Chapter 1
Tut daraxti ostidagi sir
Salom, qadrligim. Senga oxirgi marta qachon gapirganimni eslay olmayman. Balki o‘n yil, balki undan ham ko‘proq vaqt o‘tgandir. Ammo seni unutganim yo‘q. Ba’zi xotiralar vaqt o‘tsa ham xira tortmaydi, aksincha yurakning eng chuqur joyida yashirinib qoladi. Sen ham shunday eding — ko‘rinmas, lekin yo‘q bo‘lmagan. Men olti yoshda edim. O‘sha yoz kunlari juda issiq edi. Quyosh hovlimizdagi eski devorlarni ham qizdirib yuborgandek, havo titrab turganday tuyulardi. Qushlar ham soyaga yashiringan, shamol esa faqat kechga yaqin biroz yuz ko‘rsatardi. Men esa yolg‘iz edim. Singlim bilan ertalab kichik janjal qilib qo‘yganmiz. Nimadir o‘yinchoq ustida tortishib, u yig‘lab ichkariga kirib ketgan, men esa g‘ururim sabab uzr so‘ramagan edim. Opam esa qo‘shni uyga chiqib ketgan, onam esa uy ishlariga sho‘ng‘ib ketgan edi. Shunday qilib, men o‘zim bilan o‘zim qolgan edim. Hovlimizdagi katta tut daraxti tagiga borib o‘tirdim. O‘sha daraxt men uchun o‘sha paytda butun dunyo edi. Uning tanasi qalin, po‘stlog‘i qo‘pol, lekin soyasi juda salqin edi. Go‘yo u meni hamma narsadan yashirib turgandek. Men tizzalarimni quchoqlab, yerga tikildim. Shunda ichimda g‘alati bir bo‘shliq paydo bo‘ldi. Hech kim yo‘qligi emas, balki meni hech kim tushunmayotgandek tuyg‘u edi bu. “Qaniydi kimdir bo‘lsa…” deb o‘yladim ichimda. O‘sha payt shamol asta esdi. Va men seni ko‘rdim. Sen tut daraxtining narigi tomonida turarding. Oq rangga yaqin, yorug‘ ko‘ylak kiygan qizaloq eding. Soching yelkalaringga tushgan, ko‘zlaring esa g‘alati tarzda iliq edi. Eng ajablanarlisi — sen menga qarab turarding, go‘yo meni allaqachon tanigandek. Yuragim bir lahza tez urib ketdi. — Sen… kimsan? — dedim past ovozda. Sen jilmayding. — Bilmayman, — deding oddiygina. Men hayron bo‘ldim. — Qanday qilib bilmaysan? Har kimning ismi bo‘ladi-ku. Sen boshini yon tomonga egding. — Balki mening ismim hali aytilmagandir. Men bir zum jim qoldim. Keyin o‘zimcha jiddiy qaror qildim. — Unda men senga ism qo‘yaman. Sen kulib yubording. O‘sha kulging juda yengil edi, go‘yo shamol ham u bilan birga o‘ynayotgandek. — Qanday ism qo‘yasiz? Men atrofga qaradim. Tut barglari orasidan tushayotgan yorug‘likni ko‘rdim. Ular goh yashil, goh oltin rangga o‘xshardi. — Senga… Nurligim deb atayman, — dedim o‘ylab. Sen jim bo‘lib qolding. Keyin asta bosh irg‘ading. — Yaxshi. Unda men sening Nurliging bo‘laman. O‘sha lahzadan boshlab sen mening hayotimga kirding. Avvaliga bu oddiy o‘yin edi. Men seni faqat tut daraxti tagida ko‘rardim. Ba’zan tom ustiga chiqib ketardik, ba’zan hovlida yugurardik. Sen har doim yonimda eding, lekin hech kim seni ko‘rmasdi. Men bunga boshida e’tibor bermaganman. Bolalikda bunday narsalar muhim emas — muhim narsa o‘yin va kulgi. Lekin sen oddiy o‘yin emassan. Sen men bilan gaplasharding. Men yig‘lasam, sen jim turib yonimda o‘tirarding. Men xafa bo‘lsam, sen meni kuldirishga harakat qilarding. Ba’zan hech narsa demasdan, faqat qarab turarding — lekin o‘sha qarashingning o‘zi meni tinchlantirardi. Eng g‘alati tomoni shundaki, men seni hech kimga ayta olmasdim. Chunki kattalar bunday narsalarga ishonmaydi. Bir kuni onam: — O‘zing bilan o‘zing gaplashyapsanmi? — deb so‘radi. Men qo‘rqib ketdim. — Yo‘q… shunchaki o‘ylayapman, — dedim tezda. Sen esa yonimda turib kulib qo‘yding. — Ular meni ko‘rmaydi, — deding past ovozda. Men hayron bo‘ldim. — Nega? — Chunki men faqat seni ko‘ra oladigan odamman. O‘sha payt bu gapni tushunmaganman. Lekin yuragimda seni yo‘qotib qo‘yishdan qo‘rqish paydo bo‘lgan. Shundan keyin men seni yanada ko‘proq yonimda ushlab qolishga harakat qilardim. Har kuni seni chaqirardim. Har kuni tut daraxti tagiga yugurib kelardim. Va sen har doim u yerda eding. Har doim. Bir kuni yomg‘ir yog‘di. Men deraza oldida turib, tashqariga qaradim. Hovli suvga to‘lgan, tut daraxtining barglari og‘irlashib tushib qolgan edi. Men seni chaqirdim. — Nurligim! Qayerdasan?! Javob yo‘q. Yuragim siqildi. Tashqariga yugurdim. Yomg‘ir yuzimni urar, kiyimlarim ho‘l bo‘lar edi. Tut daraxti tagiga borib qichqirdim: — Nega kelmading?! Shunda orqamdan ovoz eshitildi. — Men shu yerdaman. Sen sekin kelarding. Ko‘ylaging ho‘l emas edi. Men yengil nafas oldim. — Qo‘rqib ketdim… Sen menga yaqinlashding. — Men hech qachon ketmayman, — deding. O‘sha gapni eshitganimda ishonib yuborganman. Chunki bolalar ishonadi. Bolalik — bu ishonchning eng sof davri. Va men seni yo‘qotmasligimga ishongandim. O‘sha kuni biz yomg‘ir ostida raqsga tushdik. Hech kim yo‘q edi. Faqat men va sen. Va tut daraxti. O‘sha daraxt ham bizni tomosha qilib turgandek edi. Men bilmagan edimki… Bu faqat boshlanishi edi.
I can't recall the last time I spoke to you. Perhaps ten years, maybe more. But I haven't forgotten you. Some memories don't fade with time; instead, they nestle deep within the heart. You were like that – unseen, but never gone.
I was six years old.
Those summer days were scorching. The sun seemed to bake the old walls of our courtyard, and the air shimmered as if in a trance. Even the birds had sought refuge in the shade, and the wind only dared to show its face a little in the evenings.
And I was alone.
My younger sister and I had a small spat that morning. We'd argued over some toy, and she’d run inside crying. My pride, however, wouldn't let me apologize. My older sister had gone to the neighbor's house, and my mother was engrossed in her chores. So, I was left with myself.
I went and sat under the large mulberry tree in our courtyard.
At that time, that tree was my entire world. Its trunk was thick, its bark rough, but its shade was wonderfully cool. It felt as though it hid me from everything. I hugged my knees to my chest and stared at the ground.
Then, a strange emptiness bloomed within me.
It wasn't just the absence of others, but the feeling that no one understood me.
"If only someone were here..." I thought to myself.
Just then, a gentle breeze stirred.
And I saw you.
You were standing on the other side of the mulberry tree.
You were a little girl in a light-colored dress, almost white. Your hair fell to your shoulders, and your eyes were strangely warm. Most astonishingly, you were looking at me, as if you already knew me.
My heart skipped a beat.
"Who... who are you?" I whispered.
You smiled.
"I don't know," you said simply.
I was bewildered.
"How can you not know? Everyone has a name."
You tilted your head.
"Perhaps my name hasn't been spoken yet."
I fell silent for a moment. Then, with a serious air, I made up my mind.
"Then I'll give you a name."
You giggled. Your laughter was so light, it felt as though the wind itself was playing with it.
"What name will you give me?"
I looked around. I saw the light filtering through the mulberry leaves. They looked sometimes green, sometimes golden.
"I'll call you... Nurligim," I decided.
You fell silent. Then, you slowly nodded.
"Good. Then I will be your Nurligim."
From that moment on, you entered my life.
At first, it was just a game.
I only saw you under the mulberry tree. Sometimes we'd go up onto the roof, sometimes we'd run around the courtyard. You were always by my side, but no one else could see you.
I didn't pay much attention to that at first.
In childhood, such things don't matter – what matters is play and laughter.
But you weren't just a simple game.
You talked to me.
When I cried, you sat beside me in silence. When I was sad, you tried to make me laugh. Sometimes, you said nothing at all, just looked at me – but that look alone calmed me.
The strangest thing was, I couldn't tell anyone about you.
Because grown-ups don't believe in such things.
One day, my mother asked, "Are you talking to yourself?"
I got scared.
"No... I'm just thinking," I quickly replied.
You stood beside me and chuckled softly.
"They can't see me," you murmured.
I was surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because I am someone only you can see."
I didn't understand those words then.
But a fear of losing you began to stir in my heart.
After that, I tried even harder to keep you close. Every day, I called for you. Every day, I ran to the mulberry tree.
And you were always there.
Always.
One day, it rained.
I stood by the window, looking outside. The courtyard was flooded, and the mulberry leaves hung heavy and sodden.
I called for you.
"Nurligim! Where are you?"
No answer.
My heart sank.
I ran outside.
The rain lashed my face, soaking my clothes. I ran to the mulberry tree and shouted, "Why didn't you come?"
Then, a voice came from behind me.
"I am here."
You were approaching slowly.
Your dress wasn't wet.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"I was scared..."
You came closer.
"I will never leave," you said.
I believed those words when I heard them.
Because children believe.
Childhood is the purest time of belief.
And I believed I wouldn't lose you.
That day, we danced in the rain.
There was no one else.
Just you and me.
And the mulberry tree.
It felt as though the tree was watching us too.
I didn't know...
This was just the beginning.