At that time, in other words years before the revolutions[6], shakirds were enthralled with new literature that was appearing. Literature had turned into something like bread for us!.. Every shakird was writing songs, poems, even abstracts from novels into his thick notebook. Every other shakird was writing poems. Many of them were captivated with Sagyt Ramiev[7]. They followed him, they tried to look like him, and they learned his poems by heart Even more than Ramiev, for all of us the most perfect, the most impressive, the most copied, the most beloved and read was Tukay[8].
The poetic disease touched our Badretdin as well. He too was writing poems, but never read what he wrote to anyone. It was difficult to persuade him to read. But if he was reading it, his poems were not written as were poems of other shakirds, in a complaining tone, but were short poems that described the natural phenomena or expressed his attempt to share life philosophy.
So strange, mysterious and nice a young gentleman was our group mate Badretdin!
Well, to cut a long story short, we were coming back to our villages, three of us in a comfortable carriage. The road was smooth with no dust. The gray gelding was producing «gort-gort» sounds because of the steep descent, and was leisurely jogging its way Not long ago, in the middle of May, the first warm rains came. Now everything was growing quickly, rising up: rye spires and wheat were thick, dark-green, like moustaches of young men, and started to stretch; unplowed grass was breaking through last year dry grass, flowers were in bloom here and there Along the way bindweeds first pink «bells» were seen No need to stress that it was the purest, the simplest, the nicest time!
For us, who were getting withered along all winter, this boundless, vast, light, warm world was adorable and desired, we couldn`t get enough of it, were breathing it, smelling it, looking at it. We stopped the carriage for a while and walked in the grass to feel the warmth of the ground with our feet, ran and got caught up in the grass, gathered flowers. Badretdin found wild green onion, we chewed it. I found and picked up one plant that is called «temlekay»[9] in our village. It is long with four-sided stem. We peeled and ate it. Badretdin told us that this plant is called «stableman lash» by Bashkirs, as when the buds on its end turn into blue flowers, it resembles a lash with a brush.
And our Gylemdar, was looking for gophers, stopped, whistled, covering his face with two hands; but a cunning animal probably understood that it was a whistle by a shakirds, with the result that it didn`t come out of his burrow, and didn`t sit on his hind paws with his ears up.
Singing larks accompanied us along the way as if from that infinite radiant clear sky one bewitching melody was unceasingly trembling and dinging. Do you know what is the magic of lark`s singing?.. First of all, you might have noticed that when a lark sings, a serene meditative silence spreads over the ground. It is as if the whole of nature, every living being, like educated people say, are listening only to him in awe, keep silent, and indulge in glad, enjoyable bliss The second magic is that when a lark is singing, the world somehow expands, becomes wider and brighter. Like from the high sky, where a tiny bird is singing, the earth seems boundless, enormous, amazingly calm, luminous
I don`t know if other birds are singing along with lark I didn`t pay attention, but one bird`s singing reaches our ears, making us shudder, as if all the larks of the world started to sing together. A cuckoo bird! A strange bird, never showing up to people, that was created by nature to make people remember something very important Passing by a bluish forest we heard its warning song that made us sink into reveries.
In such elated mood, we were joyfully on our way home and finally approached the Ishle village that was in the valley opposite red-sloped mountains. When we set off, Badretdin invited us to have some tea in Ishle before we continued our journey. As it is very natural for shakirds to have fun together, we agreed to visit our groupmate.
When we reached the village, Badretdin took the reins and turned the horse from the main road to the right, thereby riding along the road covered with green grass headed to the farthest street. Before long, he stopped the horse in front of the house that was standing in the distance, separate from other houses.
We had known that we were coming to the house of poor people, but we hadnt expected such a miserable household. Actually, it was difficult to call it a household. In a bare meadow a small, old, shabby house was fallen half down in the ground. Its straw roof was rotted, blackened, and started to turn into manure. Owing to this weight some of the logs of the house were sticking out, the door and windows were lopsided, and the windows had become green-bluish with time There was no gate, no fence, and only two poles separating the household from the street and the field The yard was covered with field grass in which buzzing grasshoppers were jumping. It was a sign that there were no cattle in the household.
We tried not to show our bewilderment to Badretdin. We entered the open yard that showed no wheel tracks and stopped the horse near to an old barn that was covered with twigs. One runty, white-faced, red-bearded, thin man came out of the house. He was dressed in a hemp shirt, pants of woven cloth with large patches on his knees, and a miserable hat on his head. Resting in worn-out boots, his legs were wrapped in cloth. He came close to the carriage and greeted only Badretdin, saying: «My son!», He lent two hands to us without saying anything, then immediately went to the horse to unbridle it
Badretdin picked up his chest and hurried inside. A woman appeared at the door, but very quickly went back in. It must have been Badretdin`s mother, I was embarrassed by her hesitation and hiding back in the house.
When the horse was unharnessed, Badretdin came out of the house with a bucket of water, a ladle and a towel. Over the grass we poured water on each other`s hands to refresh ourselves. A thought came to my mind: «They do not even have a kumgan.»[10]. We didn`t have any power to pretend that we don`t see anything and do not know anything; nor did we have words to enter into idle talk. But Badretdin himself was very calm; at least we didn`t notice any embarrassment or discomfort.
When we washed ourselves, we greeted the owners, and entered the house. Badretdin`s father met us with the words: «Come in, shakirds!»
The dim house inside turned to be as old and shabby as its exterior. But no matter how old and shabby it was, the timber of the house was absolutely yellow-brown, like wax, trampled and pitted floor was very clean A solid bunk sake[11], covered with felt occupied all the main part of the house, along with two chairs, one bench, one more chump near the furnace that was all the furniture. The front of the furnace was separated from the room by an old curtain; somebody was splintering the chips behind it.
When we entered the house, the first person we saw was an old man, sitting on the sake and leaning against the wall. Like Hazyr Ilyas[12] he had a snow-white beard and was dressed in a snow-white robe and pants. The tubetey[13] on his head, however, looked like a pancake and was bluish black.
We stretched two hands to greet the old man. The old man didn`t move. Badretdin said quickly: « Grandpa, shakirdler want to greet you.»
«Ah, do they, Baraka Allah![14] the old man said. He livened a little, and stretched his weathered big, firm hand. His eyes were open, but he was blind.
We sat and read prayers, and, as shakirds do, put our hands on our knees and sat still for a moment. It was difficult for us to start the conversation, and for some reason our tongues couldn`t start speaking easily. Strangely, the owners didnt start were silent as well. Apparently, not many words were said in that house somehow we understood it very quickly. The old man returned to his inner world, was sitting still and didnt` move. Badretdin was pacing around the house, as if he intended to say something, but couldn`t find words
His father, first was sitting near the furnace was astonished by us, then rose and started to prepare the tea near the bunks. He found and spread a homespun tablecloth, grabbed three cups, either glued, or with a broken handle from the furnace ledge, a short knife, some bread wrapped in a cloth, and milk in the wooden ladle. The he sat again on the chump near the furnace. Badretdin took out three handfuls of sugar lumps and put it in the middle of the table-cloth.
A short time later from behind the curtain we heard: «It is ready, my son!». Badretdin entered behind the curtain and brought out a samovar.[15] Its nose and handle were also patched with tin.
Badretdin told us to get on the bunks and sit there. We sat up, on our bent legs. Then a pan on a tripod was put in front of us with scrambled eggs. We didnt start eating as we were waiting for the owners. But the grandfather didn`t move from his place, and the father didnt rise from his chump. In this moment Badretdin said softly, into the curtain:
«Mummy, come yourself and make us tea, please.»
«And your daddy?» answered his mother slowly from behind the curtain.
«Daddy? No, make it yourself, please,» Badretdin said, as if begging for it with clear sincerity.
Everything went still behind the curtain. Then a woman appeared in a hemp dress and apron, in socks and shoes, bending her head and covering her face with the end of her shawl, and sat behind the samovar.
When I raised my head to look at her, my heart sank. To tell the truth, I speak frankly when I say that, a feeling of disgust froze me: the face and eyes of the poor woman were ugly because of the merciless smallpox that she must have suffered. Looking at her, it was hard to find words, and my tongue refused to budge. Yet, I have to describe in full what I saw: her left hand was shriveled, but her right eye grew large, and through this eye without eyelashes and eyebrows, through the veil of age, all her inner soul was reflected. One can say that this eye that never closed and was full of sadness, was the mirror of her soul!
Seeing her and trying to cope with the mixed feeling of disgust and compassion, the first thought that occurred to my mind was: How did Badretdin dare to invite his wretched mother and show her to us?.. As a rule we try to hide ugly or disabled relatives with frightening appearances. Even our mother, if she looked like this, I would not dare to invite to appear her, I would be embarrassed and uncomfortable, ashamed. Doesnt Badretdin see this complicated situation, doesnt he understand it? Or does he see and understand, but doesnt show it?
The old lady meanwhile made tea and poured it into the cups, gave it to us, hiding her face behind the samovar. We didn`t raise our heads as we started to drink the tea without saying a word. Badretdin interjected:
Come on, group mates, have some food with your tea, only with food! he said, with neither the embarrassment, nor the shame that I expected to be heard in his voice!
We had a bite of scrambled eggs, had two cups of tea, and turned the cups with bottoms up.[16] Probably, because of the meager treat, Badretdin took a deep breath, trying not to show it. Then he abruptly rose to his feet:
«If you like, I can show my books to you,» he said and brought to us a pile of books from a small shelf above the window. Starting to look through the books we were glad that we can get busy with something. There were two or three novels, four or five poetic compilations, shabby books from old literature like «Büz eget»,[17] «Tutiy-name»,[18] «Layla ve Majnun»,[19] «Kaharman katyil»[20], and several textbooks in Arabic and Farsi. Mainly to spend time, we looked through the books and talked about who had read which one, and if it was interesting or not.
«I have something else to show to you, my group mates,» Badretdin said, and rising again to his feet, took a small violin from the shelf. It was a primitive instrument, made by hands and not lacquered.
We asked in surprise:
«Where did you get it from?»
«I made it on my own,» Badretdin said and started to tune the violin strings that made dull sounds. We knew that he was playing kubyz,[21] that he was strumming the mandolin. But the violin!..
«Ay, Badri, why did you keep it a secret?» We asked. «We could have taken the violin from Sadri and let you play!»
«When you are close to a master, be still!» Badretdin said, smiling with shyness.
He was tuning the instrument that he had not held for months with some difficulty and for quite long a while. At that moment I looked at his mother: she was looking at her shakird son with such deep love that it penetrated into our hearts; she was enchanted with happiness and gladness, melted in such awe that even my heart and body trembled. Do you understand? Can you imagine it? As if from the gaze of that large eye she was proud not only of one person, she was astonished about one miracle that belonged to all living creatures and was immensely happy about it, and her pride knew no bounds. All feelings were shining on her face: she was the mother of this child! She breathed him! She is the mother of this bright young man! The mother of a shakird, the mother of a future scholar Involuntarily my heart started to sob; I quickly bent my head down.
Badretdin, after many efforts, tuned the violin, put it on his shoulder, and started to play with the fiddlestick resembling a bowstring. The sound of the violin was very weak and thin, like of a chicken, but in those minutes it was very soothing and desirable for us. All of us were listening to the play of Badretdin in complete silence. As if an eternal melody was floating in the atmosphere of that poor house. What was the snow-white grandpa thinking sitting still; what was the father feeling, he didnt move. It was not possible to know it. But in this melody, looking through a mist shining like a full moon, was the face of Badretdin`s mother, in her silent joy. What destiny bound all those people, what mysteries they had?
Having played one or two melodies, Badretdin, in the end, asked his mother:
«Mommy, what shall I play for you?»
His mother flushed for one moment like a child; at the same moment glowed with joy even more, but didnt reply.
«Mommy, you liked this melody, didn`t you?» Badretdin said and started to play «Salkyn chishme.»[22] His words and his simple, natural, warm and close manner broke my last doubts to pieces. Badretdin wasn`t embarrassed for his mother at all!.. What embarrassment?! He didn`t see anyone, except his mother, whose pock marks, crookedness, bulging eye caused our squeamishness at first, before he was playing his violin. In his slightly sad, thoughtful eyes was reflected hidden compassion; his serious and warm gaze contained not only absolute feeling of love for his mother, but also understanding, appreciation, and consolation. I don`t know, if a soul can look like this, or what deep waters of love run in them! Can it exist only between an ugly mother and a beautiful child, or can it exist between a beautiful mother and an ugly child as well? The latter can be found everywhere, but I have neither heard, nor seen the former.