I dont really remember those years. I must have probably been two or two and a half years old at the time.
The women in our village, some of them old, some younger, who remember me from my infancy, told me recently how badly I was treated by the old woman who was my caretaker.
Here is one episode. I walked out into the yard barefoot one winter night to relieve myself, wearing nothing but my night shirt and then went to the door to get back inside. It is difficult even for an adult to open the door of a log house in winter, to say nothing about a child. Naturally, I was unable to open it and stood there until my feet froze to the ground.
My «benefactress» kept me outside in the cold, reasoning to herself: «I bet you, he wont kick the bucket, the fosterling.» She allowed me back into the house, swearing, whenever she felt like it.
The old woman is now deceased, may Allah bless her soul!
While I lived there, my mother, was apparently doing well at this mullahs, so one day she sent horses from Sasna to fetch me.
Those horses drove me to Sasna.
I am actually not writing the story down just from other peoples words. During these minutes, as I was driven by these horses, even though I was only a small child, I had an insight, a kind of revelation. I still imagine it as a memory how it felt to be in a vast and beautiful world and to see the bright rays of the sun sparkling with color on the road ahead.
I finally reached the village. I dont remember how and by whom I was greeted in Sasna, but the kindness of my stepfather and how he gave me white bread with my tea spread with fresh comb honey, and how overjoyed I was all this is imprinted in my memory as a brief dream.
However, my joy was short-lived. My mothers life with the mullah lasted for only a year or so, and then she got ill I dont know the nature of the disease and died.
I know practically all of this from other people because only rare, special moments could be preserved in the memory of a child that young.
Im writing this from my memory now: how, realizing that my deceased mother was being carried out the house, I rushed out of the gates in tears, barefoot and skimpily dressed, and shouted, «Dont take my mom away, give me my mom!» Then I kept running after the funeral procession for a long time.
After my mothers death, I became an orphan. Living in the mullahs house didnt work out and he sent me to Uchile, to stay with my maternal grandfather. My grandmother on my mothers side passed away when my mother was still a young girl, and grandfather chose as his wife the widow of another mullah who had six children.
The village of Uchile4 was a very small and poor one, as confirmed by its name. To make things even worse, in the years when I was orphaned there was a severe famine in this area and my grandfather had a hard time making ends meet.
So I was placed in this impoverished family with too many mouths to feed
For my step grandmother I was like a strange jackdaw among her six doves, and there was no one to comfort me, when I was crying, or hug me, when I wanted to snuggle up, or feel sorry for me and give me something to eat or drink when I was hungry or thirsty. The only things I received were rebukes and punches.
The family had grown so destitute that I still remember how my grandfather would bring chunks of bread from wealthier neighboring villages.
This was how my childhood days unfolded. I was also down with chickenpox during that time, and suffered many other injuries, which had bad consequences.
Everyone in the family (except for one of the daughters, Sazhida, who was a little older) responded the same way to any illness I had: «If he passes, therell be one mouth less to feed!»
I still remember, how Sazhida apa5, whom I just mentioned, comforted me and how affectionate she was secretly from her mother. But the moment she approached, Sazhida would start acting as a totally indifferent person who doesnt have any relation to me.
Since those days, I preserve her memory in my soul like an angel. As soon as I start thinking about her, I see in my minds eye a pure, snow-white angel.
But whatever I may have experienced in this house, I was clearly a burden to the family. One day my grandfather, perhaps at his wifes suggestion, placed me in a carriage, next to the driver from our village, and sent me to Kazan.
After we arrived in Kazan (our village was only sixty miles away), the driver took me to Hay Market where he walked around, shouting: «Who will agree to care after this child? Who will take this child?» A man came out from the crowd and took me from the driver. He promised to look after me for an indefinite amount of time and brought me to his home.
I now see my life in his house, as though looking at it through half-open eyes.
For instance, I remember how once, when my eyes were hurting during some illness, I was taken to an old woman, and she dripped sugary water in my eyes. I resisted and tried to fend her off.
Let me write something now about the life of my new parents. The name of the man who became my adopted father was Muhammedvali, and my adopted mothers name was Gaziza. They lived in Kazans New Quarter. My father either sold stuff at the flea market or was a tanner I dont remember it all that well. My mother spent the whole day sewing embroidered skullcaps for wealthy men.
When mother took the skullcaps to the Hay Market or visited the homes of some rich people on business she sometimes took me with her.
I looked at the fancy decor of the rich houses, the large mirrors covering the walls from the floor to ceiling, the clocks with chimes that sounded like church bells, the huge organs the size of large chests, and I thought that people here lived in paradise. During one such visit to a wealthy bai6, I saw a peacock strutting in front of the house. His tail, adorned with jewels and gold, sparkled in the sun. I was stunned with admiration.
Since both my father and mother had work, I didnt go hungry while living with them.
Sometimes I went to the bazaar in Tashayak7 with my mother and I looked hungrily at various toys lying on the counters. I was jealous of the boys who were having fun riding on scooters or rocking on wooden horses.
I also wanted to mount a wooden horse, but I didnt have any money. I was afraid to ask mother to give me some, and she didnt guess.
Then I would return home, getting my fill of other peoples joy.
I will also never forget how I chased clumps of goose down with the other boys on the green meadow between the two quarters, and how, exhausted, I relaxed on the grass, facing the Khan Mosque8.
After about two years of living with my adopted parents, they both suddenly fell ill. Concerned that they might not survive and thinking: «What will happen to the poor child if we should die? We should at least have someone take him back to his native village», they sought out the driver who brought me to Kazan and asked him to take me to Uchile.
It is not hard to imagine the greeting I received from the family which believed that they had gotten rid of me for good.
Sometime later, losing hope that they might find someone in the city, my grandparents began to consider how they could give me away to someone in another village.
They told everyone who would come from other villages about the orphan whom they must give away to be cared after.
As the result of all their inquiries, a man named Sagdi, who didnt have a son, came from the village of Kyrlai, only seven miles away from us, and took me along with him.
From this point in my narrative I will relate the story of my life not from the words of other people but as I myself recall what happened.