As the saying goes "old sins have long shadows". The shadows of my sins started pursuing me. In my declining years I began to pay for the sins I had committed in the past. The fate, which knows no compassion, started leafing through the dark pages of my life.
After Babat"s funeral our younger son Sharabboy took to the bottle. Day in, day out he would come home drunk and hurt me with bitter words. He would also sing the song he had learnt at the kindergarten:
A girl is on top of the mountain,
She"s standing up there in the haze
A girl is on top of the mountain,
And this is what little girl says:
Haze, haze, silver haze,
Oh bring back my mommy to me, to me.
Haze, haze, silver haze,
Why don"t you bring mommy to me?
That day Shirabboy came home drunk again. Standing in the doorway he sang the song about the girl whose mother had died. I begged him:
- Stop singing, sonny... Instead of praying for mom you drink and sing songs. It"s a sin, do you understand? No sooner had the earth covered your mom"s white shroud than you took to the bottle. Her soul will bear suffering in heaven. You drink vodka night and day, but mind, it will not help you...
Sharabboy fell silent hanging his head. Then he said speaking in a venomous tongue:
- Father it"s entirely your fault. You have killed her! Leaving her with two children you were wandering about God knows where. I remember she woke me up one morning and started praising the boarding school where orphans were fostered. Then she asked me if I wanted to go to that school. I realized that it was hard for her to feed us. She wanted me to go to the school where children were fed freely at the expense of the state. I gave my consent. She was glad about it, and having packed my things she took me to the boarding school on that very day. When leaving me she hugged me, tears in her eyes. Then she said:
- Don"t take offence, sunny. I will be coming to see you every month.
She turned away, and I saw her wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks. I had long watched her walking away until she disappeared round the corner. Day in, day out, I would sit by the window looking at the road and count the days waiting for you and mom. She was as good as her word, and every month she came to see me at school. She would bring me food, sweets and fruits. Poor mom, she would give me a peeled boiled egg and insist that I should eat it.
- Eat the egg, sonny, - she would say - maybe, you are not fed well here. Never mind, dear, when father comes back we will take you home, ok?
He would stoke my head watching me eat.
- Mommy, I want to go home - I would say.
She would hug me holding me tight in her arms and start crying again.
I needed the warmth of mom and you badly. But you were not with us. You were traveling in a balloon around the world. It was more important for you. Had you not gambled our sheep and cows we would not have suffered so much. Now that you have grown old you came back. You killed mom to marry a young woman again. You are a horrible man! You are a killer! And you talk about sins...
Sharabboy went to the garage to start the motorcycle. I ran after him praying not ride because he was drunk. He wouldn"t listen to me. As he took the motorcycle out and saddled it I seized at the sidecar pleading:
- Collect yourself, sonny! You"re drunk! You can bump into something! It"s cold, you"ll catch a chill! It"s slippery it"s dangerous to ride! I won"t let you go!
- Let me go! That"s precisely what I want! I want to go to mom! -Sharabboy mumbled.
- Then we"ll go together! I, too, will go to Babat - I said jumping into the sidecar on the move.
- As you wish, - Sharabboy said plugging in the key. He stepped on the gas and, pressing the accelerator pedal, gradually picked up speed. The motorcycle tore along the slippery road. I shivered in the wind with cold clattering my teeth.
There were lots of lookers on in the street. I looked like a submachine gunner of the German fascist army that used to ride in the sidecar along country roads in the woods of the Ukraine where Soviet partisans were hidden. When we reached the main road Sharabboy stepped on the brake, and the motorcycle swung round lifting the sidecar in which I was sitting. I wanted tell my son something, but he picked up speed again stepping on it. When we reached Usta Garib"s house he repeated the dangerous trick, turning round and lifting and dropping the sidecar where I was sitting. He stepped on it again, and again we rode on at full speed. I grew numb with cold. My hands shivered. It was hard to breathe. There were more lookers on in the street now. Sharabboy was now riding along the main road. It was dark. The speed was high. Suddenly my son switched off the lights and we rode in darkness. To make things still worse Sharabboy tore his hands off the handle bar, put them up and started singing:
A girl is on top of the mountain,
She"s standing up there in the haze
A girl is on top of the mountain,
And this is what little girl says:
Haze, haze, silver haze,
Oh bring back my mommy to me, to me.
Haze, haze, silver haze,
Why don"t you bring mommy to me?
I shouted to him:
- Careful, sonny, Switch on the lights! Or else we will bump into something! Stop the motorcycle, for goodness sake!
Sharabboy sang at the top of his voice as we drove on. Suddenly our motorcycle slid off the road and we bumped into something.
When I regained consciousness the first thing I saw was the upset motorcycle. Though it was dark I could discern the things around. I saw Sharabboy lying nearby. I lifted him but he fell down. It so happened that I had hurt his good leg. He suddenly got up and made his way towards the village. I was glad he was alive and calmed down. After a while he stopped and then walked up to me. He lifted me and carried me away. On our way home he said:
- You left us at the time of trouble. But we don"t leave our near and dear.
I was coughing and shivering with cold. Walking past the line of onlookers we came home. My daughter-in-law took me to the small house where Babat and I had lived and put me to sandal-bed. I lay coughing under the blanket. My daughter-in-law brought me hot tea with the dish called "non-kaurma". I coughed thanking her and said that I was not hungry.
Half an hour later my elder son Arabboy dropped in and, instead of asking about my state of health, he started reproaching me:
- Father, tell me, please, when shall we get rid of your circus tricks? You have been a clown all your life, is that not enough? You"ve been fighting like a kid, drinking, gambling, riding pigs, vanishing in the haze! You even returned home in a peculiar way, like nobody else. You arrived on a balloon, like Jules Arden! I am ashamed of you, do you understand? Why don"t you stay at home and don"t go to mosque, like other elderly people do, and don"t present your children with a car?
- Sunny - I said coughing...
But he wouldn"t listen. He went out kicking the door open.
I began to cry. The daughter in law came in and said she had brought me pills for cold. I coughed and said:
- Thank you, daughter, I wish you happiness and a long life. Please leave me alone. I am sleepy.
She went out submissively.
I was running a temperature. I had lain a long time before it became calm outside. The pain in my leg had subsided by now. When my sons fell asleep, I packed my things, switched off the light and went out into the street. Then, crunching with my boots on the fresh snow, I opened the gate.
It was snowing outside. I walked through the snowflakes whirling in the cold wind, and I didn"t care which way to go. Wrapping myself in the caftan and coughing into my fist, I walked on and on. The snow was crunching under my feet, and hearing it, the dogs barked nervously in the yards I was passing by. Off and on, flashing with their lights, cars went by. I tried to hitch a lift. But the cars wouldn"t stop. I crossed the bridge and tried to stop the car coming up. It stopped. I got in and closed the door behind me.
- Where to? -asked the driver.
- To the railway station- I replied.
The car started off. As we rode my cough had intensified.
- I"ve caught a cold- I said.
The driver did not pay any attention. Now it was time to think about the payment. I had no money about me. I was contemplating. Then I found a solution. I remembered the illusionist Wolf Messing. The Father of the Nation Josef Stalin himself respected him. He was once traveling on a train with neither a ticket nor money about him. On seeing the inspector he picked up the piece of paper lying on the floor and showed it as it were his ticket. The inspector thought it was really his ticket, and Wolf Messing was saved.
I, too, wanted to use the same method, and taking a piece of paper I concentrated on the idea. First, I assured myself that it was not a piece of paper but a US 10$ bill.
By that time the car had turned towards the Railway Station, and then we finally arrived at my destination.
- We have arrived - said the driver.
I thanked him and said:
- Here are 10 US dollars. The driver looked at the banknote and sat motionless. Then he said:
- I cannot give you the change. I"ve got no dollars. Wait a minute, I will give you the change in rubles in accordance with the rate of exchange.
And he did. I took the change and thanked him for the lift. I got off and closed the door behind me. The car left. I went to the waiting-room. At that moment the car which had given me a lift turned round the square and stopped near me. The driver opened the door and said :
- I say, uncle, do you have enough money for the train ticket? If you don"t, I can give you more. Or, perhaps, you want to hypnotize the conductors as well? Shame on you, uncle. Don"t do that again.
The driver closed the door and left. I stood stock-still like a statue. Then I saw a man of about 35 years of age, thin and tall, dressed in railway uniform. He came up to me and said:
- Where are you going to, uncle? To Tashkent?
- Yes - I said coughing.
-There is a cheap seat, the upper berth - said the conductor.
- In a compartment car?
- No, just a reserved seat - conductor said lighting a cigarette.
- How much do I pay? - I asked.
He told me his price. I thought a little and said:
- I haven"t got such astronomic amount of money.
- Ok, how much can you give me? - he went on haggling.
I offered him half of the price he had quoted.
- With that money - he said - you can only travel on the third berth .
I agreed to travel on the third shelf.
- Settled - the conductor said.
We went to the carriage, and I got in. It was warm inside. As I as tired and not feeling well
I climbed onto the shelf and, using my basket as a pillow, tried to sleep. But I couldn"t do it. Passengers started crowding in, and it was growing stuffy in the carriage. It was noisy with children crying and such. At last the time had come for the train to start off.
I looked out of the window. It was snowing heavily. The yard master announced the departure, the engine whistled and the train was off. It was gradually picking up speed. I looked down and saw four people sitting on the lower births. Among them there was a young man in Muslim clothing, with a short black beard and looking serious. The other three appeared to be lay people. Two of them seemed to be functionaries. They were talking. The conversation gradually changed to an argument. One of the functionaries said:
- I hate ungrateful people. I would strangle them with my own hands... But these are just emotions. In the past, during the red empire, nobody was allowed to go to mosque and pray. Atheism forbade it. It was a society of unbelievers. They negated God. They firmly believed that there was no God. So did we.. But the downright unbelievers also had their idols such as the great inspirers Karl Marx and Lenin and the holy book "Capital". They were prophets and leaders. It was them who forbade believers to go to churches, synagogues and mosques. And nobody resisted for people were afraid. As soon as freedom was granted they started making a stir. There appeared all sorts of sects and trends, and there were calls for a holy war. It"s ungratefulness, really. We do not discriminate them nor do we forbid them to go to church. We do not negate the Holy Writ. Look, there are posters in the streets, with quotations from Prophet Mohammed Пророк Мухаммед narrations such as, for example "To Love of Motherland from Firm Belief in Mohammed". Prophet Muhammad ibn Abdullah (may Allah bless and welcome him) was right. We must love our Motherland and defend it from all sorts of radical Mazhkhabs , extremists, separatists and terrorists". Is that right Mullah-aka?
He turned to the bearded man who lingered with the answer. He was thinking. Then he began to speak:
- Bismi-llāhi ar-rahmāni ar-rahīmi . First, calling one separate country, for example, France, Germany, Australia or New Zealand, Motherland would not be correct. When our esteemed Prophet Mohammad ibn Abdullah (May Allah bless and welcome Him) talked about Motherland he meant Paradise. For God had created our Forefather Adam Alakhissalam and the Original Mother in Paradise. Therefore the real Motherland of mankind is Paradise. That"s the way we should regard the notion of Motherland. Such an approach unites all mankind, and all the funny things like "state border", "barbed wire", "war", "arms race", "terrorism", "investigation agency" which serve the human"s egoism become insignificant and ridiculous. Neither a separate state nor even the whole planet can be regarded as the real Motherland of mankind. Our Forefather and our Original Mother had been sent to earth by the Angels of God Almighty. Therefore they are not native earth dwellers but newcomers. If we indulge in fantasy, it will be clear that belief is above all policies. Belief is the love of God. And divine love should not serve politicians and it should not kill and shed the blood of a human being. To kill a human is to kill our forefather Adam. My conviction is that pursuing a policy with the help of Belief is a sin. Nor should Belief be confused with policies for it"s also a sin. Belieа and policy are incompatible.
Mullah spoke for a long time. I fell asleep without listening to his monologue to the end. When I woke up I saw the conductor who said:
- Get up, uncle. We have almost arrived. The next station is Tashkent.
I got up and inquired:
Where are yesterday"s people? There were some functionaries and a Mullah here.
- Mullah was arrested. The people sitting next to him had handcuffed him and got out at Almalyk Station.
When I arrived in Tashkent I started arguing with the conductor about the payment. Since I realized that our argument might change to a quarrel and consequently to a fight I preferred to solve the problem by holding negotiations. So I entered the small compartment where he was sitting and said:
- Mr. Conductor, give me my ticket, please. I have to hand it in to the accountant at my office.
On hearing my words the conductor replied staring at me in surprise:
- What are you talking about, uncle? I have made your travel cheap for you. Is hat the way you thank me? We had agreed, hadn"t we?
- All right, - I said - write down that we had agreed so that I might show your note to the accountant, instead of the ticket.
The conductor got angry:
- Well, uncle, don"t make me lose my temper. I am like a genie in the bottle. I am a hard man. And I used to be a boxer.
- OK - I said - put down that you are a genie in the bottle and that you a hard man. And you work at the railroad having a bad temper. Besides, you are a great boxer. Don"t forget to write down your qualification in boxing. Who is your coach? What medals have you got? Whom have you knocked out?
The conductor kept silent for a moment. Then, swallowing saliva, he said:
- Well, come on, uncle. You are like that wolf from a fairy tale. There was such a tale. An old man was working in the field, and suddenly a wolf ran up to him and said gasping:
- Hey, listen, there are hunters chasing me, please hide me.
The old man hid the wolf. The hunters came and asked the old man if there was a wolf around, a gray wolf suffering from pneumonia.
- No, - said the old man.
The hunters went away. Then the wolf came out of the bag and said:
- Have you got ketchup and parsley?
- Yes, why?
- You know, I want to eat you. It will be tastier with ketchup, I think.
- That"s it - I said - put it down. The old man hid the wolf... Don"t make mistakes... Write distinctly and in good handwriting, for our accountant has graduated from the Faculty of Philology of Teachers Training College. It will be interesting with the fairy tale. Go on... The wolf asked if the old man had ketchup, parsley and mayonnaise.
The conductor took off his tie relieving the collar. He was probably suffocating. Then he said:
- Do you understand the good language? Haven"t I told you that I am ill-tempered? I have friends, the bad guys...They can...
- Well, why are you standing like that? Go ahead! Write down! Every word you write is alfalfa. They will make the criminal case record thicker and thicker every second, I mean the action that the public prosecutor will bring against you. Every word you say will be used against you. They will cut your hair and send you to a work camp right away.
. When I said it the conductor nearly fainted. He took some pills out of his pocket and put them into his mouth. Then he poured some cold tea into a piala and drank it. He made a pause and then said:
- Uncle, I have five children. Last year I had a heart attack. I am registered. Ok, you may not pay the money we agreed on. Have mercy on me, for my children"s sake. God is above us, I don"t want to tell a lie. It"s true, I"ve got five "farmers" traveling with me. It isn"t worth working here without them. We take them so as to earn some money on the side. Well, five to ten boxes of tomatoes and three-four sacks of sugar. What else can we do? The Station Manager Geyrat Gulamovich demands his criminal share. To make things still worse, the racketeers stick in my throat. There are also inspectors and the team leader. They too want their share. It"s good that we have "farmers". Otherwise... sometimes we forget our own names and home addresses. We conductors are like milking cows. They milk us. I see, you are a nice man, uncle. You know, both the good and the evil produce an echo. Let"s be good to people. I am sorry, but you are the very image of my dad! You see, he was taken ill with cancer...
The conductor burst out crying. Then he hugged me and said:
- From now on you may think me to be your son. You are my father. I will acquaint you with mom. You will be an honorary passenger of Carriage 13. You have a free ticket for life. This place over here is reserved for you. If you say "lie down", we will lie down, if you say "get up" we will get up. And here is the tip. It"s gratis, like mother"s milk. Take it.
The conductor put the money into my pocket. Then he saw me to the subway.
Third berth - the extreme upper shelf meant for baggage
Mazhkhab or Mazhab (Arabic مذهب [mæðhæb] pl. مذاهب [mæðæːhıb]) is an Islamic school of thought, or fiqh (religious jurisprudence). The prominent Islamic jurisprudence schools of Damascus in Syria (often named Awza'iyya), Kufa and Basra in Iraq, and Medina in Arabia survived as the Maliki madhhab, while the other Iraqi schools were consolidated into the Hanafi madhhab.
Bismi-llāhi ar-rahmāni ar-rahīmi (Arabic بسملة) is an Arabic language noun which is used as the collective name of the whole of the recurring Islamic phrase bismi-llāhi ar-rahmāni ar-rahīmi. This phrase constitutes the first verse of every "sura" (or chapter) of the Qur'an (except for the ninth sura), and is used in a number of contexts by Muslims.