0 Mohammed, friend of Allah, help the bard;

Let his labour be successful, not too hard!

It is said that under Haroon-al-Rasheed

A brave jigit, Mas’hood by name, lived inBaghdad.

 

Mas’hood went out of town one summer day

(What purpose he pursued I cannot say)

And there he saw a thief who meant to rob

An old and helpless man upon his way.

 

In vain the poor old man called out for aid;

For everyone who saw them was afraid.

Yet, wishing to relieve the stranger’s plight,

Mas’hood attacked the robber undismayed.

 

He grappled with the thief in mortal strife

Who wounded our brave hero with his knife.

And like a slinking jackal took to flight.

Then, safe and sound, to thank him for his life

 

Up came the man and noticed how he bled—

The knife had left a deep gash in his head.

The man decided to repay the lad in kind,

So after thinking for a while, he said:

 

“With all my heart I thank you, bold jigit,

You showed real courage and should be repaid  for it.

You saved me from inevitable death;

Allah reward you for your noble deed.

 

“No bai  am I and no batyr or khan;

One out of many—just an ordinary man.

You rescued me, a simple man. If anyone

Can value courage in a noble youth, I can.

 

 

 

“A stranger here, I come from distant parts.

Tomorrow I am going to depart.

I ask you, son, to come and visit me

And take the present which I give from all my  heart.

 

“I doubt if anybody could be braver.

Allah himself has sent you as my saviour.

For Allah’s sake I earnestly implore you

To let me shake your hand now as a favour.”

 

“I simply took your side against a thief.

It was my duty, not a noble feat, believe.

But since you ask me now in Allah’s name,

” Said the jigit, “Your offer I’ll receive.”

 

At dawn Mas’hood set off as he was told.

The man already waited, bent and old.

He took Mas’hood and led him by the hand

Into a graveyard, lone and sorry to behold.

 

There by a tomb a single fruit-tree stood

On which there grew three ripe and shapely fruit,

One white, one yellow and the third one red.

“Choose any,” said his guide, “for all are good.

 

“The white one makes you wisest of all men,

The yellow makes you wealthy beyond  ken.

But if you choose the fruit that’s coloured red

All women in the world will love you then.”

 

Long thought the lad about the old man’s words

The first and second fruit his fancy had not stirred.

“It seems to me, o venerable father,

I’ll take the red,” at last the old man heard.

 

“My saviour, you are free to make your choice.

Yes, take it, and I wish you to rejoice.

But why did you reject the other two?”

The old man asked him in a pleasant voice.

 

“Had I preferred the white one,” said the lad,

“A mind of mighty power I could have had.

But I would rather not become a sage

For then indeed my fate would have been sad.

 

“In wisdom nobody would equal me;

By troublemakers envied would I be.

And then, not finding wise and honest friends,

No peace of mind or comfort would I see.

 

“And so my soul would always be tormented.

I’d lose my sleep and never feel contented.

Exhausted to the limit by attempts

To quell the stupid noise by fools fomented.

 

 

“And if the yellow fruit should bring me riches

My welfare would cause envy in the vicious

And all of them would permanently dream

Of profiting from me by means malicious.

 

“They’d hound my steps, pursue me night and day

And seek to flatter me in every way,

For people nowadays all dream of gain;

So riches, too, would take my peace away.

 

“To profit without labour is a crime;

Wisdom and avarice, we know, do not combine.

But, I regret to say that worries no one.

You seldom meet unselfish friendship in our time.

 

“Purchasing friends is filthy and dishonest.

If we don’t pay them well, they pounce upon us

And call us curs, so both at last prove dogs—

Recipients of bribes as well as donors.

 

“But if I eat the red one, loved I’ll be,

My conscience clear, my breast of worries free.

And who would not be glad to have as friends

The better half of all humanity?

 

“It is quite clear that every person ought to

Have somebody—a mother, wife or daughter,

And one of them is sure to take my side

Against ill-wishers, tsars or simple mortals.

 

 

“The world is full of enmity and strife;

Feuds and dissention poison people’s life.

If any man should plot to ruin me

I’d be defended by his daughter or his wife.

 

“And so I choose the fruit with the red rind;

I’ll take it, if you have not changed your mind.

Now you can see my choice is not haphazard;

I think my reason’s well enough defined.”

 

“Take it, my son, your choice is not amiss.

I see you’re wise and wealthy as it is.

And may it profit you!” the old man blessed  Mas’hood,

Well satisfied by every word of his.

 

No common mortal was that man so shrewd and  kind,

But Great Kydyr, the patron of mankind,

Who gave his blessing to the bold jigit Mas’hood,

Pleased with his noble deed and sober mind.

 

As legend and tradition still maintain,

The old man’s blessings weren’t bestowed in vain.

Mas’hood became known as Shamsi Zhtkhan,

Of all men most omniscient and humane.

 

 

But apropos, as rumour has it, those

Who wrought disharmony and filled the world  with woes,

Perverting spirits or obtaining wealth by stealth,

Used women, too, as instruments, God knows.

 

‘Twas so before; then should we feel surprise

Now, when there’s neither honest men nor wise.

If this were not my native soil with cherished  graves,

I’d flee from here and break off all my ties.

 

 

Tis also said Mas’hood was made vizier

And ruled a Caliphate with conscience clear

Until one night he slept and had a dream

In which he saw again the Great Kydyr.

 

“On such and such a day,” he said, “my lad,

There will be rain with water foul and bad.

So poisonous indeed that for a week

Whoever drinks it will go raving mad.

 

“It will befoul all rivers, wells and streams

Throughout the country, to its furthermost   extremes.

No remedy is there against that rain

But to store up fresh water ere it comes.”

 

Mas’hood told the Caliph what he had heard

By which his Majesty was grievously disturbed.

So on the eve of the expected shower

Mas’hood bade water for the palace to be stored.

 

 

Then came the day of which the wise old man  had warned.

The people lost their reason; quarrels stormed.

It seemed as if all hell had broken loose;

Nobody ate or drank, by hatred burned.

 

 

One day the rabid mob with senseless cries

Came to the court. The Khan’s and Vizier’s eyes

Beheld an extraordinary sight:

A frenzied crowd of most uncommon size.

 

Then to the people the Caliph came out

And made a speech while they went on to shout.

“0 my poor people, you have fallen mad.

Go home and sleep, and it will pass, no doubt.”

 

The crowd surged back with shout and curse and  oath,

And so it went until somebody quoth:

“The Khan and his Vizier are surely mad.

Before there’s mischief done, let’s kill them both.”

 

Deciding thus, the noisy crowd returned.

When the Caliph about their verdict learned

He realised the danger that he faced

And to his Chief Vizier for counsel turned.

 

“There is no way out of the situation

But to share the plight of our demented nation.

Or else the crazy crowd who think us mad

Will kill us,” said Mas’hood on meditation.

 

And forthwith, drinking the foul water, they  appeared

Before the mob and with it raved and jeered.

Now all the crowd fell on their knees before  their sire

And begged forgiveness, after which all cheered.

 

Little by little now the crowd dispersed

And to their homes at last their steps reversed,

And so it happened that a senseless crowd

Drove mad two men who had been sane at first.

 

 

 

And so it is with mobs until this day.

Beware, O you who in this world hold sway:

Unenviable is the fate of those

Who leave a crazy mob to have its way.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

 A.Kunanbayev. Poems. / Designed by V.Chistyakov. Moscow, 1971