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English Ўзбек

Then Cho’lpon’s wife Katya came, distraught, bursting into tears and begging Abdulla to write a letter of support. ‘They’ll trust you,’ she said.

Тунов эса Чўлпоннинг бебаҳра хотини Катя-хоним: “Сиз тавсия хати ёзиб юборинг, сизга ишонишади-ку!” - деб йиғлайди.

As the great poet Navoi wrote, ‘Fire has broken out in the Mozandaron forests’. Ҳазрат айтмиш: “Бешаи Мозандаронга тушти ўт”.
And in the conflagration everything is burnt, regardless of whether it is dry or wet. Олағовурда ҳўлу қуруқ бир ёняпти.
Just say ‘Chuh’ and he’d be off. “Чўх!” – дейишса кетади.
Sadly, the eldest had fallen ill some time ago and was still in bed; otherwise he would have joined his father and the job would have been a pleasure. Афсуски, тўнғичи Ҳабибулла касал бўлиб ётиб қолди, ёнига кириб ишни тезлаштиришармиди.
The youngest, Ma’sud, his father’s pampered favourite, might not know the difference between a rake and a bill-hook, but he was an amusing chatterbox. Лўмбиллаган кенжатойи Маъсуд “отам- отам” бўлиб, ўроқ деганда косовни узатса-да, гапга солиб турар.
Possibly, Abdulla wouldn’t have time to prune, tie back and cover all the vines with reeds today. “Дадачи, дада, чилпиган истакларни мен кесай” - деб боғбон-отачадек хархаша қилади.
But there was always tomorrow and, if God was willing, the day after that. Майли-да! Қайдам, токларнинг барини бугун кесиб, ётқизиб, қўндоқлаб, барди билан ёпишга улгурмас-ўв! Яна эрта бор, яна Худо хоҳласа индин бор...
Soon after he’d protected his vines, the cold weather would pass, the spring rains would bring forth new shoots from the earth, and the cuttings he had planted in winter would come into bud. Токларини кўмар ҳам, совуқлар ҳам ўтар, шовур-шовур ёмғирли кўклам қайтиб, буюрса, пояю бачкилар яна занг отар...

It was always like that: first you pack and wrap each vine for the winter; the next thing you know, everything unfurls in the sun and in no time at all it’s green again.

Бир - кўмилади, бир - яна ҳеч нарса бўлмагандек, очилади...

The flashes of sunlight coming through the leaves must have dazzledhim, for it was only now, when he tugged at a vine shoot bearing an enormous, palm-shaped leaf, that he discovered a small bunch of grapes underneath it: the qirmizka which he’d managed to get hold of and plant last year with great difficulty. Олачалпоқдан кўзлари қамашдими, чунки худди шу пайт кесилган бир новда қўлига илашиб, шапалоқдек баргни ўзи билан ерга тортдию, бояги барг остида яширинган майдагина ғужумча узум очилиб қолди. “Қирмизка-қирмизка!” – деб ўтган йили аллақаердан топиб эккан токи.
The little bunch of fruit hiding under a gigantic leaf had ripened fully and, true to its name, produced round, bright-red berries, as tiny as dewdrops, so that they looked more like a pretty toy than fruit. Бояги шингил ҳам қирмизка номига монанд, узилмай панада ётаверганидан, қип-қирмизи бўлиб етишган, юм-юмалоқ узумчалари ҳам - зўри келса - шабнам томчисидан зиёда эмас, худди ўйинчоқ ғужумнинг ўзгинаси.
The autumn discovery of a bunch of berries as red as the maiden’s blushing cheek, hidden among the vine’s bare branches, had brought on a sudden clarity and harmony. Барг остида қизларнинг луччак бетидек қип- қирмизи бўлиб яширинган бу шингилнинг кеч кузда бир куни яланғоч қинғайган новдалар аро тўсатдан муҳайё бўлиши Абдулланинг чигал ўйларини бирдан ёзиб юборгандек эди.
But suppose the first fruit is too bitter? He plucked a berry from the bunch that he meant to give the toddler, and put it in his own mouth. Ramadan had just ended: he had forgotten the feel of food in daylight. The large pip crunched between Abdulla’s teeth, and its sweet flesh dissolved like honey through his entire body. Кўнгил қурғур қув-да, ғужум ҳали лиққою тахирлаб қолган бўлмасин, - дея, кенжасига илинган шингилнинг энг майда донасини эндигина узун рўзадан чиққан тишига қўйиб эди-ки, безаха узумча тирс этиб, тилни ёрадиган шираю-маза бехосдан Абдулланинг бутун вужудига урди.
And suddenly he had a revelation: he knew how to begin his book. Биракайига билди у қандай бошлашини бу қиссани.
It would be a terrific story, surpassing both Past Days and The Scorpion from the Altar. Шундай ажабтовур қисса бўлсинки, уни ўқиган одам “Ўтган кунлар”ни ҳам “Меҳробдан чаён”ни ҳам унутиб юборсин.
Ahmad Qori, who lived at the top of Abdulla’s street, had lent him a stack of books by the classic historians, and he had already researched the fine details. Кўча бошидаги Аҳмад Қоридан “Бадое ул-виқоя” ни олиб ўқиш демаса, Мулло Олим Махдуму Ҳакимхон тўраларни аврасидан астаригача титкилаб чиқди.
If he could get the supplies in quickly he could then be on his own, sitting in front of the warm coal fire of his sandal. Surely the three months of cold would be long enough for him to finish his novel. Манави уйнинг атала-бўтала ишларидан хотиржам бўлиб, бир қиш оёғини сандалга солиб, узлатда ўтирса, қиссани албатта ёзиб битиради…
Abdulla didn’t wait for his youngest child to toddle out from the ancestral house: he picked one more berry of the unexpected gift, tucked the tiny bunch of grapes behind his ear and got down to work. Лўппи кенжатойи, отаси, Отабеги уйдан чиқавермагач, Абдулла чирсиллатиб, яна бир дона ғойибдан келган қирмизка узумдан еди-да, ғужумчанинг қолдиғини, бежама сифат, қулоқ кетига қистириб, ишга киришди.
On 31 December, 1937, a freezingwinter’s day, Abdullawas taken from his home and put in prison, neither charged nor tried. Ўша аёз қишнинг 31-нчи декабрь куни, янги 1938-нчи йил арафасида, Абдуллани таъзири билмол қилиб, уйидан қамоққа олиб кетишди…