THE CARPET SOCKS

O'TKIR HOSHIMOV TRANSLATED FROM UZBEK BY MUNIRA NOROVA

Ҳар йили дам олишга борганимда онамга гилам пайпоқ олиб келаман. Кавказ томонда кўп бўлади. Жуба дейишади, жураби дейишади. Ойим худди ноёб нарсага эга бўлгандек, узундан-узоқ дуо қилади. Шундоқ меҳрибон ўғли борлигини айтиб қўшниларга мақтанади. Унинг оёғи касал. Салқин тушиши билан шишиб кетади, оғрийди.
   Қўни-қўшнилар аҳвол сўраса, уларниям, ўзиниям юпатади.
      – Ҳа, энди кексалик-да, ўргилай.
   Лекин онамнинг оёқ оғриғи фақат кексаликдан эмас. Буни бошқалар билмаса ҳам, мен биламан. Яхши биламан.
      Болалигимда кўп касал бўлардим: қизамиқ, кўкйўтал, безгак… Шунинг учун ошхонадаги михда кўк қарғанинг патидан тортиб, гултожихўрозгача илиғлик турарди… Айниқса, томоқ оғриғи ёмон қийнайди. Оёғим захга тегиши билан томоғим оғришга тушади. Оёқ билан томоқнинг нима алоқаси борлигини ҳалиям тушунолмайман.
      Ўшанда неча ёшлигим эсимда йўқ. Бироқ жуда кичкина эдим. Бир куни акаларим билан яхмалак ўйнаб терлаб кетдим. Терлаб туриб муз едим. Кечқурун иситма кўтарилди. Қув-қув йўталаман. Ойим томоғимни аччиқтош билан чайиб кўрди, бўлмади, туршак қайнатиб сувини ичирди, бўлмади… Охири томоғим хиппа бўғилиб қолди. Оғриқни сезмайману нафас олишга қийналаман. Ҳушимдан кета бошлаганимни эс-эс биламан. Қулоғим остида онамнинг чирқиллаб йиғлагани, ҳадеб бир гапни қайтараётгани эшитилади:
   – Вой, энди нима қиламан! Вой, болам ўлиб қолади!
   Кейин мени шоша-пиша кўрпачага ўради. Бир маҳал онамнинг қўлида кетаётганим эсимда бор. Гупиллатиб қор ёғаётганини ҳис этиб турардиму, бироқ юзимга қор тушмас эди. Онамнинг иссиқ нафаси урилиб турар, у сирғаниб-сирғаниб борар, оғир ҳансирар эди.
   Хира чироқ милтираб турган аллақандай уйга кирдик. Кўз ўнгим яна қоронғилашиб кетди. Ойим ҳамон чирқиллайди.
    – Ўлиб қолади! Болагинам ўлиб қолади!
   – Ваҳима қилманг, пошша, дардни берган Худо, давосиниям беради.
   Бу Ҳожи бувининг овози эканини ғира-шира идрок этдим.
   Ҳожи буви бошимни тиззасига қўйиб чалқанча қилиб ётқизди. Дока ўралган бармоғини оғзимга тиқди. Кўнглим ағдарилиб, типирчилаганча йиғлар, аммо Ҳожи бувининг қўлидан чиқиб кетолмасдим. У томоғимга нимадир қилди. Дод солиб қўлини тишлаб олдим. Қизиқ, бирпасдан кейин аҳволим енгиллашди. Кўзимни очсам, Ҳожи буви жилмайиб турибди.
   – Нега тишлайсан, кучуквой? – деди бошимни силаб.
   Кейин тепамга ойим энгашди. У ҳамон ҳансирар, сочлари тўзғиб кетган, юзи жиққа ҳўл эди.
   Бирпасдан кейин қаддимни ростлаб, танчага оёғимни тиқиб ўтирдим. Ҳожи буви аллақандай тахир суюқлик ичирди. Кейин ойимга қаради-ю, бирдан хитоб қилди.
   – Вой пошша-а-а! Нима қилиб қўйдингиз, тамом бўпсиз-ку!
   Ойим талмовсираб, гоҳ менга, гоҳ Ҳожи бувига қарар эди.
   – Оёғингиздан айрилибсиз-ку! – деди Ҳожи буви бошини чайқаб. – Шу аҳволда қандоқ келдингиз?
   Кавшандозда турган ойимнинг калишини энди кўрдим. Калишнинг ичи қорга тўла эди.
   – Сарпойчан келавердингизми?! – деди Ҳожи буви ҳамон ўша ваҳимали оҳангда. – Энди нима қиласиз? Қарғанинг миясини чақиб сурмасангиз, чўлоқ бўлиб қоласиз.
   Ойим танчадан оёғини чиқарди. Иккала оёғи қип-қизил гўшт бўлиб кетган эди.
   – Совуқ егани йўқ, – деди секин. – Қайтага исиб кетди. Қорда ўзи исиб кетаркан.
      Ҳожи буви унинг оёғини уқалаб кўрди.
   – Сезяпсизми?
   – Нимани? – деди ойим оёғига эмас, менга қараб.
   – Қўлимни сезяпсизми?
   Ойим индамай бош чайқади-да, пиқиллаб йиғлаб юборди.
   …Эртасига у ётиб қолди. Узоқ ётди. Дадам бир жойдан қарға отиб келди. Ҳожи буви қўлидан келганча дори-дармон қилди… Кейин ойим тузалди. Бироқ салқин тушиши билан оёқлари шишиб, азоб берадиган бўлиб қолди…
   Ҳар йили дам олишга борганимда онамга гилам пайпоқ олиб келардим. У худди ноёб нарсага эга бўлгандек, узоқ дуо қилади, бирпасда ҳамма қўшниларга кўз-кўз қилиб чиқади, шундоқ “меҳрибон” ўғли борлигини айтиб мақтанади. Шунда қор гупиллаб ёғиб турган мудҳиш кеча, онамнинг қип-қизил гўштга айланиб кетган оёқлари кўз ўнгимга кела-ди-ю, индамай чиқиб кетаман.
by Munira Norova
When we look back on our childhoods, joy and euphoria light up our faces, revealing a smile on our lips. Years with no troubles. Years of innocence. But, at some point, something glints in the recesses of our minds and evokes sadness. A moment we would rather not remember. We try to shake it off. Sometimes we manage, sometimes not. The narrator of “The Carpet Socks” struggles to leave just such a memory behind, for it constantly presents itself, and with it comes a feeling of guilt. He tries to ease this pain with the gift of carpet socks, but does it work? Can a wound so deep heal?

Whenever I read “The Carpet Socks,” I have the same feeling of sorrow: for a mother’s sacrifice to save her child, and the child’s never-ending regret.

“The Carpet Socks” is one of the remarkable stories in The Trials and Tribulations of Life, a novella by O'tkir Hoshimov, an outstanding Uzbek writer. These are stories about the world of mothers, a world we can never fully understand. Said Ahmad, another prominent Uzbek writer, once said: “I would call The Trials and Tribulations of Life not a novella, but an epos, for it can be read like a song. We think of our mothers while reading it. As we are reading, a question emerges: have we been able to pay off at least one of our debts to these kind and devoted mothers?”
O'tkir Hoshimov (1941-2013) was born in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. His first book was a collection of essays called Poʻlat chavandoz (Steel Rider, 1962), while Choʻl havosi (Desert Air, 1963) is considered his first major work of fiction. His novellas include Shamol esaveradi (The Wind Will Keep Blowing, 1966), Bahor qaytmaydi (Spring Will Not Return, 1968), Qalbingga quloq sol (Listen to Your Heart, 1973), and Dunyoning ishlari (The Trials and Tribulations of Life, 1982), from which “The Carpet Socks” is excerpted. This last work,a series of autobiographical vignettes that centralizes women’s experiences, is set in an Uzbek mahalla during the aftermath of the Second World War. In later novels, including Ikki eshik orasi (Between Two Doors, 1986), he experimented with structure, narrating events from different perspectives and across different time periods. His novel Tushda kechgan umrlar (Lives Passed in Dream, 1993) is even more aesthetically daring, blurring the boundaries between past and present. Several of his works have been adapted for the screen. He has also written a number of plays and screenplays. In the years preceding the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Hoshimov drew public attention to the repression of Uzbeks; in the run-up to Independence, he was the leader in establishing a national literary style that deviated from the linear plotting of socialist realism.

Munira Norova is a translator of Uzbek fiction and poetry based in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. She also translates fiction from Russian, English, and Turkish into Uzbek. She has a BA in English language and literature from Karshi State University. She has translated short stories by Katherine Mansfield, Mark Twain, James Joyce, Sabahattin Ali, Cemil Kavukçu, and others. Her translations have appeared in a wide array of publications, including World Literature (Jahon adabiyoti), Youth (Yoshlik), and World of Books (Kitob dunyosi). She has published two full-length translations (the novels Irving Stone’s Lust for Life and Serdar Ozkan’s The Missing Rose by Serdar Ozkan). Along with translating poetry, she writes poetry. One of her poems is a winner of the Inspired by Tagore, an International writing competition, held by Sampad and British Council (2012, Birmingham, UK) and published in its anthology.

I always bring my mother carpet-socks when I come back from my yearly holiday. The kind you see in the Caucasus. They’re called “jubas,” sometimes “jurabis.” My mother offers her prolonged thanks to God, as though receiving a very rare gift. And she brags to the neighbors about her kind, kind son.

Her legs always hurt. They swell and ache as soon as they are cold. When the neighbors ask after her health, she says, for their sake and her own: “It’s just old age.”

But old age is not the only source of her pain. Others may not know this, but I do. I know it well.

As a child I often got sick—the measles, whooping cough, fever… That’s why, on our kitchen wall, you could find everything from a blue crow’s feather to a cockscomb hanging from nails.

I especially suffered from sore throats. Scarcely would my feet touch the damp ground before my throat would start to hurt. To this day, I don’t understand what the feet have to do with the throat.

I can’t remember how old I was at the time, but I know I was very little; I was riding on a sled with my brothers when I broke into a sweat. I ate ice to cool down. That evening I had a temperature. I was racked by a terrible cough. My mother had me rinse out my throat with alum, but this did nothing. Then she boiled dried apricots and gave me the liquid to drink. It didn’t help… I was gripped by fever and, though I was no longer in pain, it was hard to breathe. I was barely aware of anything and then I fainted—all I could hear was the sound of my mother wailing the same words over and over:

“Voy, what can I do? My son is dying!”

She quickly wrapped me in a quilt.

I can’t say how much time passed, but at one point I was vaguely aware of being in her arms. She was carrying me, trudging through the night. I could feel the snow falling thickly, but no flakes touched my burning cheeks. She was plodding, gasping, her feet slipping; and with each heavy step, I felt her warm breath on my face.

Eventually we entered a house dimly lit by a small lamp. Then everything grew dark again. Mother was still wailing: “He’s dying! My son is dying!”

“Have no fear, pasha, when God sends disease, he doesn’t forget its remedy.”

I faintly recognized Grandma Haji’s voice.

She had me lie on my back and put my head on her lap. Then she thrust a gauze-wrapped finger into my throat. My stomach turned and I started to writhe, but couldn’t free myself from Grandma Haji’s grip. She did something in my throat. I shrieked and bit her finger. It was strange, but after a while I felt better. When I opened my eyes, Grandma Haji was smiling down at me.

“Why did you bite me, puppy?” she said, stroking my hair. Then my mother bent over me. She was still out of breath, her hair matted and her face damp.

A little while later, I sat up, putting my feet on the sandal stove over the fire. Grandma Haji had me drink some sort of bitter liquid. Then, satisfied with my recovery, she turned toward my mother: “Oh, pashaaaa! What have you done?” she cried.

Bewildered, my mother looked at me, then at Grandma Haji.

“Your feet!” Grandma Haji said, shaking her head. “How did this happen?”

It was then that I noticed my mother’s boots at the door. They were full of snow.

“You walked through the snow with no socks?” Grandma Haji asked, horrified. “What will we do with you now? We’d better crack open a crow’s bone and rub your feet with the marrow, or you’ll be a cripple.”

Mother drew her feet off of the sandal stove, both of them red like bloody mutton.

“They weren’t cold,” she said in a low voice. “In fact, they were hot. The snow made them hot.”

“Can you feel anything?” said Grandma Haji, massaging mother’s feet.

“What?” mother asked, looking not at her feet, but at me.

“Do you feel my touch?”

Without a word, mother shook her head and burst into tears.

The day after, she took to her bed. She stayed there a long time. Father shot a crow somewhere and brought it to her. Grandma Haji did her best concocting some remedies. And mother recovered. But from then on, her feet would swell and ache whenever the weather turned cold…

I bring my mother carpet socks when I come back from my yearly holiday. She gives me her prolonged thanks to God, as though receiving a very rare gift, and immediately shows them off to all the neighbors, bragging about her kind, kind son. In those moments, I remember that terrible night, when the snow fell thickly, and mother’s feet were red as bloody mutton. And I leave without saying a word.