to buy me anything new," he said, looking at his parents as if they were telegraph poles with hope, his eyes full of tears.
Meanwhile, the bidding began.
- Comrade broker, you say the child is almost free, but Ibn Bushlat's parents say the price for which you can buy a hundred children along with a kindergarten. Besides, this child is squinting and burbling. Let Ibn Bushlat's parents make a discount on the child's squinting eyes," and lisp. - said one of the customers, looking at the boy with displeasure.
- Well, dear customers. He's just afraid of you. As for his lisp, it's a sign of genius. Many famous people had them. For example, Vladimir Lenin. It may seem like a disadvantage, but it doesn't make you dumb. In fact, children are priceless! The ancient sages said so! The children are...
- Yes, no need to give a lecture, Mr. Broker. We will buy Ibn Bushlat for half price. If not, we'll leave," said one of the customers, decisively.
- Well, now it's up to you, dear parents of Ibn Bushlat. Don't miss this historic opportunity. By the way, they named a good price," broker Abu Abdullatif ibn Lahnatullah addressed Ibn Bushlat's parents, shaking the child's father's hand.
- Well, okay, let them take the child, we agree. Come on, Ibn Bushlat, go to them and don't fuss. You won't have to look after your little brother because tomorrow we will sell him too, then the dog, and you don't have to take anything out of an empty refrigerator, because even if you find the key to the padlock in the barn and open the refrigerator, you won't find anything edible in it, there's nothing there and most likely won't be in the coming years. After we drink from the money your little brother and your Bobik got us, rest assured, we'll get to the fridge. We will also sell it at a flea market. Ibn Bushlat, don't get us wrong. We need money for drinks, you know? Without alcohol, we are like an astronaut without air in outer space, like a fish without water. Only alcohol can expand our veins in our bodies, and we will calm down for a while. And as for the money you intend to collect by begging at the bus stops, I'll tell you a secret, as a former economist, that this is not a real income. Trust me, Ibn Bushlat. Moreover, the little things that you will collect for weeks will not be enough not only for a bottle of vodka, but even for a snack. In addition, there are police officers who protect local beggars for a certain amount of money, and there are hungry tax officials who will take away all the money from you for not paying taxes. So, go with God, as they say, and don't cry like a woman who was beaten by her alcoholic husband," said Ibn Bushlat's father.
The customers, counting the crumpled and dirty bills over and over again, handed them to Ibn Bushlat's parents. Poor Ibn Bushlat did not want to leave his parents and, clutching the hem of his mother's skirt, he kept begging not to be sold. Ibn Bushlat's father and mother greedily counted the money they received for him. Ibn Bushlat's father even checked the bills, exposing them to the sunlight and saying:
- Don't be surprised, dear customers. It's a time when you can't trust anyone. Counterfeiters are walking around with huge suitcases in their hands, stuffed with counterfeit banknotes of various denominations... Well, look at this... you put a torn and disgusting bill in the pack, which you taped together. Replace them with whole ones. And there are obscene words written on this bill in ballpoint pens. And on the other side? Well... It's also not legible... What bad word... That's disgusting... Let's see what it says here... The handwriting here is small and illegible for a long time, but I think you can read it... Ah, that's it... - Hello, my dear lover Lifan Siigeech! Today, my damned husband is finally leaving for a business trip to Europe. I'll meet you at the same place. I kiss you in writing. Knock, knock! With great respect, your faithful lover Ludaida Ladimna. Date and signature. Change that too. The rest of the bills seem to be normal," said Ibn Bushlat's father. The child's buyers changed the bills and took away the live goods along with a cage resembling a suitcase from Stalin's time without a handle. Ibn Bushlat struggled and cried, trying to escape from the hands of customers, but he failed. Strong and reliable hands grabbed him tightly and, pushing him back into the cage, they were about to leave. Ibn Bushlat kept crying, shaking the iron bars of the cage like a little macaque in a zoo. Meanwhile, when Ibn Bushlat's parents counted the money they had received from the buyers, they began to leave. Broker Abu Abdullatif ibn Lahnatullah stopped the buyers and said:
- Gentlemen, where are we going in a hurry? And my share? Give me the share I earned through honest work. You can't do that. After all, I have to hand over the proceeds to the accounting department of our bazaar, and the accountant, in turn, has to report to the top management about how many smart and talented children have been sold today and for what amount. That is, we have an appropriate annual plan that we must fulfill, no matter what. Otherwise, the bazaar will kick us out of work, and then what? How can I feed my beloved children? By the way, I don't want to sell my children here, even if I have to!
The buyers apologized, handed over his brokerage share, and left the bazaar. Broker Abu Abdullatif ibn Lanatullah approached the sellers of his child.
- Well, the parents of the sold Ibn Bushlat, when do you intend to pay for my brokerage services? - He said.
Poor Ibn Bushlat's parents also gave him his share and left with a satisfied smile on their faces in the direction of the wine and vodka store.
Then I woke up in a hanging sleeping bag. But my friends, the migrant workers from sunny Central Asia were still sound asleep. The distant stars twinkled above my hanging sleeping bag, and a single moon shone silently over the endless Taiga.
07/09/2014. 8:27 p.m.
The city of Brampton. Canada.
The Kaleidoscope
(short story)
Ignat ibn Nigmat froze with a razor in his hands and was very scared when he learned that he had turned into a mirror reflecting everything in the room, including the mirror itself, which could easily shatter if a stone or brick fragments hit it. He was particularly struck by the reaction of his mirror twin, who looked at him at the speed of light, responding to his smile with exactly the same smile, with a grimace. It's as if his twin lived inside the mirror, looking like him, like two drops of water, who constantly watches him. Thinking that his doppelganger was mocking him, copying his every move, Ignat ibn Nigmat wildly wanted to smash the mirror with his fist. But he immediately changed his mind, remembering that a broken mirror can bring disaster, illness, and even death. When a person finds out that he has turned into a mirror, he goes into shock, like an animal that sees itself in the mirror, freezes in horror and steps back, attacks, thinking that it's not its reflection, but a completely different predator that broke into its territory. Such people are understood only by those who have turned into a mirror. Mirror people can easily break not only from a stone or brick fragments, but when they collide head-on with a person or hit a concrete pillar in an impenetrable fog, instantly turning into a bag with fragments of shattered glass, which the janitor throws into a trash can so that pedestrians do not injure their feet by stepping on them. It would have been better if Ignat ibn Nigmat had not shaved that morning and had not looked in the mirror. Now, he began to ride carefully on public transports. He rides, avoiding conflicts, showing a sense of humor, smiling broadly at everyone so that some angry passenger does not push him with a bony elbow in the crowd. Ignat ibn Nigmat also managed to find out that he was not completely alone in this city. It turns out that many people among the townspeople have long turned into mirrors, and they also ride public transports, walking in the middle of the crowd, carefully so as not to crash. Some of them are walking down the street, cheerfully reflecting each other and not noticing that they are no longer people, but just a fragile mirror. Ignat ibn Nigmat spends his days and even nights when he can't sleep thinking hard about how to find a way to protect himself from accidental collisions with rude passengers on public transport. What if you wear inflatable clothes that protect you from accidental destruction when you collide with another person in the fog or in pitch darkness? Such uniforms can easily be blown off using a pump or compressor. In such inflatable clothes, the mirror man feels great in the water. He's not even afraid of the global flood. Especially when he is being chased by enemies, chasing him with angry dogs on leashes. He puffs up his clothes and jumps into the river, fleeing from the chase, floating unnoticed downstream, like a swollen corpse of a drowned man who floated to the surface of the water. This is when inflatable clothes are blown away by air. If you inflate these rubber overalls with helium, you can even fly through the vast expanses of the boundless skies, like in a hot air balloon. However, there is a flip side of the coin, that is, inflatable clothes can turn into an uncontrolled unidentified aircraft and a gust of strong wind can take you into the airspace of other states, where border guards can shoot you down with a BUK rocket launcher, like the Malaysian Boeing 777 airliner with 300 passengers on board.
It's better to blow off your inflatable clothes with air and go to work, cheerfully walking along the sidewalk with the crowd in step, carefully so that some idiot doesn't blow up your inflatable clothes with a cigarette. Ignat ibn Nigmat gasped in surprise one day when he learned that among these two-legged mirrors, there were curves where his overly long neck and small head, swollen stomach, short arms like a jerboa, and a nose resembling a gas mask breathing hose were distorted. After that, he decided to no longer look into the crooked mirrors that reflect normal people like a monster, which can only be seen in paintings by crazy artists.
From the day a person turns into a mirror, he immediately becomes an outcast from society, lonely as an orphan. Such a person can only talk to himself, and cry with his shadow, who is silently sobbing, shaking his whole body on the wall of the hut, and no matter how much he tries, he will never be able to become a human being. Even if he assures himself that he is not a mirror, he still cannot stop reflecting everything that exists around him. Uneducated, drug-ravaged youth, feeble-minded, lousy, smelly drunks lying under fences, peeing their pants and letting long saliva out of their mouths, as well as greedy, corrupt, vile officials stealing people's money from the state budget on a huge scale, pseudo-deputies, pathophilic senators, unfaithful friends, pimps, prostitutes, religious liars and the like.
Occasionally, he wants to smash himself by hitting a boulder or dumbbells, when a bloody, senseless war is reflected in him, where entire cities are destroyed to the ground, turning into ruins, thousands of young soldiers, civilians, helpless old men, pregnant women and innocent children are dying, remaining under the concrete rubble of blown-up multi-storey buildings in as a result of the UAV attack. There are also war veterans hobbling on one leg like a sparrow, and millions of people who have been turned into refugees, forced to leave their homeland and the country where they were born and lived happily, where their childhood and youth were spent.
That's why Ignat ibn Nigmat sometimes wants to get dim, like the unwashed, dirty windows of an abandoned house. He tries his best not to reflect the society of uneducated, drunken fools, morons, drug addicts, and liars.
The mirror is by its nature a cruel, truthful and stubborn subject, like a healthy opposition, reflecting the illegal, unfair policies of vile dictators and authoritarian rulers who extend their powers illegally, through deception, through fake elections, falsifying the results of the vote. They are even ready to throw millions of young people into the meat grinder of war, as cannon fodder, just to stay in power as long as possible and live in luxury.
Thanks to a mirror that does not reflect their inner world, they live considering themselves the best, bravest, just, modest, wise, honest people and white, sinless angels without wings. The mirror deliberately does not depict and does not show them their inner world, their souls blackened by sins, where hidden anger, xenophobia, vile hatred, contempt and black envy not only for the civilized world, but also for their oppressed own people, who hate them inside, look at them with all their hearts and want political change, fair elections, a free press, a healthy opposition, a parliamentary form of government, and finally live in a normal democratic society like all the free peoples of the world.
Ignat ibn Nigmat wants to reflect the summer meadows and fields that melt in the July haze, memories of his distant youth and first love, about Layla, who let the sun shine into it with a small mirror in a cotton field and laughed merrily when they hit Ignat ibn Nigmat's eyes. That deafening chirping of restless sparrows in the poplar grove. Blue pigeons moaning in a monotonous and sad voice, somewhere in the ravines, as if complaining about the heat. Where July froze with wild delight in the deserted silence like a thoughtful dumbness, when a crazy and lonely whirlwind performed a dance on a sand dune.
How not to reflect a soaked willow tree staring into a bottomless puddle, as if into a mirror after a summer downpour. And the raindrops hanging on the branches and trembling like tears on the eyelashes, which the trees are about to drop if a wandering intoxicating wind touches them.
There is another kind of mirror in this world. It's a mirror of the soul, and you can't break it by hitting it with an antique cast-iron candelabrum. One offensive word is enough to break it.The mirror of the soul breaks quietly, does not ring like all glass objects.If it breaks, it will be impossible to restore it, to restore it to its former appearance. The fragments of the mirror of the human soul, broken by the words of evil and vile people, will remain inside a person for the rest of his life, like rubble in a bag, like gravel in a concrete mixer drum and will rotate like glass in a kaleidoscope tube.
I think it would also be useful for you to try hitting your head with a stone or better, a brick. If your head doesn't break, it means you're not made of glass. If you do, it's also for the best. That is, in this case, you will double the opportunity to reflect people even more vividly in all your fragments individually. So the check cannot be postponed for later. As they say, the most appropriate time is only here and now. You can't wait for some boy to come and smash you with a slingshot. No, not at all! You can't test your best friends and family by hitting them over the head with a baseball bat or a vodka bottle.
You learn better from Ignat ibn Nigmat. He was tired of reflecting the hustle and bustle of the city, the heart-rending squeak of brakes, the howling sirens of police cars and ambulances, the smoking chimneys of factories and factories. He decided to go to the countryside, where there is peace and quiet. he rode the train for a long time and, after packing his things, got off at the nearest station. Then he walked towards the village, across the field, breathing the clean country air, listening to the trills of a lark that sang over a rye field. He walked until he met a beautiful woman who was collecting dung. Ignat ibn Nigmat greeted her and they started talking to each other.
- My name is Ignat ibn Nigmat, and yours? he asked.
"I'm Asel," the woman replied.
- Oh, Asel! A beautiful name like yourself! Ignat ibn Nigmat was delighted.
Then he continued: - I came from the city so as not to crash in the crowd, as I recently turned into a mirror. I can't ride in public transports where angry passengers can elbow me and smash me like a fragile glass container. I'm very afraid of crashing. I want to spend the rest of my life here, reflecting the rustic landscapes, low-flying swallows and swifts over the water, a scarlet dragonfly, fluttering butterflies over deserted paths, cows, horses grazing peacefully in pastures and meadows, sometimes nodding their heads to each other, chasing away a swarm of annoying flies with their tails. You know, it's a pleasure to be a mirror! Such people will have spiritual eyes and they can see through everything, even a person's thoughts. Just like them, I feel in my soul that you are also a human mirror," he said. Hearing this, the woman was embarrassed.
- What are you talking about? What kind of glass am I? If I were made of glass, I would have shattered long ago. Because my husband beats me every day, dragging me by my hair like a sleigh in the yard in winter, demanding money for drinks. He is a poet by profession, he writes poetry. He drinks vodka without drying out for weeks and months. Sometimes he chases after me with a long kitchen knife in his hands, threatening to kill me. Recently, he attacked me with a pitchfork and almost hacked me to pieces. He drinks even the little things that I collect by selling dung in the bazaar," the woman explained.
- What are you saying, Asel?! Does that really happen? It's the 21st century! And your husband treats you las if you live in a feudal society. He's also a poet, he writes poetry! What a nightmare! And where are your neighbors, elders, and the district policeman looking at? Such husbands should be imprisoned, and for many years, or sent to a mental hospital! A beautiful woman like you should be carried in your arms! Why don't you go to court to file for divorce? We have a democracy in our country and you have every chance to be happy," Ignat ibn Nigmat said.
- Everyone is afraid of him, the police and even the elders. I want to leave him, but I can't. I have three children. Where should I go with such a contingent? Asel said, crying softly and wiping her tears with the sleeve of her dress.
Then suddenly a man jumped out of the bushes of the steppe juniper, he was pretty drunk, about thirty-five years old, with a scythe. When Asel saw him, she turned pale with fear and began to tremble, asking for his forgiveness. He started yelling.
"Oh, you scum! You unfaithful cheater! What a snake! Who is this bastard huh?! Is he your lover?! Now it's clear! It turns out that every day you come here not to collect dung, but to meet your lover, right?! Oh, shame, what a shame, my God! I'll kill you!..I'll cut you into straps!
- What are you saying, dear?! What kind of lover?! I do not know this man! This is the first time I've seen him! By God! Asel began to justify herself.
Ignat ibn Nigmat intervened in the conversation.
"Wait a minute, Mr. Poet! It's not her fault! How can I explain it to you?.. Anyway, I came from the city and just asked her how far it was to the village, you know... I came here to reflect the rural landscapes, the silence of fields and meadows, the sad voice of a hoopoe singing in ravines, horses in a misty meadow, morning dew on a spider's web, the voices of roosters in the predawn gloom," he said.
"Are you crazy or something?" What kind of landscape?! What kind of silence of fields and meadows are you talking about?! Noooo! It's obvious through and through that you're faking it, you bastard! I challenge you to a duel! Do you know what it is? Have you read Pushkin?! The one who shot with Dantes and died in a duel! Do you know why he died?! Because the sneaky assistants betrayed him by secretly replacing the live ammunition of the revolver with blanks! And you and I will shoot, not with a revolver, but with simple stones, like our distant ancestors who lived in caves in the Stone Age. At no extra cost, I'll save a bullet and gunpowder. It will be a fair duel, where there will be no seconds," the poet explained and began to look for two identical stones. Having found it, one of them gave it to Ignat ibn Nigmat.
Hearing the terrible words of the poet, Ignat ibn Nigmat's heart sank into his heels.
- Dear poet, calm down! Pull yourself together! Don't take the sin on your soul! I can't shoot stones with you, for a simple reason! The thing is, I'm a human mirror! I can shatter if a stone or brick hits me, you know?! According to statistics, almost half of our city's population has already turned into a mirror. But this is not the limit either. If you multiply this by the population of the country, then the scale of the disaster can double. The scariest thing is that humanity has also turned into brittle glass! It is enough to launch one thermonuclear bomb, and the life of mankind on the planet crumbles like glass pieces of a kaleidoscope," he said.
- Yes? It's very interesting! Atheists say that man is descended from a monkey, while others claim that man is made of clay. And you're talking about glass, even though you don't look like a glass man! Well, lets find out. You need to check if you're really made of glass or cloth and blood, like all mortals. Come on, get started! It's your turn! - said the poet.
Ignat ibn Nigmat did not expect such a turn of events and thought for a moment, with a heavy stone in his hand. His intuition told him that this was his last chance to stay undefeated. The most important thing is not to miss.With such thoughts, Ignat ibn Nigmat, aiming for a long time, threw a stone in the direction of the poet with a swing and hit the bull's-eye. He fell down like a tree being cut down. He was lying unconscious and blood was oozing through his hair. Then Ignat ibn Nigmat woke up, jumping up in a cold sweat.
12-03-2025.
4:43 p.m.
Canada, Ontario.
Blind driver
(Story)
Sheik Ibrahim Attar was granted a working leave and he decided to rest on the seashore to restore his shattered nerves. Oh, how great it is to sit on a sandy beach while the sun quietly sinks below the horizon, turning the coastal waters and the sky into gold! Sheikh Ibrahim Attar loves to listen to the sound of the sea alone, silently watching the waves washing the diamonds of the stars on moonlit evenings. Having put his necessary things in a Stalin-era wooden suitcase which was missing its handle, he left the house. He was walking merrily whistling through the field on a path, waist-deep in the grass with a suitcase in his hands towards the high road, where you can hitch a ride. It was a long way to the city. For this reason, Sheikh Ibrahim Attar was going on the road in the morning so as not to be late to the airport, from where he would fly to Hawaii by plane. He was elated.
It was as if the white-trucked poplars, ringing in the light spring wind, waved their branches to him, as if escorting him on a long journey. There were fields and meadows where the tall grass waved like a green wave in the cool morning wind. Larks trilled over the field, merrily singing the sunrise rising over the horizon.
Sheik Ibrahim Attar did not even notice how quickly he found himself on the side of the highway. The road was full of cars rushing by, some, one way, others in the opposite direction. Just at that moment, a yellow bus stopped near him, raising clouds of dust and hissing: 'Shhh!' and -the doors opened. Sheik Ibrahim Attar jumped into the bus, holding his wooden suitcase without a handle under his arm. The bus was packed with passengers, as they say, there is no place for an apple to fall. Young, healthy guys with golden teeth sat on the seats, and old men with old women and pregnant women with children rode standing up. In such a bus, a person will not fall even if they do not hold the handrail. There was no room to breathe in the crowded bus cabin. Sheik Ibrahim Attar began to suffocate in the stuffiness due to the lack of fresh air. Nearby, an elderly man was sitting on a stool. This is nothing compared to the woman who was sitting on an overturned, crumpled and blackened bucket.
- Mr. Driver, please turn on the air conditioner! Sheik Ibrahim Attar shouted. Hearing his words, the passengers laughed in chorus. Especially the driver. He was laughing, looking at the ceiling of the cab, forgetting about the steering wheel for a while and the bus almost went off the road. It turns out that the bus did not have an air conditioner at all.
- Then open the hatch and let the air enter the cabin! Sheik Ibrahim Attar shouted again, loosening his tightly tightened tie.
- How are you supposed to open a rusted hatch if it's lever is broken! Someone shouted back. In order to avoid any trouble, Sheik Ibrahim Attar had to put up with the situation. He then accidentally saw a sign on which was written:
- Dear passengers, please follow the rules and respect the work of the crew members of our public unit. Don't forget to pay the fare! Tickets are with the driver. We don't have a ticket vendor on board! Thank you for your attention. We wish you all a happy journey! Sincerely, bus driver Mr. Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza .'
Sheik Ibrahim Attar, to buy a ticket for travel, handed some money to the driver through a metal grille made of durable reinforcement.
- Please, give me a one-way ticket, Mr. Driver, what's your name... Zazabazakazamazabuza... I'm sorry, your name is very difficult to pronounce... Sheik Ibrahim Attar said, apologizing to the driver.
When the driver turned to face him, he was very scared. Because his eyes were white, without pupils, like ghosts. Sheik Ibrahim Attar was even more frightened when the driver, stretching out his bony hand, began to feel around, in search of money, which Sheik Ibrahim Attar held out. Finally, he took the money and gave Sheik Ibrahim Attar a one-way ticket.
- Don't be afraid, citizen passenger! Yes, I'm blind, but I'm perfectly oriented. Like bats, I drive this unit at high speed, traversing the road with echolocation, nimbly changing the frequency of ultrasound. Although my name is written on the plate as Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza the leader of the Turbocose, but my parents called me Tokhtasin in my childhood. The words 'Tokhtasin' means 'Let it stop'. When my older brothers and sisters died at the age of one, my parents decided to give me the name 'Tokhtasin'. This way, the mortality in our family was suspended. But one day, the people decided to build a dam on the river, throwing tree trunks and branches, granite stones there. But the water continued to wash it all away and one day someone shouted: - People, is there a man named 'Tokhtasin' among you?! - yes! people said. - Then catch him quickly, and we will throw him into the dam and the water will stop! The man shouted again. Just at this time, a tall, thin-built man named who was also named Tokhtasin began to run away, but the people quickly caught up with poor Tokhtasin and caught him, throwing him into the dam, ignoring his cries that he had three minor children. After that, my father changed my name to Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, so that evil people will not catch me and throw me into a dam to stop the water. Having heard the story of Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, the passengers laughed loudly and amicably. The blind and cheerful driver, Mr. Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, continued to speak, looking in the direction of Sheik Ibrahim Attar.
- For your information, I'm driving drunk at a high speed right now. Before leaving, I drank two bottles of vodka without snacks. By the way, one of the wheels of the bus is held on by one bolt. The rest of the bolts fell off 2 years ago. If you want to get a small hit of adrenaline, then I, racing on two wheels sideways, can show you dangerous tricks similar to the 'Death Loop' performed by fighter pilots in the sky. Look here... - said the blind driver, Mr. Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, scaring Sheik Ibrahim Attar even more.
- No, no, don't show me tricks, Mr. Driver! I don't want to ride on a bus like this. Please stop the bus, for God's sake, I'm going to get off! - he said, frozen with horror.
- Oh, what a cowardly man you are! Don't be afraid! Mr. Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, , is an excellent driver and we, the passengers of this old bus, believe him to be God! You won't find such a high-class driver anywhere else! Let him drive your bus for the rest of his life. He is our lifelong driver! Only he can take us to a place where people live freely, richly and happily! And you don't trust him! Not good, young man, not good! - said one of the passengers, shaking his head disapprovingly.
Another passenger added: - Thanks to our brave, magnificent driver, we can ride this bus not only in our own country, but also on the territory of other, independent, neighbouring countries, illegally crossing their borders, knocking down hundreds and thousands of people, women, the elderly and innocent children to death! If neighbouring countries make claims about this, we easily and with impunity get out of the water dry, explaining to them that our driver, Mr. Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, is a congenital blind man.
- Then even more so! That is, I don't want to become an accomplice to a crime against humanity! I am afraid of the international tribunal, and I do not want to be sentenced to death by hanging according to the verdict of the Hague Tribunal, as a war criminal! I demand that you stop this damn bus immediately! - Sheik Ibrahim Attar insisted.
Creativity is not like colouring pages with felt-tip pens!
- Well, well. As they say, you cant force someone to be nice. The customer is always right... Let this citizen, skeptical of what is happening and doubting my extraordinary talent from God, leave the bus. - With these words, Mr.Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza pressed the brake pedal. But for some reason the bus didn't stop. Then the blind driver pressed the pedal again. Then again and again. But the brakes didn't work. Sheik Ibrahim Attar at first thought that the blind driver Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza was joking. But no, it turns out the brakes were actually broken.
- That's it! We're screwed, gentlemen, passengers! The brakes don't work! - Sheik Ibrahim Attar said.
In a panic, the passengers began to pray in unison. Oh, Jesus Christ! Oh, Elohim! Oh, Allah!- they shouted in panic, asking God to save them from a crash. After all, a bus is not a bicycle which can be stopped by putting a stick in the gears.
- Don't panic, fellow passengers! Do not forget that I, the famous and irreplaceable blind driver, am driving!
With these words, the driver of the ill-fated bus, Mr. Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, , was driving, turning the steering wheel to the right, then to the left. People started crying out of fear. Around the corner, the bus almost hit a man. The speed is great.
- Why don't you honk the horn? - Sheikh Ibrahim Attar asked in a panic.
Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza answered:
- How am I to honk if the horn is broken?! You are in a place to teach me, better stick your head out of the bus window and warn people by shouting:
- Get out of the way, the brakes don't work!
- Good. - said Sheik Ibrahim Attar. Leaning out of the moving bus, he began to shout:
-Get out of the way, the brakes don't work! Get out of the way, the brakes don't work!
He was crying.
Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, , turned the steering wheel at random, back and forth, looking at Sheikh Ibrahim Attar with white eyes without pupils, like a ghost, and smiled:
- Why are you crying, citizen passenger? A man should meet his death with dignity, with a smile on his lips!
From these words, Sheik Ibrahim Attar began to cry even harder, now less often shouting loudly to pedestrians:
- Get out of the way, the brakes don't work! Get out of the way, the brakes don't work!
- You poor passengers! How sorry I am for you! Oh, what a pity! - said Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza Vazhaktorbakoza.
- Why?! - Sheik Ibrahim Attar asked, stopping crying for a moment.
- Yes, because you are doomed! That is, you can't eject your seat! - Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza explained , merrily tapping the steering wheel with his fingertips. Then he added,
- I don't care. I'll press this button, and a hatch will open from above. Then I will fly into the air together with the seat and finally landing safely with a parachute. The catapult is the nicest thing, at least for me. But the seats on which you are sitting do not perform such a function.
Hearing this, the seated passengers began to sob. So too did Sheikh Ibrahim Attar. But he did not forget to keep warning passing drivers:
- Get out of the way, the brakes don't work! Get out of the way, the brakes don't work!
Many passengers began to smile senselessly, having lost their minds from fear.
Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza , driving the steering wheel continued:
- So, citizens passengers, while I haven't ejected yet, you can say anything you want in the end. I will give your wives your last words and wills in writing. This, I think, is the best option. Otherwise, your wives may not believe me. A woman is a super-mysterious being. Written wills, they can use in the courts as irrefutable evidence. After all, your wives should also get at least some monetary compensation from the State Insurance, right? Without a document, the State Insurance department will not hand over a penny...
Hearing these words, the passengers roared loudly. Sheik Ibrahim Attar kept shouting:
- Get out of the way, the brakes don't work! Get out of the way, the brakes don't work!
Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza The leader of the farm kept saying:
- And the men whom your wives will marry after your deaths? They also won't believe your wives that you all really died in a car accident. You need a letter of trust.
- Why would they do that? - pausing his crying for a moment, one of the passengers asked.
- What's the point of that? Don't let your wives die inside, remaining widows for life - said Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza.
The bus at that time was travelling along an uneven road at breakneck speed.
- Well, okay, - Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza - said, - If you don't want to write those letters, then, as they say, its up to you. Good bye, My friends, good bye! So to speak, have a good stay. Away I go.
With these words, Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, reached for the red ejection button, like an officer on duty sitting in a mine who is looking at the button of an atomic bomb, where an intercontinental ballistic missile is mounted. Then he pressed this button. But unfortunately for Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, the ejection button did not work. Then he pressed the button again. But, alas, the ejector jammed. To fix the problem, Zazabuzamaza Wojactorbacaza, beat his fist on the steering wheel and yanked on it. The steering wheel came flying off. Thus, the Bus went completely out of control. Sheik Ibrahim Attar kept shouting, warning pedestrians:
- Get out of the way, the brakes don't work! Get out of the way, the brakes don't work! The steering wheel is torn off! There is no signal either!
At this moment, the wheel that was held on by a single bolt fell off the unmanned bus. The bus went off the road and flew with the passengers into a deep abyss.
21/09/2012.
Canada, the city of Toronto.
Death of the Sheik
(Story)
The most respected person in the village, Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, went missing during a mud flow. It so happened that on that fateful day, the poor sheikh was carried away by a wave downstream of the Kashkaldak River and washed up on another sandy shore, and local fishermen found the Sheik there. He was unconscious. After listening to the white beard's heartbeat and realizing that he was alive, the fishermen brought him to their village, from there they sent him to the central district hospital for treatment. When he returned home in white clothes, with a white turban on his head, with a snow-white beard and the same eyebrows and eyelashes, the villagers thought that the legendary Khizr Aleikhissalam himself had come to their village, giving happiness to people who happen to meet him on their way. According to the legend, the thumb of Khizr Aleikhissalam doesnt have a joint bone. Therefore, a person who sees him and greets him, shaking his hand, should imperceptibly and quickly check whether his thumb has a bone. If his thumb is boneless, then this person is lucky: he can make a wish, and it will come true. He will get rich instantly. Such a legend exists among the people. Therefore, the villagers rushed in a crowd to Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, wanting to greet him and feel his thumb to find out whether he was with a bone or not. The first person who was lucky enough to feel the Sheik's thumb during a handshake turned sharply pale.
- What's the matter with you, son, are you sick or something? Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman asked politely. His eyes widened with surprise and delight, squinted like a hare, then having recovered a little, he quickly began to kiss the hands of Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, saying:
- Oh, hazrati Khizr aleikhissalam! I've lived my whole life dreaming of meeting you! I've finally met you! I know that you will fulfill any wish of a person! Help me with money, O great Khojai Khizr! I have recently become the most miserable and impoverished person on the planet! You won't believe me, but my daughter will soon turn thirty-five, and I can't marry her off! And my son is already forty-five, and he is also still not married! His peers will soon marry their children, and he, this idler, lies at home and watches TV from the morning to the evening, or until the electricity turns off. I tell him, you lazy man, go get a job like normal people, make some money for us! How much longer are you going to stay at home and eat the bread that I buy with my meager pension?! Do you have a conscience?! - No, he says. I am a free citizen of my independent country and I do not want to become a slave of other people! My son is absolutely a disappointment! Although this may be a punishment from God! Karma, because when I was younger, I often beat my own father, an old man, grabbing him by the beard, similar to yours, when he did not give me money for a drink!.. So, hazrati Khizr, please give me, preferably two bags of money in dollars! American, of course.
- Son, who do you take me for? I am not Khizr aleikhissalam! I am your fellow villager Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, who was swept away by a mud flow! - said the Sheikh.
- Don't be modest, khazrati khojai Khizr! Please. After all, I know your thumb is boneless. I learned this when I shook your bony hand in a friendly way! You are Khizr Aleikhissalam in diguise of our deceased Imam Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, who was swept away by a wave during a mud flow! - said the man that greeted Sheikh Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman.
Upon hearing this, a crowd of fellow villagers went berserk and attacked Sheik Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman.
- Oh hazrati khojai Khizr! someone shouted. Give me at least one bag of gold and two bags of silver too! I've been working as a slave on cotton plantations for so many years and I can't buy myself a car to taxi with, to engage in the transportation of citizens of our long-suffering Homeland!
- Give me some jewellery too, well, at least some diamonds, rubies and topaz, or overseas green money to buy an apartment in the centre of Tashkent, oh good-natures and generous Khojai Khizr! My son is an inveterate drunk, he drank our house, and now the whole family lives in a farmer's chicken coop and sleeps with cardboard boxes under him! - shouted another villager.
- Not her! Don't give them a penny, hazrati Khizr aleikhissalam! I am the person who needs the most financial support! That's how many years I can't sleep peacefully on my cot, similar to a hammock, because I envy my neighbour, who built a two-story house with a basement! Give me money to buy a hacksaw! I want to cut the wooden beam of my neighbour's balcony. I'll do it at night when he goes out to smoke and admire the night sky of our village, where the full moon shines, forming a huge circle around him! - another man in a velvet dark blue skullcap, explained his problem.
Poor Sheikh Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, frightened by the uncontrolled crowd, began to fend off people as best he could, waving his long staff and calling them to prudence.
- Astagfirullah! Astagfirullah! Oh, Muslims, I am not Khojai Khizr, and I cannot give you happiness! Happiness is given to people only by almighty Allah! I can explain my thumb not having a joint bone! When I was swept away by a wave during the landing, I broke my thumb, hitting a rock under water! In the hospital, to prevent gangrene, surgeons removed the bone from my finger and replaced it with soft rubber! - Sheikh Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman explained.
But in the confusion, the maddened crowd did not hear the words of Sheikh Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman. Everyone wanted to get to the sheikh and express their desire. And then the poor sheikh ran away, fleeing from the crowd. The crowd quickly caught up with the old sheikh Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman, covering him like locusts with its ominous black shadow. The villagers trampled Sheikh Abu Abdulatif Ibrahim ibn Abdelrahman into the mud like a frightned herd of wild mustang and killed him.
28/11/ 2012.
13 :18 of the day.
the city of Cambridge, Canada.
Cruel payback
(The story)
Mehmet, son, you must forgive me if I unwittingly upset you ever. I love you more than anything in the world - said Sultan Sanjar Savash, hugging his son and stroking his head.
Mehmet was surprised to hear the words of his father Sultan Sanjar Savash.
Father, why are you saying that? It's too early for you to say goodbye. You will live in this world for a long time, and you will rule the country until old age. God grant you good health and a long life. I love you more than life, father! Just like my mother and my brother Ahmed - said Mehmet, hugging his father.
Sultan Sanjar Savas had tears in his eyes, and in order not to show their son, he hugged him even harder and kissed him on the head. His lips trembled, and his eyes involuntarily rolled tears, first in the face, and then his thick beard, like morning dew that showered with leaves of grass, which sways in the wind. That night Sultan Sanjar Savash did not sleep, walking nervously up and down the fiery red carpet. He felt like a predator in a cage, constantly looking out at freedom. He then called his eldest son Prince Valiahd (heir to throne) and Ahmed and they had a long conversation. During the conversation, Sultan Sanjar Sawash intended to tell Prince Ahmed something important, but could not. After the Prince had gone to his room to sleep, Sultan Sanjar Savash wept bitterly, shaking her shoulders and lamenting:
Oh, God Almighty, you gave me more than I asked! I have become great sultans! But I didn't know that the crown and the throne are so ruthless and would require such a sacrifice! If I had known this before, I would never have become a Sultan! On the contrary, I would hang a sack of beggars on his neck and live life to the poor! Oh, my God, how happy are those poor hungry people of yours who live in slums! I envy them white envy! They are absolutely free and content with a piece of bread. They go where they want. Walk without protection on a footpath on wide fields where winds walk and larks sing, being filled in with a trill, morning stop in the middle of a rye field, where the rye carefree fun flying a swarm of white butterflies in heaven. Then again go where eyes look. Poor, unlike me, can freely roam the summer pastures, waist-deep in tall grass, where thoughtfully fly on the wind like a feather in the wind, like a jellyfish in the sea. For hours he could hear the distant knocking of a woodpecker and the sad voice of a lone hoopoe, who sang somewhere over the fields, calling it as a distant childhood. Listen to the murmur of the river, overgrown by white daisies, Angelicas, sweet clovers meadows, can even sleep in the haystacks on the field under the starry sky, admiring the moon in silence, listening to the monotonous, primeval songs of the crickets and choral croaking of distant frogs, like a whisper. To consider the distant blue star and tired to sleep. Wake up in the predawn hour, when the quail will sing, reminding cough grey guard, who sweeps territory, rhythmically waving a broom. He freezes, looking at the pale sky, where it melts and slowly disappears, the last star and tightly stretching across the horizon torn pale yellow clouds, resembling a spring furrow. Your beggar washes of transparent dew, eats Breakfast, then thou, you, will send, and goes on a long journey. The beggar does not even think about the possibility of poisoning: eat your Breakfast, thank you, and again hit the road, by walking along a path overgrown with two sides of high and dense grass. He greets farmers in the fields, nodding his head, with a friendly smile on his lips, stops for a moment, listening to the sad voice of the cuckoo, which comes from a distant poplar grove. The poor have no heavy burden of responsibility. They live easily, throwing off all unnecessary loads. They live happily and easily, in harmony with nature.
How about me? I can't get out of the fortress one step without strong security. Cannot move freely, as an ordinary person, can not only freely walk the fields and meadows, but can't even safely walk the streets of the capital of the Empire. I live with insuperable fear in my heart. Not sleeping at night, for fear, would you raise a riot the angry people, like a Typhoon in the ocean, destroying everything in its path, and with a shudder, I wonder if I will be hung on the highest gallows at the entrance to the Central market of the capital, dropping me from my throne, a people who are not satisfied with my policy. My heart is filled with blood when I start to think about my officials, the sycophants in his entourage that are easy to turn away from me when I fall from the throne of the Sultanate (government), and they will be the first to throw mud at me, praising the new Sultan! They will wag their Asses in front of the new ruler, throwing up his eyebrows and smiling lips, like a Bud of rosy morning rose.
Think, think and not fall asleep until morning. Even sleeping pills don't help me.
It turns out that being a ruler is not as easy as I thought it would be. I was convinced that being a ruler is like burning in hell in life and boiling alive in a hell of a cauldron. What kind Punishment of, Lord?! Is it life, God, think about it! After all, even a stray dog, and it is happier than me a hundred times! Now, there's another unbearable ordeal waiting for me. Why are you punishing me, God?! What have I done to you?! - cried the Sultan Sanjar Savash.
He cried for a long time. Then he summoned Prime Minister Vazir Azam. Vazir Azam came, not lingering long. Rather, it led Naukars (security service), in whose hands the feet of Wazir Azam not even touched the ground. He was wearing a long Oriental robe with a white turtleneck on his head. Have him not only the long beard and hair were white, but eyebrows, too, were such the same colour of.