The Center for Central Asian Literatures in Translation

THIS IS HOW THE STORY GOES....

I am standing in the space between the absense of my father, who has passed beyond this diverse world, and the presence of my two sons, the point at which they entered the world of Golden Hill.

I am standing at the edge of the road, I have climbed up and anointed the sacred mountain, its span so wide, and have descended the other side.

In which direction is this bare, red road going, twisting over the great steppe like unrolled copper?  When I was seven, I asked my father about it.

"Dad, where does this road lead?"

"To the main town of the sum, my son."

"So Dad, where is the road which leads to the main town of the aimag?"

"This road goes there too.  Once you've studied in the sum school, my son, then you'll go to the main town of the aimag."

"Where's the road which leads to Ulaanbaatar, Dad?"

"This is also the road which leads to Ulaanbaatar."

"I know, yes.  This road leads to the land of the Buddha!"  Father was choking with laughter.

"You're right there, my son.  They say all roads lead to Khuree.  This road leads right to the edge of the world...."

It is true, having followed this road myself to the main town of the sum, through the broad valley between the mountains, the one covered with feathergrass they call the Roadside Well, I sat in school and travelled the road of eternity to other distant lands, to the aimag, to Ulaanbaatar.  The long path through my life, stretching from my earliest experience of the sunlight, from the path from the morning sun to the evening moon, the path of mind from infancy into the vigor of youth, all paths in fact have a single beginning.

Now I am standing at the edge of the road leading to the lower slopes of my native mountain.  This road is the artery of eternal time which joins me with the universe, tens of thousands of feet are moving, striking out under the pulsing moments of history.

I am travelling the path of my homeland.

I travel the roads.
I note down traditions.
Like a bow
They bend and curve.
Like an arrow
They slip away and vanish.
Dancing upon the passes,
Thronging the valleys,
Drinking a toast to the hill,
I travel the roads.
I note down traditions.
Confused,
Complex,
These roads,
Open roads,
Small roads,
Indistinct tracks,
Like needles, they sew
The mists of history,
Like cord, they bind
The years and years.
Abandoned
Ancient tracks,
The knot of
Destiny.
The first way.
The distant way,
Eternally crossing over.
A trace remains.
I travel the roads.
I note down traditions.

The aim is to traverse the mountain pass, lost in a mirage, it is a wide and ancient track called Chinggis' Path.  Following Chinggis' Path upwards, a ger comes into view....

The ancestors, with their mottled horses, with whom I journeyed, explained the road to me.  Attempting, as I had been taught in school, to use Chinggis' Path to find the indistinct track which ran through the text, I sought to hook single words from the reminiscences of the old people, and I only later caught the pulsing warmth of one of the stories.