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~Chinghiz Aitmatov||Guru Geethaya~ - 12-21-2010, 09:41 AM

I would like to talk about this novel.. is there anyone who has read this book? ... this is my favorite novel i have read... who else? ........

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Last edited by sachii; 12-21-2010 at 09:55 AM.
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12-21-2010, 09:47 AM




Last edited by sachii; 12-21-2010 at 09:52 AM.
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12-21-2010, 09:51 AM

Yes sister..... this is my favrit novl too.... punchi potak.... eth loku katawak.... hama pituwakma kiyawaddi katawa mavila penawa......
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12-21-2010, 09:52 AM

read from here
if you interest...

http://www.scribd.com/doc/4860482/Du...ingiz-aitmatov
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12-21-2010, 09:53 AM

Quote:
Originally Posted by wijendra View Post
Yes sister..... this is my favrit novl too.... punchi potak.... eth loku katawak.... hama pituwakma kiyawaddi katawa mavila penawa......
ye godak ayage life eka change karana potha.. ea wagema life ekata godak dewal ganna tiyana pothak..
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12-21-2010, 09:59 AM

i have an old book which my mom used
thanks for the post
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12-21-2010, 10:02 AM

http://lankahq.net/old/ehipillamakyata/1/


story එකට interest අය මේකත් බලන්න !!
epi 1 බලන්න ,
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12-21-2010, 10:02 AM

page 2

first thing you see are the two poplars, standing on that hill like beacons for all
to see. I can't clearly explain my feeling-- perhaps it's because the memories of
childhood are particularly precious, or maybe it has something to do with my
being a professional artist--but anyway, every time I leave the train and start
driving homeward across the plain, I stare my eyes out while still a long way off
to see if my dear poplars are there safe and sound. Tall though they are, I could
hardly expect to see them from that distance, but to me they are always visible
and tangible.

The many times I drove back to Kurkureu from faraway places, I always had

that nostalgic feeling: “Will I see my twin poplars soon? Will I ever reach home?
All I want is to go up that hill and stand under the trees for a long, long time,
listening to the murmur of their leaves.”

Later, many years later, I discovered the secret of the poplars. They Stand on a

rise, open to all winds, the slightest motion of the air affects them, and their
every leaf responds sensitively to the tiniest breeze.

The discovery of this simple truth did not disappoint me in the least, nor did it

rob me of my childish attitude towards them, which I retain to this day. And to
this day I think of those two poplars on the hill as wonderful, living things.
There, at their foot, I left my childhood, like a broken piece of green magic glass..

On the last day of school before our summer holidays began, a crowd of us

would go there to rifle birds' nests, racing up the hill with whoops and yells.
And the giants, swaying from side to side, seemed to be murmuring an
invitation for us to come into their cool shade. But we, a bunch of barefooted
scamps, would scramble up into the branches and raise havoc in the birds'
kingdom. The birds would take wing and wheel above our heads with loud
cries. But we didn't care. What was it to us? We climbed higher and higher--let's
see who's the nimblest and bravest! And then suddenly, as if by magic, we'd see
a beautiful world of space and light unfolding before us. The grandeur of that
world was staggering. With bated breath we'd gaze down, spellbound and
motionless, each on his own branch, and forget all about our nest-rifling plans.
The collective farm stables, which we had always thought the biggest building
in the world, appeared no grander than an ordinary woodshed. And beyond the
village stretched the virgin steppe, floating, it seemed, in a shimmering haze.
Peering into the bluish distance we would see more land whose existence we
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12-21-2010, 10:07 AM

ගුරු ගීතය!
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12-21-2010, 10:07 AM

page 3

never suspected and rivers we knew nothing about, glimmering silver threads
in the distance. And clinging to our branches we would wonder: is that the end
of the earth, or is there a sky like ours, are there clouds, steppes and rivers like
ours beyond that too? We would listen to the haunting music of the winds, and
the leaves all whispering together would speak of the enchantment of those
mysterious lands hidden behind the bluish haze.

I would listen to the swish of the leaves, my heart hammering from fear and
excitement as I tried to picture those distant lands. I remember now that it never
occurred to me to wonder who planted those poplars. What did that unknown
person dream about, what did he say when he placed the roots of the young
trees into the soil, with what hopes did he tend them and watch them grow?

For some unknown reason, our villagers have always called the hill where the
poplars stand “Duishen's school.” I remember hearing a man who was looking
for his horse asks a passer-by: “I say, you haven't seen my bay hereabouts, have
you?” And the answer: There were some horses grazing up there near Duishen's
school last night. Maybe your bay's there too.” We kids also called the hill
Duishen's school, giving the name no thought, simply imitating the grown-ups.
“Come on, let's go to Duishen's school and give the sparrows a good scare,”
someone would say.

Once upon a time there was a school on this hill, people said. No trace of it was
left that I ever saw. As a child I went looking for some signs of the building, but
though I searched and searched I never found anything. Later, it did strike me
as strange that a bare hill should be called “Duishen's school”, and one day I
asked our old men who Duishen had been. One of them answered with a
careless shrug: “Duishen? Why, he lives here now, he's Duishen of the Limping
Sheep clan. It was all a long time ago; Duishen was a Komsomol member then.
There was a tumbledown shed on that hill, and Duishen started a school in it.
He taught children, he did. Some school that was, it was not worth the name!
Ah yes, those were queer times! In those days it was catch a horse by the mane
and put your foot in the stirrup, and then you were your own boss. That's what
Duishen did. He had a crazy idea and carried it through. And now there's not a
broken stone left of that school shed, but the name stuck, and that's all the good
it has done us.”
I hardly knew Duishen at all, I remember him as an elderly man, tall and
angular, with beetling brews. His house was on the other side of the river. He
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