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Message: <blockquote data-quote="sachii" data-source="post: 9058533" data-attributes="member: 126652">page 4was the collective farm'smi r ab (the man who regulates the flow of water inirrigation ditches), and spent all his waking hours in the fields. Occasionally,he'd ride down our street, a big hoe tied to his saddle, and his horse was like itsmaster-bony and slim of leg. Years later, I remember someone mentioning thatDuishen was now the village postman. But that's all by the way. In those daysmy idea of a Komsomol member was a young man, quick to act and speak, awonderful worker and the bravestdji gi t in the village, who'd stand up at ameeting and speak his mind, or write to the newspaper about loafers andthieves. And I simply could not imagine this docile, bearded old man as aKomsomol member and, more amazing still, teaching school when he himselfcould hardly read and write. I just couldn't see it, that's all. To be quite honest, Iwas sure it was one of those many tall stories circulating in our village.However, I was wrong...Last autumn I received a telegram from my home village. It was an invitation to the opening ceremony of the new school built by the collective farmers withtheir own hands. I immediately made up my mind to go; how could I miss agreat day like that in our village? I arrived a few days early, because I wanted towalk about and make some new drawings of my native district. AcademicianSulaimanova had also been invited, I was told. She was expected to spend acouple of days in the village and then go on to Moscow.I knew that this celebrated woman had left our village when she was no more than a child. I met her when I too, became a townsman. She was already pastmiddle age, a statuesque woman with plenty of gray in her glossy black hair.She headed a chair at the university, lectured on philosophy, worked at theAcademy and often went abroad. Academician Sulaimanova was a very busywoman and so I was not able to get to know her well, but whenever we met sheinvariably asked me for news of our home village, and never failed to saysomething, even if only a few words, about my new paintings. One day Iworked up enough courage to say to her:“Altynai Sulaimanovna, why do you never go back home for a stay? They're so proud of you there, they know all about you but more from hearsay, and thevillage folk grumble sometimes that you don't want to know them, seeing thatyou've never honored your native Kurkureu with a visit.”“Yes, of course, I must go there one day,” she answered with a wistful smile.“I’ve been dreaming of seeing Kurkureu for a long time, I haven't been there for</blockquote>

Verification: Asuwa dahayen wadi kalama keeyada?

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