The Center for Central Asian Literatures in Translation

ANOTHER REMINISCENCE

WHY MR MONKHOOROI THE ARTIST
HEAVED A LONG SIGH

As I gallop over the three chestnut horses of Orloi, I see lightning flash above the northern Shüütiin Gobi, the evening sun of autumn shimmering on the lines tethering the cattle.

I'm thinking about this man called Monkhooroi, whose was famous everywhere.  He wasn't so old, he was fit and well-preserved.  Once, when I was a child, I was amazed to see he had a sewing machine made from wood.  Just imagine, it was wooden right down to the needles.  The museum guide turned to us, he was sobbing a little, and explained:

"So, children, this is an artist's legacy left to us."  His words ring in my ears even today.  The friendly old guide told us how the artist Yarinpel would draw water from a well, how he built carts.  And as we were looking through the window, we saw a cuckoo singing, a car speeding by, a soaring plane, and people walking by, he pointed to the mobile box which carried us around.  Yarinpel had lived around here, and Monkhooroi had known him.

Monkhooroi told us,

"If I think about Yarinpel, you know, there wasn't a dog in town he couldn't make bark, not a vehicle he couldn't set in motion.  In fact he could turn his hand to anything.  The only thing you ever needed was Yarinpel.  To tell you just one of his skills, he could whittle any piece of wood crosswise into cords as fine as thread.  No trace of this man remains in this collection."   He looked at usfrom behind his glasses, his eyes almost lifeless.  He went on,

"I'm pleased you've come to pay your respects to this man, who left no visible trace in the world.  So now you can all disappear, once the rain has passed.  But you know, I thought it was dreadful, a real shame, that there was nothing here to represent Yarinpel.  I went to the main town of the aimag and said to the people in charge,

"‘We'll not see a man like that again.  Whatever you do, you need to preserve the cream of his talents.'  They got the idea.  They got on the phone and a car was sent to pick up Yarinpel.  I went along to meet him.  But as we came out of a low mountain-pass towards the main town of the sum, there was a camel cart bearing the body of an old man they were going to bury...".  The old man heaved a long sigh, his expression was like the sudden darkening of autumn skies.

I figured I should say something.

"Is that it?" I asked awkwardly.  Monkhooroi considered:

"Well, he'd come to a bad end at the hands of some random official.  But he was the one who did the most for me.  He was a horseman with wisdom to the tip of his whip."

"And where is he now?"

""Oh, he ended up in a grotty little coffin."

"So what happened?"

"The governor of the aimag, Dambarinchin, came by car to see me.  It was clear that this was an important person from the town, he was smart, his hair cut short, back and sides, brylcreemed, he fairly gleamed.  This official went off with one of my engravings.  He door wasn't fully closed and I could hear him talking.  This man's work is really fragile, he was saying, It won't survive being handled."  I sprang to my feet and, without looking back, walked straight home.  If I think about it now, I was wearing a brand new lambskin deel.  In my pocket, I kept a whip made of animal hair threaded and tied in loops, and it had gotten broken.  It's a shame, this was the last thing I made."  And he let out another long sigh.

It was as though the bitter wind was upholding Monkhooroi's long sigh, it blew its long gusting breaths across that autumn evening and clattered noisily down the chimney flue while we spoke.  It was all we could do to make it outside, the sun shimmered on the tethering line and rolled its last rays away, over the mountains and down into obscurity.

A deep sadness remained in my mind after all of this, that the lineage of Dariganga artists had been broken.  Things were blossoming and decaying everywhere.  When people were proud of where they lived, when they didn't forget anything about it, the world was in harmony, and I trusted that, whilst the laws remained intact, all things would turn in motion, as the flowers drop their leaves in autumn and once again bloom in spring.

The water in the spring begins to bubble.  And this spring bursts forth from the land.  I say a prayer: