Birzhan-sal’s “Zhanbota”
Summer 1865. It was unusually boisterous in Kokshetau: they were awaiting the governor-general from Omsk. Not only the city, but the whole district was excited. The final preparations were being made. On the spacious lawn out of town there were set rich, white yurts for the guests of honour. The whole district elite, the «Fathers of the Nation» gathered there: district rulers, bais, and biis. The conceited Aksary district ruler Zhanbota, trying to excel all the rivals, set some yurts apart and ordered cattle slaughtered and meat cooked at some distance, so that the blood odour, hearth fumes and smoke would not bother the governor-general and his suite. Another district ruler Aznabai wished to keep up with Zhanbota. He ordered to join some yurts together, to make a long spacious «hall» and decorate it with expensive carpets. From time immemorial Kazakh tribes, districts and auls quarrelled with each other. Djigits dangled after Aznabai, ready to do everything in order to outdo the neighbouring district ruler Zhanbota. All of them hurried, ran to and from and were excited. Only nature remained calm. Recently it had rained a little, the earth was moist, the rain beat down the dust, then the sun appeared and all around it smelled sweet. At that time there sounded a song in one of Zhanbota’s yurts. Everybody calmed down, listening to the song. There had never been such a singer in this land. His voice charmed everybody. Zhanbota in his yurt also listened to the strong singer, sweetly screwing up his eyes. The singer’s voice made many of the people forget all their enmity. Aznabai’s djigits one by one went to Zhanbota’s yurts and breathlessly listened to the singer. It made Aznabai angry. He was angry because the singer didn’t stay at his yurt, but at his hated rival’s. Aznabai sent his messenger - his «Poshtabai» - to drive them out of there. But the bai’s lash was powerless against the song. Aznabai again called for the messenger.
- Come and bring this bawler to me, he said. Let him yell in my yurt! Tell him that I shall pay him three times as much as Zhanbota. If he will not obey, you know what to do! «Poshtabai» rushed to the yurt, where the singer was singing, forced a smile and crossing the threshold, courteously greeted him. According to custom, they let the guest have the proper place. «Poshtabai» kneeling before him on one knee, told him politely Aznabai’s order. The singer kept silence. He had finished singing a song, fell to thinking, he was probably in the power of music. Then he smiled dreamily and sang again. The messenger was waiting for him with patience. When the singer had finished singing, he repeated his master’s order. As if threatening him, he squeezed the lash tighter. The singer said that he wasn’t lured with Aznabai’s promises, that he had come here in order to sing, play, but not to gather rich gifts and therefore he wouldn’t go away from here. «Poshtabai” having become furious at such answer, hit him soundly twice by the lash and seized his dombra. The messenger was attacked, torn from dombra and pushed out from yurt. «Poshtabai» went back where he came from, cursing. The singer was offended and humiliated. He looked at his dombra, his true companion and threatening arm, and rushed to Zhanbota’s yurt. Without permission, the singer burst into his yurt and with an angry, piercingly loud voice, full of offence and fury, sang. The song was born instantly, as an outburst, a breakthrough. It was a cry from the heart, the moan of wounded honour. Many were excited and happy by that fiery song. Aznabai’s messenger’s lash offended not only the singer, but also those who sympathised with him, who were deprived of rights in that wolfish world. The singer was not frightened, he returned blow for blow, and he beat badly and precisely. Zhanbota, listening to the singer, turned pale purple, flushed with anger and people understood that the song had hit its mark -the singer had revenged himself upon the offenders and enemies. The district ruler swung bodily to the singer, opened his swollen eyes and roared at him with all his might: - Enough! Stop! Stop howling! See, he’s got it in his head to complain! The singer gave the ruler a puzzled look. The singer himself was guilty, dared to complain to the ruler, but not Aznabai’s «Poshtabai» who had lashed him and tried to snatch the dombra out of his hands. After hearing those words the singer sang again the furious refrain as if showing that he expressed everything, turned round and left the yurt. Birzhan returned to the yurt where he had sung his songs, dressed himself for the road and said to the gathered people:

There are no judges honest on the earth.
Who is trusted to judge? The Mullah is.
 Mullah muttering prayers stupidly...
But a poor man is rendered homage by one gravedigger.
The truth vanished on the earth long ago, no one can find it out.
Who can judge, if lies rule the world...
The trotter is caught in passing by the lasso,
but the slow ass wins the prize!