Ilyos Eshmurodov

Born in 1960 in the Jondor district of Bukhara region of Uzbekistan, Ilyos Eshmurodov graduated from Tashkent Technical University in 1982. To this day, his books, such as “Aunt,” “Fragrance of Compassion,” “Scales of Faith,” “Sleeplessness,” and “Kumush,” have been published.

Selfie

As the days flow like rushing water, the fortieth day since my mother’s passing has arrived. We held the final gathering to commemorate her. As the attendees dispersed and the crowd thinned out, I moved to a corner and started scrolling through the pictures on my mobile phone, searching for a photo of my mom.

Amongst the images of Zomin, Ghovasoy, and the places my brothers and I visited together, I felt a momentary relief upon finding the pictures I sought. Suddenly, the image of my innocent mother appeared on the screen, and I felt a jolt, as if struck by an electric current. It was a photo of my son taking a selfie with his grandmother, as they both leaned in closely. My mother rested her head gently on her grandson’s shoulder, her face filled with affectionate warmth.

Observing this poignant scene, my body trembled, and an unsettling thought crossed my mind. “Why didn’t I take this selfie? Why didn’t I capture a moment with my mother’s head resting on my chest?” The pain of that missed opportunity weighed heavily on me.

Auntie

On my day off, my aunt called me to come over. As soon as I entered the yard, my attention was drawn to the glasses on the porch. There sat my aunt, engrossed in sewing on a bench. Without hesitation, just like when I was young, I threw myself into her arms.

As always, she held onto me tightly, refusing to let go. Her eyes were filled with tears, as if she hadn’t seen me in a thousand years. It was an overwhelming sight. Gathering my courage, I softly asked, “But tell me the truth, what happened?”

She replied, “Yes, I longed to see my brother. When I look at you, it feels like I’m seeing him. I gaze into your eyes and reminisce about the times we shared. His stature, even the way he spoke, resembled yours. Only his hair hadn’t turned as gray as yours yet… he was much younger… back then!” Her words seemed to sense the unsettling thought that had crossed my mind, and I found it difficult to meet her gaze.

The Young Luminary

I give my grandson five thousand soums every day. This morning:

“Grandfather,” he said, blinking his bright eyes.

My classmate has been enduring the teacher’s scolding at school for two days because he lacks the funds to purchase a notebook,” he said. “So… if you give me ten thousand soums, I’ll buy a notebook for my classmate. And even if you give me three thousand soums on other days, that’s okay too,” he said…

Beyond Possession

In our culture, a saying persists that labels a daughter as someone’s property. The true meaning of these words becomes more apparent as your own son or daughter grows up. It’s a realization that lingers.

There’s an incident from ten years ago that I can’t forget. A bride approached me with a heartfelt complaint about her mother-in-law:

“I am allergic to cottonwood smoke. But my mother-in-law refuses to believe me. As soon as the fire ignites in the oven, my eyes water, and I cough.”

“Oh, did you fall from the moon?” Her mother-in-law dismissively retorts. “Don’t bother with such nonsense; focus on your chores! Why would a woman get married if she does not bake bread or wash her husband’s laundry.”

Her husband remains silent, engulfing his food while averting his gaze. The bride continued, sobbing:

“When I think about divorce, I look at our little girl, our precious flower. On top of that, I’m pregnant. Soon, I’ll become a mother. Please guide me!”

Witnessing the tears streaming down her grief-stricken face, I felt profound sorrow. After consulting with the relevant authorities, we managed to secure an apartment for her in the government-built high-rise.

Three or four years later, she returned to me. Her complexion was pallid, marked by saffron hues. The marks of toil adorned her hands, visible beneath her skin. I could hardly believe my ears as she poured out her heart:

“My husband consumes the meat alone, while my daughters and I survive on the meager broth. If I dare to say anything, he retorts, ‘You must thank me even for this, what if I deprive you of the entire portion? Do not talk as if you have given birth to 2-3 sons!'”

“I want a divorce, but I endure it for the sake of my two daughters, as beautiful as the moon! Please help me!” Her tearful plea pierced my heart.

Listening to her, I yearned to change the narrative: A girl is someone’s property. Instead, let it be said that a girl is your companion, your darling. Look at your growing daughters, and ask yourself if you want them to become mere maids in someone else’s home. Careless father, contemplate this truth!

Fractured Loyalties

Halim and I were classmates for a decade, sharing a close friendship. We were like two peas in a pod. A photograph of us from our eighth-grade year proudly adorned the “Board of Excellence.” However, the tranquility captured in that picture was soon shattered.

One day, I discovered that my eye had been purposely cut out from the photograph. To my disbelief, it was my supposed “friend” Halim who had committed this act of betrayal.

“Just kidding, my friend,” he nonchalantly remarked, attempting to brush off his hurtful action. Despite the deep respect I had for our friendship, I chose to remain silent, unable to confront the fracture of trust that had stained our relationship.

In the 10th grade, he convinced the girl I liked, saying, “He is writing letters with someone else, I saw it myself,” and broke us apart. I didn’t want to be labeled as someone who ended a friendship because of a girl.

I swallowed my pain and kept silent.

When I finished school and went to study in Tashkent, rumors spread: “He didn’t get into a university; he is working in some factory.” Although my heart sensed the source of these slanderous words, I encouraged myself not to believe them.

Recently, there was a reunion of our classmates. I was left unaware of the gathering because I was living in the city far from my hometown.

It was Halim who was assigned to inform me…

Principle of Neighborhood

My grandfather was an incredibly hospitable person. Every now and then, he delighted in gathering with his neighbors, embodying the principle of neighborhood unity. Particularly on the eve of a special occasion, he would prepare a large pot filled with the head and limbs of a cow. He would then extend invitations to our neighbors on both sides, waiting patiently until they arrived before serving the food. Once everyone was assembled, they would deliberately break bread, resembling a wheel of a cart, and place a piece of the freshly cooked cow limb on each slice, generously sharing it with those around the table.

At times, there would be a scarcity of food, and my grandfather would content himself with a humble slice of bread adorned with a small portion of meat. If someone offered him a piece from their own plate, he would warmly decline, saying, “I couldn’t resist and had already taken a few pieces from the pot before you arrived.” He would joyfully observe the gathering, satisfied by the presence of those who had joined the celebration.

Honor of Hospitality

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. I opened it lazily, finding Ma’mur, the craftsman who had repaired our house the previous year, standing at the gate. I welcomed him without much enthusiasm, a thought crossing my mind: “I hope he hasn’t come with any problems.”

“I returned from Russia yesterday. I spent six months working in those areas. Here’s a gift for you,” he said, placing a beautifully wrapped plastic bag on the table. He then pulled out something resembling toothpaste. I took the ointment from his hand, looking at him with a questioning gaze.

“When I was working at your house during the summer, I noticed that you were suffering from back pain. That’s why I brought you this ointment,” he explained.

I followed him to the street, moving slowly like a long-term patient, and asked hesitantly, “How much do I owe you?” My voice sounded meek, and I coughed before repeating the question.

Ma’murjon, already mounted on his bicycle, responded, “Uncle, it’s not about the money! After all, I shared your hospitality and broke bread with you in your house for a month last year. It would be a shame for me to take money from you.” With an open smile, he quickly waved his hand and rode away.

I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for the profound and unexpected generosity of the young craftsman.

Grandmother’s Wisdom

In our time, grandmothers awaken with tender strokes on the heads of their grandchildren lying beside them, saying, ‘I have boiled milk; it would be better if you drink it while it’s hot, my lamb!’ A person who starts their day with warm milk will be shielded from the flu. On your way to school, pick a handful of wildflowers. Work ennobles a person, my dear. ‘Do not litter the waters, do not spit on the ground, show kindness to dogs and cats, and greet your elders.’

Today’s grandmothers, however, fixate their eyes on TV series: ‘Hurry up and eat the sandwich on the plate. You have to go to your tutor now! Don’t forget about your English lesson at such and such an hour, and then there’s the extra math class!’ they shout at their grandsons, who sleepily stir in their rooms.

Does a child who doesn’t grow up in their grandmother’s arms know love? Is there a trace of humanism left in scholars turned academics after endless extra classes?

Doesn’t a child who listens to music through headphones, oblivious to the older person in front of them, risk becoming a robot?”

Echoes of Fate

When my aunt married off her daughter, she was left alone in her home. To keep her company, we would take turns spending the nights by her side. Since I wasn’t yet of school age, my mother often sent me to stay at my aunt’s house. My aunt, in turn, would visit her daughter’s home and take me along as her companion.

Her daughter lived in a neighboring district. To reach there, we embarked on a long bus journey from the district center. Getting off the bus on the side of the main road, we then trekked along a dusty road in summer and a muddy road in winter. Along the way, we would rest by the roadside, catching our breath. During those moments, I noticed my aunt’s face turning red, flushed like freshly baked bread, as she took deep breaths. On one such occasion, I overheard her murmuring, “Only three more left. We’ll catch up after that.” At first, I didn’t grasp the meaning behind her words. But soon, I realized she was counting the ants along the roadside, keeping track of the distance between her daughter’s house and ours. Even as a young boy, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of empathy for her.

My eyes welled up, and I held back tears. Despite promising that we would spend the night at her daughter’s place, my aunt hesitated and decided to return after an hour. As a child, I found solace in her words and yearned to return home as soon as possible.

As time went on, my aunt experienced the pain of being wounded by her son-in-law, who took her only daughter to a distant land, leaving her behind. Her daughter, now a single mother, seemed to have forgotten about her. Tears streamed down my aunt’s face as she cried out, “Yes, bring back the world!” It was a plea born out of profound anguish.

After my aunt passed away, we grew apart from her daughter, my sister Rana. Like her mother, she too had only one daughter. Her daughter married a foreign man and moved to a distant country.

Occasionally, my sister Rano visits our house. One of us writes and expresses our grievances about not hearing from her. “Young man, I wonder what sin I’ve committed. It seems like everyone has forgotten about me. When my mother was alive, she would come, even if she had to crawl, just to inquire about me. And now, I am alone, a stranger in my own place,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes.

In those moments, the echoes of my aunt’s sorrows seem to reverberate in my ears, and I can’t help but think to myself, “This must be what they call what goes around comes around.”

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