From Makhambet’s Arrow
Original text by Anuar Alimzhanov. Translated by Aya Aqas.
Anuar Alimzhanov published Makhambet’s Arrow in 1967—around 130 years after the historical events described in the novel. The story follows the life of Makhambet Otemisuly—a poet and a revolutionary—as he becomes one of the leaders standing against colonialism in a major rebellion that took place in Central Asia of the early 1800s. Makhambet was first and foremost a poet, and it was precisely his art and philosophy that inspired the people to stand up against the imperialist oppressors.
In this excerpt we follow Makhambet through the eyes of Nurbal—a slave woman gifted to him by Khan Allah Kuli.
Melodic trills of bells hanging from the leather waterskins, shouting water carriers, creaking wheels of the carriages, pleading beggars and barking town guards lurking in groups along the narrow streets of Khiva, searching for targets and bounty—all, interfused with the bellowing of camels, filled the street with a dizzying noise. An oncoming caravan of Bukharans raised a cloud of dust. Makhambet steadied the horse.
After the last camel had passed, the riders moved onto the market street. In deep alcoves along the walls small traders tried to outshout each other. The crowd became thicker the closer they moved to the bazaar.
Cripples and dervishes, spice traders and donkey herders, butchers and bakers, cooks preparing pilaf and soup on the sidewalks, silent nomads coming from Uzbek, Kazakh, Karakalpak, and Turkmen villages, rich men parting the crowd with the force of servants and guards, vagabond warriors—or maybe, simple outlaws—searching for a suitable ringleader or master, pimps prowling in the back alleys, money changers, healers, people ready to provide any service—all sorts of folks can be met on the main road of Khiva, a city of the sacred well, holy Jeikhun river, forty madrasas and forty mosques, and countless minarets and mausoleums.
Coming from Iran and India, Afghanistan and Aday, Tibet and Mongolia, from the Nogays of Volga river, from traders of Samarkand and Kokand, from the Great and Lesser Kazakh Hordes, the caravans merge together into a single flow on the main road of the city. Right there, blacksmiths and potters, as if competing with each other, craft wondrous pieces of workmanship from metal and clay. Child-touts scurry about the legs of horses and people. Only women are silent and fearful. Hiding under their burqas, they obediently give way to everyone—tramps and lords, hangmen and dervishes. This is the main street of Khiva where the richest of twenty neighbourhoods is located.
Through the thin fabric of her veil, Nurbal curiously looked at the crowd, towers and minarets, whose colors were as bright and beautiful, as dirty and dusty were the streets. After a long journey on the back of the camel through the mountain ranges and uninhabited steppes, through camps, small settlements and large villages, this city seemed big and strange to her, as was the city of Herat through which she passed along with the caravan.
She watched the silhouettes of the women under their burqas, trying to guess their age. Her worried gaze followed her new master, each touch of his hand making her shiver. She felt awkward and uncomfortable sitting in a saddle in front of him. She felt scared of his silence.
On the way to Khiva Nurbal was often distracted by the herders and guards and their stories, and the monotonous road made her calm and numb. She often dozed off listening to the tired camels grunting quietly and caravan superintendents joking and arguing. The caravan that took her away from her home was the last thing that connected her to her birthplace. But the trader gifted her to the Khan of Khiva, and the Khan gave her to this mysterious man. The last piece of connection broke. Her destiny was in the hands of a stranger now.
The new master was rugged and didn’t speak to her. His friends, riding behind, were silent, too. She didn’t ask who they were, and they did the same. Standing by the throne of the Khan, Nurbal had heard that the new master was a poet and a warrior. What is better, living in a Khan’s harem or in a poet’s house?
But is there a point in contemplating? Does it matter? She is a woman. The poet’s arms are around her. People are stepping aside in front of his golden horse with a white mane, its head throwing back now and then, demanding to loosen the reins. The horse’s stride is uneven—sometimes hasty, sometimes hopping and almost breaking into a gallop, pushing into the crowd…