To my mom

Today I was looking through my old papers and stumbled upon a writing which remembered me one of the most wonderful days of my life.
 

It was 4 years ago, in 2002, when I was passing my school final exams. The first exam to pass was Armenian language, a subject that I never have had any difficulties with. We sat in the huge auditorium and started writing the test. Teachers were passing through the rows as if answering pupils’ questions connected with technical part of the test, but in reality they were helping them.  Last point of the test was writing a composition. Two variants were offered- “Proud” and “If I were a painter”. I had to choose and write on one of them. So, having an intense longing for philosophy I started discussing what proud is, its advantages and disadvantages, so long and so forth. Later my teacher of language came up to me, read my writing and affirmed that I can write it in my fair copy. I was about doing it, when my mother, who is a teacher and was also in the examination board and all that time was helping other pupils but me, appeared above my head, looked through my composition and said angrily: “What is this? Couldn’t you write anything better? I will not admit this, write the other title”. I looked at my mom as if asking her not to ask it, because I had only 20  minutes left  till the end of the exam. But her decision was too firm and I did what I had to do. Later, when she came home late at night she said: “What did you do? You made  the whole examination board cry while checking your paper.” Then she smiled, stretched her arms and hugged me tenderly.
    What do you think I could write after such a strict maternal  look? I was in a loss that moment and only her strict look was attached in front of my eyes to which I will always be so grateful. That is the same look, also filled with endless love, which always lightens my mind and leads me out of all the difficult and decisive situations.
 

 

Եթե նկարիչ լինեի…
Եթե նկարիչ լինեի, կվերցնեի վրձինս ու կնկարեի մորս աչքերը: Կնկարեի նրա աչքերի կապույտ խորությունը, որ ծովինն է, թռչունների դայլայլը, որ երկնքինն է, կանաչ դաշտերը, որ գարունքինն են: Թե նայեիր մորս աչքերին, դու էլ կուզենայիր նկարիչ լինեիիր, որ նկարեիր նրա աչքերի թախիծը, որով պարուրված է նրա ուրախությունը, բարությունն ու հեզությունը:
Բայց… Ոչ, համոզված եմ, որ ներկապնակում այդ գույները չկան: Ես կընտրեի ամենապարզը` գծանկարը, այդ նուրբ ու երազկոտ, հուսառատ ու ժպտուն աչքերն ավելորդ գունավորման կարիք չունեն: Սակայն, նկարելիս կհանեի աչքերի մոտ հավաքված մանրիկ կնճիռները, որոնք անգութ տարիների հետքերն են: Դուրս կշպրտեի արցունքապարկը, որ էլ չթացվեին այդ աչքերը: Կջնջեի աչքերի թախիծը և այդ խորունկ աչքերում կավելացնեի անմար մի ժպիտ: Կբորբոքեի այն երբեմնի անմար կրակն ու փայլը, որ միշտ լուսավորել է իմ ճանապարհը: Սեր կներշնչեի նրա առանց այն էլ սիրով լի աչքերին: Ու դա դեռ բավ չէր լինի: Աչքերի խորին խորհում կթողնեի մաքուր մի անկյուն և այն կլցնեի հույսով, հավատով: Իսկ բարություն…. Չէ, ես դա չեի ավելացնի, նրա բարությունը կբավի ինձ էլ , մարդկությանն էլ:
Չէ, ես նկարիչ չեմ, բայց կնկարեմ մորս աչքերը, կնկարեմ իմ ուզած ձևով և վերջում կավելացնեմ.
« Ժպտա միշտ, մայր իմ, ժպտա, ծիծաղիր հավիտյան, վարակիր քո ծիծաղով մյուսներին էլ, ինձ էլ վարակիր: Թող որ փարվեմ քեզ հավիտյան ու ես էլ երջանկանամ քո ծիծաղի ներքո: Ես սիրում եմ քեզ, մայր իմ»:

 

 

If  your mother is somewhere near, turn to her and tell her how deep your love is. If she is far away, find her now, and let her know how much you love her. Thank her for giving you birth, for bearing the pain while delivering you, thank her for the sleepless nights she spent rocking your cradle and guiding your sound sleep, for the days she spent at your bed maintaining you and taking care while you were ill, and providing an endowment for your health.

Thank her for inspiring you and giving precious advice when you were in low spirits, for protecting you with her chest, for being so kind, for the efforts she put in you.

Thank her for who you are, thank her for loving you. And if you have ever hurt her with your careless actions, apologize for that, though be sure that her maternal heart  has forgiven you long ago.

… And don’t forget to shower her with embarrassments, kisses and flowers every day.
 

Մայրս` ձեզ համար
Խեղճ, անշուք մի մայր,
Ինձ` նշխար մի երգ,
Ինձ` մի տիեզերք,
Ինձ աշխարհ բերած
Մի նշխար աստված:

 

ՏՈՆԴ  ՇՆՈՐՀԱՎՈՐ, ՄԱՄ !!!

6 Responses to “To my mom”

  1. Nessuna Says:

    wow, what a beautiful essay…

  2. Zarchka Says:

    Nessuna, thanks dear…

  3. Nessuna Says:

    Translation is treason as they say but I felt like doing this anyway. It’s a free translation, and by no means even close to original in its beauty.

    If I would be a painter…

    If I would be a painter, I would take a brush and I would paint my mom’s eyes. I would paint the blue depth of her eyes, that of a sea, the chirping of birds, that of the sky, and the green meadows, those of the spring.
    If you would look into my mom’s eyes, you would want to be a painter yourself, if only to paint the melancholy in her eyes, which is present in her joy, kindness and softness.
    But wait… I’m sure I cannot find the colors I need. I would choose to do a simple sketch instead; those gentle, dreaming, hoping and smiling eyes do not need color anyway. I would take away all the little wrinkles that cruel years left as a trace on her face though. I would also get rid of the tear bag so that her eyes will never get wet again. I would erase the melancholy, and I would add an eternal smile to those profound eyes. I would bring back to her eyes the fire that once was there lightening my way. I would breathe love into her already loving eyes. But that is not all. In the deepest depth of her eyes, I would leave a little corner, and I would fill it with hope and faith. As for kindness… No, I would not need to add any; the kindness she possesses would suffice me and the rest of the world.
    No, I am not a painter, but I will paint my mom’s eyes, I will paint them my way and add at the end. “Always smile, mom, smile, laugh forever, infect the others with your laughter, and infect me. Let me embrace you and find happiness under the soft cover of your laughter. I love you, mom”.

  4. Zarchka Says:

    Thanks Nessuna, you will live longer than me, as I had the same intention, but you did it ahead. My purpose of lingering giving the translation was to make Diasporan readers try to read it in Armenian, because when one gives the translation at once, no one pays attention to its original. And while content and language form a certain unity in the original, like a fruit and its skin, the language of the translation envelops its content like a royal robe. This disjunction prevents translation and at the same time makes it superfluous.

    But you did it in a neat way, thank you, I’ll admit it as a present to 8th of March🙂 , if considered that I’m still ill and have to recover my health.
    And happy 8th of March you too and all women!!!

  5. Nessuna Says:

    You’re welcome, Zarchka. And yes, you’re right, translation can never convey the same mood and emotions to the reader that the original does.

  6. Oneworld Multimedia :: Notes from the Armenian Blogosphere :: March :: 2006 Says:

    […] Talking of Zarchka, March also brought with it International Women’s Day, and the young female blogger posts something she wrote for her mother in Armenian. Thankfully, Oneworld’s Nessuna translated the writing and left it in the comments section of Zarchka’s post, although I of course had words with her as to why she didn’t post it here first for the weekly Notes from the Armenian-language Blogosphere. Just kidding Nessuna… If I would be a painter… […]

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