Selected Poetry / Избранное (англ.) - Равиль Бухараев

Gabdullah Tukai

Selected Poetry

«THE NATIONS DREAM ABOVE ALL DREAMS MUST SOAR»

125 years of grateful memory

Each and every nation of the world has its national poet who succeeds in truly, magnificently, powerfully and often painfully expressing the beauty of its heart and soul. Such poets are the resounding presence of their respective nations in the Divine silence of the Universe.

It is as if they are saying on behalf of all their native people: «Here we are this is what we are.»

Amazingly, it is they who, in all their presumed «utter nationalism», will be the most easily and profoundly understood and appreciated by other nations and peoples. One remembers only too well how during the 1989 celebrations of the millennium of the arrival of Islam on the banks of the Volga River, an impressive cultural performance was staged in the Kazan city stadium. There and then, even before the Republic of Tatarstan had attained its limited sovereignty within the borders of the Russian Federation1, tens of thousands of Kazan Tatars with tears in their eyes joined in singing «Mother Tongue», a folk song and an unofficial national anthem, the simple and beautiful lines of which, composed in 1907 by the greatest Tatar poet Gabdullah Tukai, are dear to every Tatar since childhood:

Of course, to truly appreciate the unified message of this massive choir, one has to know something of the painful history of the Kazan (Volga) Tatar people. Also, certain national feelings are impossible to communicate and explain to others, and there is no need to do so. There are depths of national feelings, which a stranger simply cannot register or understand.

Yet, paradoxically, it is equally true that, the deeper we penetrate into the most intimate recesses of the national soul, the more universal it becomes. Thus, the unique attributes of every nation, which, at times, it seems quite impossible to convey to others, are, in fact, what unites it, as kith and kin, with all of humanity.

Only truly great poets are capable of releasing this secret energy of universal brotherhood from the motherly bonds of their national culture, while remaining the most distinct representative voices of their nation for all its past, present and future.

Gabdullah Tukai, the national classical poet of the Kazan Tatar people, was exactly such a poet.

He was born on April 26, 1886 in the small hamlet of Kushlavych in the Kazan province of the Russian Empire. Very early in his life, he became an orphan, unwelcome everywhere, belonging to no one. Little did the people around him know that this poor unloved child was to become the most cherished and enduring figure in the thousand-year-old Kazan Tatar history. It is to his poems, which so beautifully articulate in their mother tongue all the hitherto silent grief and glory of this universally misunderstood and belied history that his native people will always turn for solace and advice. His poetic lines will be embroidered on velvet, framed and put on walls in village log houses and imposing urban flats.

Tukai was a forthright and candid man and a poetic genius, yet he was doomed in his short life to all the bitterness of homelessness and human alienation. But in his tragic fate and his poetry, all the best qualities of the Tatar people are reflected: directness, truthfulness, generosity, selflessness and grandeur of soul. His heartfelt poems written in a living, clear and convincing language, are permeated with the starry solitude of the Tatar people and its lofty sadness. Many of Tukais poems have become folk songs; he has also created a new literary language that was close to the people, and in his tragic verses and long satirical poems, as in an honest mirror, he showed his people their true nature and their true destiny.

The life story of Tukai is a tragedy of the solitary genius, as even those who valued him did not understand the universal scope of his talent. He never had any worthwhile material possessions, never owned a home; he was living and writing his poetry, essays, and newspaper and magazine articles in various cheaper Kazan hotels. Having done an immeasurable amount of work in the short span of his life, Tukai died from tuberculosis on April 15, 1913, at the age of barely 27.

«He was seen off to where the truth is buried by a huge crowd, and the Kazan Tatars have never seen such a respectful funeral», wrote one of his contemporaries. And Michael Friedrich, Bamberg University Professor and Tukais German biographer, wrote of him: «This Tatar youth from a tiny village became a poet of world standing and forms part of the cultural history of all mankind.» This book presents, for the first time, the wealth of Tukais poetry in the English language. Paying tribute to his contribution to world poetry, it is dedicated to the 125th anniversary of Tukais birth.

Its preparation and publishing became possible through the generous support of the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Tatarstan and the dedicated efforts of the Worldwide Ahmadiyya Muslim Community.

All the poems in this collection, with the notable exception of the poetic tales of Shuraleh and The Haymarket, are translated by writer, journalist, and translator Ilya Genn (United States), who has performed the nearly impossible task of capturing the inimitable spirit of Tukais poetry in the English language.

Gabdullah Tukai

WHAT I REMEMBER ABOUT MYSELF

It was initially the request from a number of publishers who asked me to send them my autobiography that prompted me to write these notes I called What I Remember About Myself.

I put pen to paper with the intent of providing a brief outline of my life from birth until the present but my story somehow stretched beyond what was anticipated.

My life (readers will see that) was an unappealing and rather bleak affair, but at the same time it was interesting, because once I began writing, I felt like describing everything that remained in my memory.

Therefore, it seemed appropriate to me to have all that I experienced before moving to Uralsk, and all I remember from that time until the present day when I sit and write these lines to be published in two booklets.

I

My father Muhammedgarif, the son of Muhammedgalim, who was the mullah of Kushlavych village, began to attend a madrassah in the Kyshkar village when he was 14 or 15 years old; after spending as many years there as were necessary to complete his studies he returned to our Kushlavych village when his father, advanced in years, was still alive and became the local mullah.

After becoming a mullah, he got married but he only lived a few years with his wife: his wife passed away, leaving him with two young children on his hands, a son and a daughter.

My father then remarried. Mamduda, his second wife and my mother, was the daughter of Zinatulla, the mullah of the village of Uchila.

I, their first child, was born a year and half into the marriage3.

When I was five months old, my father died after a short illness.

After living for some time with my widowed mother, I was given temporarily away to be cared for by a poor elderly woman from our village by the name of Sharifa. My mother married the local imam in the village of Sasna.

My fathers parents were long gone by that time and I had no other relatives in our village. I was an unwanted child and an extra mouth to feed in the old womans family. She did not care after me and gave me no upbringing, and what was worse than anything for such a small child, she was cruel and unkind to me.

I dont really remember those years. I must have probably been two or two and a half years old at the time.

The women in our village, some of them old, some younger, who remember me from my infancy, told me recently how badly I was treated by the old woman who was my caretaker.

Here is one episode. I walked out into the yard barefoot one winter night to relieve myself, wearing nothing but my night shirt and then went to the door to get back inside. It is difficult even for an adult to open the door of a log house in winter, to say nothing about a child. Naturally, I was unable to open it and stood there until my feet froze to the ground.

My «benefactress» kept me outside in the cold, reasoning to herself: «I bet you, he wont kick the bucket, the fosterling.» She allowed me back into the house, swearing, whenever she felt like it.

The old woman is now deceased, may Allah bless her soul!

While I lived there, my mother, was apparently doing well at this mullahs, so one day she sent horses from Sasna to fetch me.

Those horses drove me to Sasna.

I am actually not writing the story down just from other peoples words. During these minutes, as I was driven by these horses, even though I was only a small child, I had an insight, a kind of revelation. I still imagine it as a memory how it felt to be in a vast and beautiful world and to see the bright rays of the sun sparkling with color on the road ahead.

I finally reached the village. I dont remember how and by whom I was greeted in Sasna, but the kindness of my stepfather and how he gave me white bread with my tea spread with fresh comb honey, and how overjoyed I was all this is imprinted in my memory as a brief dream.

However, my joy was short-lived. My mothers life with the mullah lasted for only a year or so, and then she got ill I dont know the nature of the disease and died.

I know practically all of this from other people because only rare, special moments could be preserved in the memory of a child that young.

Im writing this from my memory now: how, realizing that my deceased mother was being carried out the house, I rushed out of the gates in tears, barefoot and skimpily dressed, and shouted, «Dont take my mom away, give me my mom!» Then I kept running after the funeral procession for a long time.

After my mothers death, I became an orphan. Living in the mullahs house didnt work out and he sent me to Uchile, to stay with my maternal grandfather. My grandmother on my mothers side passed away when my mother was still a young girl, and grandfather chose as his wife the widow of another mullah who had six children.

The village of Uchile4 was a very small and poor one, as confirmed by its name. To make things even worse, in the years when I was orphaned there was a severe famine in this area and my grandfather had a hard time making ends meet.

So I was placed in this impoverished family with too many mouths to feed

For my step grandmother I was like a strange jackdaw among her six doves, and there was no one to comfort me, when I was crying, or hug me, when I wanted to snuggle up, or feel sorry for me and give me something to eat or drink when I was hungry or thirsty. The only things I received were rebukes and punches.

The family had grown so destitute that I still remember how my grandfather would bring chunks of bread from wealthier neighboring villages.

This was how my childhood days unfolded. I was also down with chickenpox during that time, and suffered many other injuries, which had bad consequences.

Everyone in the family (except for one of the daughters, Sazhida, who was a little older) responded the same way to any illness I had: «If he passes, therell be one mouth less to feed!»

I still remember, how Sazhida apa5, whom I just mentioned, comforted me and how affectionate she was secretly from her mother. But the moment she approached, Sazhida would start acting as a totally indifferent person who doesnt have any relation to me.

Since those days, I preserve her memory in my soul like an angel. As soon as I start thinking about her, I see in my minds eye a pure, snow-white angel.

But whatever I may have experienced in this house, I was clearly a burden to the family. One day my grandfather, perhaps at his wifes suggestion, placed me in a carriage, next to the driver from our village, and sent me to Kazan.

After we arrived in Kazan (our village was only sixty miles away), the driver took me to Hay Market where he walked around, shouting: «Who will agree to care after this child? Who will take this child?» A man came out from the crowd and took me from the driver. He promised to look after me for an indefinite amount of time and brought me to his home.

I now see my life in his house, as though looking at it through half-open eyes.

For instance, I remember how once, when my eyes were hurting during some illness, I was taken to an old woman, and she dripped sugary water in my eyes. I resisted and tried to fend her off.

Let me write something now about the life of my new parents. The name of the man who became my adopted father was Muhammedvali, and my adopted mothers name was Gaziza. They lived in Kazans New Quarter. My father either sold stuff at the flea market or was a tanner I dont remember it all that well. My mother spent the whole day sewing embroidered skullcaps for wealthy men.

When mother took the skullcaps to the Hay Market or visited the homes of some rich people on business she sometimes took me with her.

I looked at the fancy decor of the rich houses, the large mirrors covering the walls from the floor to ceiling, the clocks with chimes that sounded like church bells, the huge organs the size of large chests, and I thought that people here lived in paradise. During one such visit to a wealthy bai6, I saw a peacock strutting in front of the house. His tail, adorned with jewels and gold, sparkled in the sun. I was stunned with admiration.

Since both my father and mother had work, I didnt go hungry while living with them.

Sometimes I went to the bazaar in Tashayak7 with my mother and I looked hungrily at various toys lying on the counters. I was jealous of the boys who were having fun riding on scooters or rocking on wooden horses.

I also wanted to mount a wooden horse, but I didnt have any money. I was afraid to ask mother to give me some, and she didnt guess.

Then I would return home, getting my fill of other peoples joy.

I will also never forget how I chased clumps of goose down with the other boys on the green meadow between the two quarters, and how, exhausted, I relaxed on the grass, facing the Khan Mosque8.

After about two years of living with my adopted parents, they both suddenly fell ill. Concerned that they might not survive and thinking: «What will happen to the poor child if we should die? We should at least have someone take him back to his native village», they sought out the driver who brought me to Kazan and asked him to take me to Uchile.

It is not hard to imagine the greeting I received from the family which believed that they had gotten rid of me for good.

Sometime later, losing hope that they might find someone in the city, my grandparents began to consider how they could give me away to someone in another village.

They told everyone who would come from other villages about the orphan whom they must give away to be cared after.

As the result of all their inquiries, a man named Sagdi, who didnt have a son, came from the village of Kyrlai, only seven miles away from us, and took me along with him.

From this point in my narrative I will relate the story of my life not from the words of other people but as I myself recall what happened.