Амирхан Еники – Untold Will / Невысказанное завещание (на английском языке) (страница 4)
– «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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
It was time for us to leave. When Badretdin finished playing, we asked permission to pray from the owners. The father rubbed his patched knees, and Badretdin reached for his grandpa and said:
– «Grandpa, the shakirds are asking for our blessing.»
The grandpa nodded his head and we raised our hands for a prayer.
…The ash grey mare harnessed and we left the «yard» covered with field grass without fence or gate along the even street. Badretdin and his father saw us off, and were standing by the poles. No, not only this: the poorest house at the very back of the village, with its deep secret – unhappiness, tragedy, or as we understood it with helpless grand hope and happiness – stayed with them.
The sun was setting. And the larks, as if they didn`t get enough of the daytime, went even higher and were singing and singing even more piercing, more rageful songs. The world is big, big, eleleleleuu! The ground and the sky are calm, light, melodious… I feel very sad!.. I couldn`t do anything with myself: the mother, sitting behind the samovar and looking at her son comes to my mind, and I start to sob inside… I wish I could shout to somebody, shaking my fist: she is not ugly, she is very beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, Badretdin`s mother!
1964
Anthony J. Elia, the J.S. Bridwell Foundation Endowed Librarian and Director of Bridwell Library, has been on the faculty of Perkins School of Theology at Southern Methodist University since 2018. His areas of research include theology and cybersecurity, the history of epic and contemporary literatures, and Islamic-Christian encounters in Central Asia, especially related to Turkic-speaking cultures and societies. He is also a composer of classical and contemporary music with broad representative themes, including his 2013 ballet for full orchestra Damascus at Night, which depicts the tragedies of the Syrian conflict, and the 2019 Mongolian language chamber piece Praise of Mahakala for tenor ensemble. He currently researches the role and influence of 20th century Tatar literature
Tatar literature in translation: a preface
The great tragedy of Tatar literature is that it is not more widely translated, distributed, or known. Its grand history, depth, and breadth demonstrate a superb richness that comes from any great culture, yet by the numbers Tatar literature is sorely underrepresented on the global literary stage. With a worldwide population including those in the Tatar diaspora exceeding six million, one would assume that the extraordinary treasures of its cultures would be more widely represented and known.
Perhaps this shall now change, even if slowly. Upon taking up an interest in this discipline, specifically in Tatar literature and its role in local, national, regional, and global history, I have been profoundly taken by the extent of the cultural treasure that has remained untapped by both the European and American academies. It is actually quite astonishing that with such a deep well of magnificent literary texts that the publishing communities in the United States and elsewhere have not picked up on these materials for translation. That said, whatever the many reasons are for this shortcoming in translational history, there are now more scholars working to change this direction. Indeed, my own entrance into the world of Tatar literature came through both study of Turkic sister languages and Russian. If we were to look at the historical studies and translations of Tatar literature itself, a sizeable number of these works themselves are in Russian. In fact, one could look at a whole list today and find most volumes will have titles such as Tatarskaia literature i vostochnaia klassika: voprosy vzaimosviazei i poetiki (1991), Portrety i problemy: izbrannye stat’i raznykh let (1985), and Zolotaia epokha tatarskogo renessansa: monografiia (2004). We cannot deny the important undertakings of those scholars, who have labored with great dedication over the decades, and who brought their work into the wider Russian-speaking world and audiences. Yet, perhaps there is some irony in the work of one writer in particular: Amirkhan Eniki (1909–2001).
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