because this house was your father’s, that it is yours? If that’s what you’re saying, then I’ll get a passport and get on the Russians’ rails and I’ll go to Mecca! May you lose your house, Fitna!”
This time Qurvonbibi begged and pleaded, just barely managing to talk him out of it.
Truthfully, Razzoq-sufi’s desire to go on the hajj was strong. Every year he brought it up. Once or twice he even got a passport. Only, for some reason, he could never separate his feet from the soil of his city.
Regarding his reproach—“love of home comes from faith”—was it true that he really couldn’t leave his “home”? There’s a secret to that.
He did not have a single professional skill or craft. He neither traded, nor farmed, nor wrote for a living. Nevertheless, his table was never without bread and his pot was never cold.
One year his brother came from a faraway village for three to four days. Because he too was a faithful old man, they got on well. They went to the lodge every day together.
“Razzoq, do you really plan to pass your life without taking up any kind of work?” his brother asked him as they were leaving for the lodge.
“Heeey,” said Razzoq-sufi, protracting his monosyllabic objection with a self-satisfied laugh, “no one has the wealth that I do, brother! Being my elder master’s beloved servant, blessings flow like water from all four sides. Do we thirst at the river? You’re a strange one!”
After they had gone a little farther laughing, Razzoq-sufi said seriously:
“My wife and daughter are tricky ones, thanks be to God. My daughter sews a skullcap, and it looks as if it was made in Europe! They deal with the household’s needs. As long as I can lie down and turn my prayer beads, everything is fine!”
Razzoq-sufi’s brother visited again a year prior to our story in the fall. This time a serious issue was raised. One or two days after the guest arrived they started conversing:
“Razzoq, you yourself say ‘home, home,’ but you don’t know your own home.”
Razzoq-sufi fumed at “you don’t know.” “Why don’t I know, brother?! Please tell me!”
“Don’t get angry. I’ll tell you. Is your home not the place where your parents passed, where your umbilical blood was spilt, where you light a candle for the spirits of your parents?”
Razzoq-sufi was silent. Tears seemed to well up in his eyes.
“Why are you silent?” his brother asked.
“What can I say to the truth? You’re amusing. …”
“In that case your home is our village.”
“Yes, our village. …”
The two of them were silent for a moment. Razzoq-sufi took his toothbrush out of its case but then slowly put it back. His brother took the autumn leaf that had fallen on his knee by its stem and twirled it, saying:
“I came to take you back to our village. We once fought over the land left to us by our parents, decided to split it, and then you left for the city.”
Razzoq-sufi’s voice wavered as he sighed:
“Why do you bring up what’s already been decided? The past is the past. … Let the land dry up and the inheritance too.”
“No, Razzoq! Don’t speak that way!”
His brother’s words were harsh like a command. Razzoq-sufi raised his head and looked straight into his brother’s face. Razzoq’s brother continued:
“Nothing is more precious than land! Our deceased father, our grandparents, our ancestors—all of them received their subsistence from that parcel of land. True?”
Razzoq-sufi responded, barely audibly, “True …”
“Why do you flee from the land?”
Razzoq-sufi couldn’t manage another answer to this important question other than: “Where is there land for me? You have your parcel of land and it’s not enough for you.”
His brother gave a brave answer; while starting his answer, his face involuntarily smiled and his toothless, bare mouth opened with joy.
“I evened out the hill on the far side of the river and opened it up for planting. Now I just need labor and capital.”
“What can I do?” asked Razzoq-sufi; his voice was very low. “What am I able to do?”
His brother became serious.
“Leave the city!”
Razzoq-sufi was going to say something to his brother’s demand. His brother didn’t let up.
“Don’t dismiss me! Listen to what I have to say!”
Razzoq-sufi was silent. His brother continued:
“Leave the city! Sell your house! You can get good money for a house in the city. We’ll find a small house in the village. We’ll get it for half or even a third of that money. We’ll use the rest on tools. We’ll find another parcel of land close to ours. You’re still healthy, we can work together. Right?”
Razzoq-sufi didn’t utter a word; he took his white skullcap in his hands and began to fold it.
“Well, say something!”
Razzoq-sufi said nothing and got up. Without hesitating, he took two steps towards the inside of his house. Then he turned around and spoke.
“Let me put on my turban and robe. We’ll read the Friday prayer in the lodge. We’re late …”
As they were leaving for the lodge, his brother raised the question again.
“Just say it. We’ll leave for the village! Death is what you should be thinking of! Let’s not be far from one another when it comes time to die; let’s not die thirsting for one another’s company.”
Razzoq-sufi pointed to a colt in the street.
“What a beast, hey, isn’t that a fine horse? Oh my!”
Silence set in. Then he started speaking again.
“Well, what do you say? Will you answer my question?! Even an old woman prays aloud.”
“Over there is the bathhouse of Umarali, the Kokand court official. It’s been here for 170 years. Not one brick has been moved. … If you go inside, you can hear bells ringing. …”
His brother, unable to get his point across, asked Qurvonbibi for advice, who, in turn, sent him to Razzoq-sufi’s master.
“Where is Razzoq himself?” the eshon asked.
“He is at home … his teeth hurt …,” his brother answered.
The eshon laughed. “His teeth hurt? Oh no! A toothache is a frightful thing. Go tell him: go to the barber in the corner of the market, have him take his pincers and yank the bothersome tooth out. That will cure him. Go. Amen, God is great!”
With that Razzoq-sufi’s brother became despondent and set out for his village. He mounted his horse and, while he said his goodbyes, Razzoq remained inside reading the Book of Wisdom.7 Draping a headscarf over her face, Qurvonbibi saw him to the gate. With her long sleeve, she dried her tears and saw off her guest from the village. Standing next to her mother, Zebi sang loudly with her sweet voice, “Goodbye! Send aunt Adolatxon next time. Bring a gift.” After the guest was out of sight, she asked her mother: “Why did father not come to see uncle off?”
Qurvonbibi gave a short answer, “Damn your father’s character, child!” She turned to go back into the house.
Qurvonbibi had worries other than her brother-in-law. The village guest’s arrival had only added to her troubles. Truthfully, poor Qurvonbibi was worried about clothing and material