If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream & not make dreams your master;
If you can think- -and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on! '
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings- -nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And- -which is more- -you'll be a Man, my son!

IF by Rudyard Kipling

Йўқотишларда айбласалар ҳам,
Бошингни эгмай кўтаролсанг гар,
Сендан шубҳаланиб чекинсалар ҳам,
Ўзингни ҳақли деб кўролсанг агар.
Кутсанг чарчамасдан, кутишни билсанг,
Алдансанг, алдовдан йироқ турсанг гар.
Нафратни билмасанг, нафратлансалар,
Дономас, ўзингни ҳақир кўрсанг гар.
Қил орзу – гар сенга устун келмаса,
Фикрла – гар унга асир бўлмасанг.
Ҳар иккисига қил бирдек назар,
Зафар-у мағлубият йўлиқса, агар.
Эшитиб туролсанг қачонлардир сен
айтган ҳақиқатни букишса агар,
Ноёб асарингни бузишганда ҳам,
Қараб туролсанг-у яна қурсанг гар.
Жамлаган бисотинг ўртага қўйиб
Таваккал қилолсанг, қура ташласанг.
Ва лом-мим демасанг ютқазиб, куйиб,
Ўйинни бошидан қайта бошласанг.
Бу жисм ва жонни мажбур қилолсанг,
Бир куни яшашга қолмаса тоқат.
Ғариб кунларингда бардошли бўлсанг,
Уларга “Чидагин!” демасдан фақат.
Оломон ичинда одоб сақласанг,
Унутмасанг ўзни шоҳлар олдида,
Дўсту душманларинг бирдек алқаса,
Уларни айирмай тенг кўрсанг агар,
Шафқатсиз ўтаркан олтмиш сониянг,
Ичини тўлдириб қўёлсанг агар,
Ер ва ундагилар сеники, ўғлим,
Демак сен, улғайиб эркак бўлибсан!

Вазира Шодиева таржимаси

Abdulla recalled a day from his own childhood, when he had dressed up in new trousers and an Uzbek gown to go to the Christmas tree celebrations. The caretaker at his Russian-language school stopped him at the school gates. ‘Have you become a kaffir now?’ the man grumbled, raising his stick to deal Abdulla a terrific blow on the thigh. The literature teacher, seeing this, hurried over and rebuked him: ‘This is a celebration of the birth of Jesus son of Mary, and Jesus is a prophet of yours!’ Abdulla’s leg was bleeding and his new trousers were stained; he ended up visiting the hospital instead of the Christmas tree. The teacher drove him all the way home, in his own carriage: a Russian, who had defended him from an Uzbek. No, generosity or meanness had nothing to do with nationality.

Бир куни ўзининг болалигида ерли рус мактабида ўқиятган чоғи ҳавас қилиб башанг янги шим, янги чопонда арча байрамига келаётганида мактаб қоровули Холмирза-тажанг эшик тагида тутиб олиб: “Сан ҳам копир бўлдингми?” - деб балдоқи билан бола болдирига аямай тушириб қолганида, буни кўрган адабиёт ўқитувчиси Георгий Евстигнеевич, чолнинг олдига келиб, тоза сарт тилида: “Ахир Исо ибн Мариямнинг милоди бу. Исо сенинг ҳам пайғамбаринг-ку!” - деб айтганини эслади Абдулла. Ўшанда янги шимию оёғи қонга буланиб, арча байрамининг ўрнига Георгий Евстигнеевичнинг извошчигида аввал касалхона, сўнг уйига қайтган эди у. Йўқ, саҳоватинг ҳам, разолатинг ҳам миллати бўлмас экан.

His father was right when he said that a man can be in thrall to devils, especially if he is a writer. You have only to set to work to be gripped by your plans and inventions, and everything else seems vanity, triviality, a distraction. Over the last month Abdulla had covered reams of paper, having told himself: If I can sit down on my own this winter, I will finish writing the novel. And now all those hopes had been dashed. The Tatar NKVD man had found the manuscript, stuffed it in the only suitcase in the house, and taken it
away with him. And he was hardly going to read it, was he? Could he even decipher the old Arabic script of Uzbek? Or would he hire some black-eyed locals to read it for him?

Чиндан ҳам отаси айтмиш, жин босар экан, ёзувчи одамни. Ишга киришдингми – зикру хаёлинг ана ўша тўқимада, қолгани - фақат алахсиш, фақат чалғишдек туюлар экан. Ўтган ой ичида анча-мунча қоғозларни қоралаб қўйди Абдулла, айтмовдими: “Шу қиш узлат қилиб ўтирсам, қиссани ёзиб битказаман” - деб. Афсус, ишнинг белига от тепди. Анави анди татар топган қўлёзмасини уйдаги биттаю битта жомадонга босиб, ўзи билан олиб келди. Ўқирмикан барини? Эскичага кўзи ўтармикан? Ё яна ўзининг қора кўзларидан ёллаб, уларга ўқитармикан?