In those days when camels carried news, fleas served as barbers, and even though I was small, I rocked my mother’s cradle, a husband and wife lived in the same kingdom. Their names were Khyly and Dyly. Each of them had a mouth, but no tongue, they didn’t even hint to anyone that he had an eyebrow above his eye, they were afraid of offending even an ant. That’s why they were loved throughout the city and no one said “two” when husband and wife said “one.” Not wanting to be a burden to anyone, they said: “Food without hassle, head without worries” - and cooked dinner in a frying pan and ate from the lid. This is how they made ends meet.
Khyly and Dyly did not covet either money or livestock, and only asked for one favor from Allah: they really wanted a child, someone who would make them happy, so that someone could pour water on their hands in their old age.
But no matter what they did, no matter what vows they made, no matter how much they fasted, Allah did not heed their pleas.
One day, while Khyly was collecting firewood and wood chips, Dyly lit the tyndyr and baked bread. It was on the eve of Ramadan. Having prepared the dough, she made chureki and put them in the oven, made pies and put them on a tray. There was a handful of flour left at the bottom of the bag. But Dya didn’t have any curdled milk to make the stew, and it was a pity to throw it away. She began to think about what else she could bake. And then something came to her mind that she called out to her husband: “Khyly!”
The husband turned his head:
- What else do you have there, restless Dyshy?
- What could I have, effendi? Our years pass, earthly affairs end, and we are already standing waist-deep in the ground. Allah did not give us a child, but let us not lose hope. After all, even a dry tree is given green blood! What if, after reading the prayer, I roll out the dough and fashion a doll? Let the body be from us, and the soul from Allah... We have tried so many means, let’s try this too. If the branches on which we rely break, then it’s not our destiny.
Her husband really liked her words:
- Well, you are so smart, my wife! Do as you plan. Maybe Allah will finally send us a child. Just remember: you need to sculpt so that the face is in front, the back of the head is behind, and the arms and legs are straight.
This instruction from the husband greatly offended the wife:
“I’m ashamed to listen to such words, Khyly.” Not a single person will spare bread for his son, and I will do everything as it should. But you can’t mold eyebrows and eyes from dough. You spoke, I listened, listen to me too. Now you'll have to go to the market: for rosy cheeks you need apples, for scarlet lips - cherries. Buy another pencil and let his eyebrows be black. Buy raisins - let his eyes be sweet. Of course, our intelligence and character are enough for a child. But a son needs not one, but two handfuls of intelligence, and a daughter needs at least a handful of cunning. But you can’t buy all this at the market and you can’t put it in your bag... Intelligence can only be found in Keloglan, cunning - in the padishah’s daughter... What you can, take, what you can’t take, steal. How can you!
What could Khyly answer to these wise words? He went to the market, saying: “Give me, neighbor, and mark it on the wall,” and began to pay and take.
Dishy already stood at the kneading bowl, made the dough, and put it in the oven. And the child appeared... You couldn’t look at him enough, you just wanted to kiss his face, eyes, hands, feet. Our spouses' mouths stretched to their ears. A little more and they would have died of joy, but Allah preserved them. They abandoned all their affairs, forgot their worries, and stood near their son all the time. Then the wife whispers:
- Hyly, should I tell you something? The child looks at me.
Then the husband:
- Should I tell you? He smiles at me.
Finally, reason returned to them, and they began to think about what name to give their son, but they could not choose. And while they were thinking and grieving, the child himself suddenly spoke:
- Let my name be Chytchytyl-bey.
Here they both lost their minds again. And one wants to take the child in his arms, and the other, and one pulls him towards him, and the other. And no one knows how it happened, only Chytchytyl-bey’s left hand ended up with Khyla, his right hand with Dysha, and he himself, without arms, without wings, fell into a jug of milk... The milk spilled onto the floor, mother and father began to tear out their hair.
The nightingales heard their cries and, flying up to them, sat down on a rose branch:
- Oh Khyly, Khyly, oh restless Dyshy! Isn’t the world collapsing, are you and forty orphans in a cave? Why are you tearing out your hair?
They, crying and sobbing, told him:
- Don’t ask, nightingale, don’t ask! Chytchytyl Bey fell into a jug of milk, the milk spilled onto the floor; Who should tear out hair if not us?
The nightingale heard this and moaned so sadly that even the mountains and stones caught fire. From his sighs the pink branch was completely covered with thorns.
- Oh nightingale, nightingale! she asked. - I am your rose, your color. Why are you moaning so sadly?
Nightingale replied:
“Don’t ask, my rose, don’t ask.” Chytchytyl Bey fell into a jug of milk, the milk spilled onto the floor, father and mother were tearing out their hair. Who should sigh if not me?
The nightingale rose heard the complaints, turned pale, faded and lost color and smell.
The poplar noticed this, leaned towards the pink branch and touched it with its branches:
- Pink branch, pink branch! You are scarlet in this world, you are green in this world! Why have you faded and turned pale?
The thread replied:
- Don't ask, poplar, don't ask. Chytchytyl Bey fell into a jug of milk, the milk spilled onto the floor, the father and mother were tearing their hair out, the moans of the nightingale set the mountains and stones on fire, but can a rose be separated from the nightingale? So I lost my scent!
The poplar heard her words, and its branches withered and its leaves fell.
Saw this source:
- Oh poplar, silver poplar! What's wrong with you? Summer has not yet passed, autumn has not yet arrived, but your branches have already dried up and you have lost your leaves!
The poplar’s sadness was so strong that it bent down to the ground:
- Don't ask, source, don't ask. Chitchytyl Bey fell into a jug of milk, the milk spilled onto the floor, his father and mother were tearing out their hair, the moans of the nightingale set the mountains and stones on fire, the pink branch lost its color and smell... And I am losing my green leaves!
The shepherd's spring, hearing the poplar's complaints, began to cry tears of blood.
And at that very time, Keloglan, with a staff in his hand, was walking to the source for water. When he saw blood gushing from a source, his blood froze in his veins.
- Source, source, sad source! What Keram's fire lit you up, why are you bleeding? he asked.
The source replied:
“Don’t ask, Keloglan, don’t ask!” Chitchytyl Bey fell into a jug of milk, the milk spilled onto the floor, the moans of the nightingale set the mountains and stones on fire, the pink branch lost its color and smell, even the poplar began to drop its branches and leaves... I am crying tears of blood.
Hearing this, Keloglan struck the stone with his staff so hard that he broke it, and cried so much that his eyes became two sources.
The old shepherd saw this.
“Oh Keloglan, oh bald oglan,” he said. “The man doesn’t even hit the stone with an ax, but you hit it with your staff.” What happened, why are you crying so much?
Keloglan closed his eyes and spoke:
“Don’t ask, venerable shepherd, don’t ask.” Chytchytyl Bey fell into a jug of milk. And now I cry that I can be left without a bey, without an effendi. The milk spilled on the floor: I was crying that I would be left without cream and milk. Khyly and Dysh are tearing out their hair - I cry that they will plan to do this to me... The moans of the nightingale set the mountains and stones on fire - I cry, lest the fire spread to our fields... The rose has lost its color and smell - I cry that I won’t get rose oil for the holiday... The leaves of the silver poplar have fallen off, the branches have dried up - I cry that I will no longer hide in its shadows... It’s not water that gushes from the shepherd’s spring, but blood—I’m crying that I won’t taste the cold, pure water now
water. You see how many troubles have fallen on my head. If not me, then who should cry?
So spoke Keloglan. Hearing his speech, the shepherd said:
- Hey, Keloglan! Should you cry? Think about it, you are not sad about others, but only about yourself, about yourself. “Oh, suddenly I’ll be left without butter, without cream, oh, suddenly I’ll be left without arms, without legs!”
Hearing his words, Keloglan scratched his bald head.
back of the head:
- But what you say is true, shepherd! And why didn’t I spare my tears? I’m not so sad that I can cry myself and wait for someone else to mourn me. I'm not used to shedding my tears. If a person has nails, then he should only scratch his head. If he has eyes, then he should cry only because of his sorrows. After all, in this world there is no end to other people's sorrows...
The shepherd shook his head:
“Oh, Keloglan, you’ve said a lot, but it’s all out of place!” If it were according to your words, would strangers be so sad about Chyt-chytyl-bey? And you, if you consider yourself a human being, be conscientious, do not separate from people, and cry with them, and laugh with them. And if you are also a horseman, then build a house for those who are tired on the road. After all, the world can only be changed by the hands of good people!
That's what the shepherd said. But when Keloglan turned around, he saw neither the shepherd nor the flock...
Then he hit himself on the forehead and sat down on a stone by the source: he sits and thinks about the shepherd’s speeches, and thinks about his eyes, which he saw so poorly.
Here he was immediately cured of his stupidity; got up and went to Khyla and Dyla’s house.
They are sitting, and suddenly they see the door open, and Chyt-Chytyl runs in. He rushes to kiss their hands and floors.
- Let me kiss your hand, father! - he says to Hyly.
- Let me kiss your hand, mother! - he says to Dyshy. Then he sat down on their laps:
- How come you didn’t recognize me? I am Keloglan, the child of every family. But now I will only be your son. I’ll die where you tell me, I’ll stay where you tell me!
Khyly and Dyshy couldn’t believe their eyes:
- O our son! Allah himself sent you to us.
They say this, hug and press Keloglan to their heart. Then Khyly said:
- See, my wife! Didn’t I tell you that you need to rely on the Almighty in everything? He sent us the kind of son that all fathers and all mothers dream of. While we are alive, he will bring us water, and when we die, he will bury us with honor. Isn't this the kind of child we wanted?
From that day on, they lived happily, ate, drank, and achieved their desires.
Three apples fell from the sky. One is for the one who invented and told the fairy tale, the other is for the one who read or listened. I blessed the third apple and now dedicate it to the soul of the son of man.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru