Poor poets couldn’t find the money to get treatment abroad, but their statues are put for a lot of money. “Do you think they will rest peacefully in the Heaven?” – A statue questions.
[author title=”Nodirabegim Ibrokhimova ” image=”https://sindhcourier.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/Nodirabegim-Ibrokhimova-Uzbek-writer-Sindh-Courier.jpg”]Nodirabegim Ibrokhimova was born in Fergana, Uzbekistan on 18.07.1989. She holds BA in International Journalism from the University of Foreign Languages in Uzbekistan and currently doing a Master program of Higher Literature at Alisher Navoi University. Her published books include “Yoningdagi baht” (Happiness next to you), “Zhodugar” (The witch), “Zulm va muhabbat”(The oppression and love). She is the winner of “Young Novelist – 2017” competition in Uzbekistan. Her stories have been published in countries such as Russia, Pakistan, Mexico, Peru, Ukraine, Bangladesh, India and Kazakhstan. She runs her own-established literary website www.nodirabegim.uz.[/author]
Statues
There was silence in the alley. After the cool autumn rain all the statues felt fresh and clean. No one was around now, but soon the weather would clear up and there would be couples walking around, holding hands. As the young people begin to declare their love, the statues look at each other and smile. The girls look around and, after making sure no one is around, discreetly snuggle up to the guys. “Why aren’t they shy with us, or did the sculptor make us not look like people?” -One of the statues wonders. And when a young man kisses a girl, the statues, feeling very uncomfortable, try to turn away, but can’t.
Over time, the statues became accustomed to such pictures. They have witnessed endless declarations of love and kisses. At such moments they sighed heavily, remembering their love in their youth. Among the lovers there were some newcomers, and some faces that had become familiar over the years. But one in particular stood out. The tall, curly-haired fellow, who always wore a leather jacket, was known to all the statues.
They were also familiar with the text of his declarations of love. It began with the words, “As the moon and the sun are one in the sky, so you are one for me,” and ended with the words, “Even on the doomsday we will be together.” In the middle of his confession, he recited by heart the poetry of the poet whose statue stood here in the alley. At first the statue rejoiced, but then began to get angry – because every time this guy read these poems to a different girl and in such a tone as if he were on a date with his beloved for the first time. The young man was very loyal to this avenue. But not to the girls: the faces of those walking with him changed very often.
And each girl looked at him with the same trust, love and loyalty, and the statues sighed, knowing that she too would soon be abandoned. In spite of this, they were getting used to this guy. After all, he was a poet! Here he composed good poetry. Sometimes he would sit lonely on a bench, write something and then read in a whisper. He even talked with the statues several times.
– Teacher, after reading your poems, I fell in love with literature. Over time, will there be a place for me among you? Ser, may your spirit sustain me, – he said, looking at the old statue with respect.
When he heard the sound of approaching heels and a pleasant fragrance of women’s perfume, he hid his notebook in his pocket, forgot all about the statues and hurried to meet his beloved.
– This girl seems pretty. May be he’ll marry her and finally settle down, -said one of the statues, watching the guy moving away.
– I think the guy will live in solitude, for he is so fickle. But, I must admit, he’s not a bad writer.
– What, brother, does that mean he’s destined to live his life as a bachelor? – His neighbor laughed.
– Why? Why should he immerse himself in family worries? Because that way he might give up literature – There, your unfinished novel is gathering dust in the closet!
– So what, the main thing is that they gave me a statue too!
– Yes, it’s good that you joined us -the third statue intervened in the conversation remembering that the two could not get along with each other in life and thus softened the situation. – Creativity is one thing, but personality is another.
At that moment a group of students entered through the front gate. The pupils and their teachers approached the statues.
– So today the ground beneath our feet will be filled with flowers.
– Is today someone’s birthday?
– No, today is the day of my death, -one statue sighed. – Look who’s coming along with the disciples? Those are my disciples! So they brought the students of the school I went to. Yes… Good, even though they don’t go to my grave, they came to visit my statue.
– You have a good memory. I confess, I don’t remember any of my students.
– Well, of course, it’s impossible to remember, because two hundred years have passed since your death! Even your followers are long gone!
– In any case, it is good to be young…
One by one, the disciples came up and laid bouquets at the foot of the statue. At that time, a film crew appeared and began filming the statue. Hearing the warm memories the students told of the late creator, tears almost came to the statue’s eyes. But can a stone cry? Neither could this statue. The event ended with a reading of the poet’s poems.
– Did you hear that? They read my unpublished poems in my lifetime, -the statue boasted, though it couldn’t move.
– Bravo, brother, you are a talent!
– I wonder if there will be a literary evening tomorrow, too.
– Aren’t you bored? If you ask me, nobody should come!
– There’s nothing for us to do anyway… It’s better than listening to lovers.
– It would be better if they paid attention not to us but to the guy who wrote poems here a few days ago. You don’t meet talent like that every day.
– You mean the guy who wrote the sonnet sitting on this bench? He wrote it, whispered it, rewrote it, then reread it, and finally tore up the paper and threw it in the river. Oh, too bad, those were good poems. If he had given them to some newspaper, he would have become famous.
– You saw how his father kept calling and bothering him. So the poor guy lost his inspiration. “The goods have arrived, when will you take them to the store?!” his father demanded. Well, does he understand what poetry is?
– Inspiration doesn’t really exist. Creativity consists entirely of hard work.
– It may be so for a writer, but poetry is not written without inspiration.
– The weather has turned bad again. It looks like it’s going to rain tonight. When the cold weather starts, so will the activities. There will be no entertainment here until spring, except for crows and the occasional lovers.
– If we don’t get shelter, will we make it to spring?
– Don’t worry we’ll be repainted in the spring.
– I’m afraid of falling apart. After all, I am a very old statue.
– Be patient. In a pinch they’ll put another statue in your place, -he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. – Don’t be offended, it’s just a joke.
The statue sighed and looked at her fingers on her hands. Cracks appeared on them.
– Those fingers had always been stained with ink…
– Nowadays, all writers write on computers. I used to type on a typewriter! In the silence of the night, the clatter of the typewriter sounded as pleasant as the sound of a piano. If I’m not mistaken, I retyped my novel five or six times. Thank God, the last years of my life I lived in luxury, constantly ordered new works, even provided me with a secretary typist. But I couldn’t write. All my famous books were written in a rented house during the years of poverty.
– I don’t think that’s the point. Take Tolstoy and Dostoevsky as examples. They were contemporaries – one lived in luxury and wealth, the other in poverty. But the works of both are incomparable. Perhaps it is a matter of talent. God-given talent!
– Perhaps…
They were silent for a long time. Both thought about their lives, thinking about their written and unwritten works.
…Winter had not yet arrived, but it suddenly began to snow heavily. All the statues were covered with white snow, and then icicles formed on their toes. The icicle hanging on the old statue’s hand was heavy: it suddenly broke off and fell to the ground with a loud crack. But it tore off the statue’s arm along with it.
All the statues, alert, looked at the old statue.
– Are you not hurt?
After this hasty question, there was a slight snickering chuckle. The statues turned serious.
– It’s a pity about my left hand… I wrote all my works with my left hand…
– Don’t grieve ser. As soon as the snow melts, you will be restored.
– Of course, of course. Along with the restoration, you’ll be cleared of snow. You’ll be even more imposing.
– My friend, don’t be sad, it’s not very noticeable from the outside. If you hang a book on your shoulder, no one will notice the lack of an arm…
The reassurance, the consolations lasted a long time. But people didn’t notice that the statue had no arm. Young “selfies” posed, leaning on the statue. The janitors cleaned up the wreckage of the broken arm, not even wondering what it was. And when the sun rose high, the poetry tournament at the statue continued.
– I’m falling apart… – the old statue looked sadly at the shoulder, which had begun to fall apart after the arm fell off. – It’s my birthday in the spring… until then they won’t notice my misfortune.
– Ser, be patient until spring. Before your birthday they will see your problem and repair it. And the ground beneath your feet will be filled with flowers again…
At that moment an old acquaintance of theirs, a fickle young poet, appeared in the alley. The statues began to watch him with interest. This time a young rosy-cheeked girl in a shiny scarf came along with him.
– Had he married?
– He had been gone a whole month. Married, then!
– Now he would come to his senses and realize the responsibility of being the head of the family.
The young man led his bride right up to the old statue. Then he turned around and said:
– This is my teacher. Although he left the world long ago, I studied life, people, and the world by reading his books. You could call him my spiritual father. You know, my father abandoned us. In the house where my mother and I lived, there was only one book, this poet’s. A poem! The girl in that poem was my friend. In those dark days, only that book and its heroine gave me hope. She shone like a light in the darkness. I remember the day they erected the statue here… I fell at his feet and wept bitterly. Me, my mother, and him lived my difficult childhood together. I told my mother that one day I would be a great poet and I would feed us with my poems. But when I grew up, I found out that it was impossible to support a family with poetry alone … No, I’m not complaining, I have a profession and I can feed the family. I will not hide it, I met and went out with many girls, while I was looking for the one, from his poem … And finally found you. You’re the girl. The girl from the poem… I was very lonely… until I met you on the bus with his poem in your hands.
The young woman smiled; stared intently at the old statue. Then she frowned.
– Look… his arm has fallen off, -she said sympathetically.
The young man, who had already noticed this, began to look around, but there was no sign of a broken arm anywhere.
– We should report the incident… Look, there’s a crack in the neck, too. When the heavy rains come, it will collapse altogether.
They left in haste.
– Ser, how faithful he is to you, – sighed the neighboring statue. – I have no such devoted admirers.
– It’s good that you wrote that poem!
– The poem… -the old statue pondered. – He must mean “Loneliness”. It tells the story of an orphan girl whose father was killed in the war.
– And you know, a young man once committed suicide and wrote my poem in his suicide letter! – wanted to brag to the young statue.
Loud laughter arose.
– Find something to be proud of!
– By the way, are you aware that a new statue is going to be erected next to us this month?
– Whose?
– I don’t know. But according to people, he died recently. He was still young.
– He died of an illness?
– Yes, he couldn’t find the money to get treatment abroad. And now they’re going to put a statue on him for a lot of money. Do you think he will rest peacefully in the Heaven?
– Don’t be ironic! Not everyone gets a statue. Only those who win hearts with their works are worthy of this honor. After all, everyone’s fate is different.
– Brother, isn’t it better to appreciate talented people while they’re alive?
– In my opinion, it is better than to be forgotten after death. If you take Kafka, for example, what did he…
– I know, I know. Okay, I won’t disagree. Not all writers were as rich as Tolstoy.
– As Marquez put it, there are enough other professions to starve to death… In general, you don’t have to look at creativity as a source of livelihood, because it doesn’t prevent you from mastering other professions.
– What can I say, for I was not a rich man like you, but lived only by honest work.
– My dear, the main thing is that now you are here among us.
Sometimes we talked briefly, and then there was silence again for a long time. One morning the pleasant silence that had lasted several weeks was broken by a loud crack. All the statues shuddered and looked at the old statue. Not a trace of it was left.
– Poor thing – didn’t make it to spring.
– Yesterday’s snow and rain had not been in vain…
– Damn icicle!
This time, of course, people noticed it and, gathered around a large pile of debris, discussed the incident at length. Some blamed the sculptor, some blamed the weather. In the end, shivering with cold, everyone began to disperse.
A new statue soon appeared in place of the old one.
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