Khorezm branch of uzbekistan writers union

 
 
 

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91 
STREET VENDOR
 
Translation by Ruzmetov Og’abek 
 
He sits on a little chair in the entrance of bazaar in the neighborhood. Two sacks 
are in front of him, one filled with sunflower seeds and the other with qurt*. In winter 
times, there will also be embers, so as to heat his arms, in a bucket pierced by a nail. 
His goods are sold in a strict and stable price just like in the market. A couple of qurt 
as big as the egg of a sparrow is 10 coins and a glass of sunflower seeds cost 20 
coins. The glass is mysterious indeed: one handful of sunflower seeds is enough to 
fill it. In the morning, he usually has a bad mood. His grey eyes below his sparse 
eyebrows stare right at the person. His arms tremble every time when he counts the 
qurt 
and pours sunflower seeds into glass. Those who know him don‘t negotiate with 
him. Those who tell ‗his goods are expensive‘ will borrow trouble for themselves.
•
Hey, don‟t tell me what to do
- he says, red in anger, slightly bristling his 
moustache.
•
I know the rule better than you! I slogged for people like you!
As a justification he taps the ground with his stiff and disabled right foot. – 
You 
see?!
He says. In the evening he gets a bit content. 
– Roasted sunflower seeds -
he 
cries out loud. He strokes his yellow moustache when he sees young chicks passing 
by. The appalling smell of cheap wine can be caught by a person who approaches 
close to him.
This is Dalavoy. Once daddy was to be imprisoned by him for cutting the tree in 
the garden plot, yet then, Dalavoy himself asked for bribe. I see him virtually every 
day. Some disturbing memories evoke every time when I see him.
He grew stuck up when he took up a job as a taxman. Nearly everyone would 
seem frightened when they heard him coming. He would ride a fresh chestnut horse 
and his shiny boots, ostentatious baggy trousers, and his fashionably done yellow hair 
suited him quite well. The bag with leather strap he would shoulder and the whip in 
his hand used to invoke feelings of fear. People would greet with him not because 
they venerate him, but due to the fear they‘re filled with.
The war just ended, and everyone was as poor as a church mouse. Dalavoy, the 
taxman, riding his horse, would insolently enter the houses of those who had not paid 
the taxes on time and take some rug or samovar*, in a nutshell, anything worthy to 
take and to set price to without listening to what the owners say or think about it. It 
was one of the typical evenings of summer. Having milked the goat Mum realized the 
little kids saying 
“get your share”
and went into kitchen. The two white and black 
young goats were sucking their mother‘s udder bending their knees and swishing 
their tails, meanwhile, the mother goat, closing its long pale eyelashes, was busy with 
chewing. Mummy was busy with cooking in the kitchen, a whiff of garlic and smog 

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92 
was wafting in the air, I and my elder brother were playing whom to jump longer in 
the yard.
Suddenly, the sound of a horse step came from the street, the gate burst open and 
riding his chestnut horse, Dalavoy, the taxman, came in. Brother was standing, his 
mouth agape in shock, and then shouted 
“Mummy!”
Mum came out of the kitchen 
rubbing her misted eyes. Having seen Dalavoy, she grew staggered.
- “Oh, come, 
come, Mr. Taxman”
– she said, her voice trembled.