Chapter 2
Ayriliq va o‘zgarishlar
Bolalikning eng g‘alati tomoni shundaki, u hech qachon uzoq davom etayotgandek tuyulmaydi. Go‘yo hamma narsa abadiydek: kulgi ham, o‘yin ham, hatto sen ham. Men ham shunday o‘ylardim. Sen mening yonimda bo‘lganingda vaqt sekin oqardi, lekin xavfsiz edi. Har bir kunning o‘z yorug‘ligi bor edi. Men seni chaqirsam, sen kelarding. Men yig‘lasam, sen jim turib yonimda qolarding. Hech narsa o‘zgarmasdek edi. Lekin hayot o‘zgarishni yaxshi ko‘radi. O‘sha kun ham oddiy boshlandi. Ertalab singlim bilan yana bir marta janjal qildik. Bu safar janjal kattaroq edi — men uning chizgan rasmiga tegib yuboribman. U esa yig‘lab yubordi va onamga shikoyat qildi. Onam meni koyidi. Men esa ichimda alam bilan chiqib ketdim. Hovliga yugurdim. Tut daraxti tagiga. — Nurligim! — dedim baland ovozda. Sen yo‘q eding. Men atrofga qaradim. Shamol barglarni silkitardi, lekin sening izlaring yo‘q edi. — Hazil qilma… chiq! — dedim yana. Javob yo‘q. Ichimda g‘alati sovuq paydo bo‘ldi. O‘sha payt birinchi marta yuragimda qo‘rquv sezdim. — Nega kelmading? — dedim past ovozda. Shunda sen paydo bo‘lding. Lekin boshqacha eding. Oldingidek yorug‘ emas, oldingidek yaqin ham emas. — Men shu yerdaman, — deding, lekin ovozing o‘zgarib ketgandek edi. Men yugurib oldingga bordim. — Nega meni tashlab ketding? Men seni chaqirdim-ku! Sen menga qarading. — Men seni tashlab ketmadim. — Unda nega kelmading? Sen jim qolding. O‘sha jimlik menga juda og‘ir tuyuldi. Keyin sekin deding: — Ba’zan odamlar o‘sadi, Nurligim. O‘sish uchun ba’zi narsalar orqada qoladi. Men tushunmadim. — Men o‘smayman! Men seni yo‘qotishni xohlamayman! Sen tabassum qilding, lekin bu tabassum avvalgidek emas edi. — Men yo‘qolmayman, — deding sekin. — Men faqat boshqacha bo‘lib qolaman. O‘sha kuni sen uzoqroq turib qolding. Men seni ushlamoqchi bo‘ldim, lekin qo‘lim bo‘shliqni ushladi. Shu payt birinchi marta seni yo‘qotish mumkinligini tushundim. Keyingi kunlar boshqacha bo‘lib ketdi. Men seni kamroq ko‘ra boshladim. Ba’zan chaqirsam ham kelmasding. Ba’zan esa kelarding, lekin uzoq turarding. Men esa tobora ichimga tortilib borardim. Maktabga chiqishim bilan hammasi yanada o‘zgardi. Yangi odamlar, yangi qoidalar, yangi talablar. O‘qituvchim: — Jim o‘tiring, — derdi. Sinfdoshlarim kulardi. Men esa ichimda seni qidirardim. Dars paytida derazaga qarab o‘tirardim. Sen u yerda bo‘lasan deb o‘ylardim. Lekin yo‘q eding. Bir kuni uyga qaytib, tut daraxti tagiga bordim. O‘tirdim. Kutdim. Kutdim. Va yana kutdim. Lekin sen kelmading. O‘sha kecha birinchi marta yig‘ladim. Jim. Ovozsiz. Faqat ichimdan. Onam: — Nega xafa bo‘lib yuribsan? — deb so‘radi. Men: — Hech narsa, — dedim. Lekin “hech narsa” emas edi. Men seni yo‘qotayotgan edim. Yillar o‘ta boshladi. Sen esa asta-sekin xotiraga aylanib borarding. Avval har kuni ko‘rardim seni. Keyin haftada bir. Keyin oyda bir. Oxiri esa… faqat eslab qolardim. Lekin har eslaganimda yuragim og‘rirdi. Chunki sen bor eding. Faqat ko‘rinmas bo‘lib qolganding. Bir kuni o‘zimga qaradim. Ko‘zlarim o‘zgargan edi. Bolalikdagi beg‘uborlik yo‘qolgan. O‘rnida ehtiyotkorlik, qo‘rquv va jiddiylik paydo bo‘lgan. Men katta bo‘layotgandim. Va katta bo‘lish sening yo‘qolishing bilan birga kelayotgandek edi. Oxirgi marta seni aniq ko‘rganimni eslayman. Men o‘sha payt o‘zimga: — Men endi bolalikda emasman, — deganman. Sen esa juda uzoqdan qarab turarding. Juda sokin. Juda jim. Va oxirgi bor shunday deding: — Men seni kutaman. Keyin yo‘q bo‘lib ketding. O‘sha kundan keyin tut daraxti tagi ham avvalgidek bo‘lmadi. Faqat daraxt qoldi. Sen esa yo‘q eding. Men esa birinchi marta yolg‘iz qolgan edim.
The strangest thing about childhood is that it never feels like it’s lasting. It’s as if everything is eternal: the laughter, the games, even you. I used to think that way, too. When you were by my side, time flowed slowly, but it was safe. Every day had its own light. When I called you, you came. When I cried, you stayed with me in silence. Nothing seemed to change. But life loves to change.
That day began like any other. In the morning, my sister and I argued again. This time, the quarrel was bigger – I had accidentally brushed against a drawing she had made. She burst into tears and complained to Mother. Mother scolded me. I left, filled with a quiet resentment. I ran out into the yard, to the mulberry tree.
“Nurligim!” I shouted.
You weren’t there. I looked around. The wind rustled the leaves, but there was no sign of you.
“Don’t tease… come out!” I said again.
No answer. A strange coldness bloomed inside me. For the first time, I felt fear in my heart.
“Why didn’t you come?” I whispered.
Then you appeared. But you were different. Not as bright as before, not as close.
“I am here,” you said, but your voice seemed changed.
I ran to you. “Why did you leave me? I called you!”
You looked at me. “I didn’t leave you.”
“Then why didn’t you come?”
You fell silent. That silence felt incredibly heavy to me. Then, you said softly, “Sometimes, people grow, Nurligim. And some things are left behind to grow.”
I didn’t understand. “I’m not growing! I don’t want to lose you!”
You smiled, but it wasn’t the same smile as before. “I won’t disappear,” you said quietly. “I will just become different.”
That day, you stayed a little longer. I tried to hold you, but my hand grasped only emptiness. It was then that I understood, for the first time, that I could lose you.
The next days became different. I saw you less often. Sometimes, when I called, you wouldn’t come. Other times, you would come, but you would stay far away. I retreated further and further into myself.
Everything changed even more when I started school. New people, new rules, new expectations. My teacher would say, “Sit quietly.” My classmates would laugh. And I would search for you inside myself. During lessons, I’d stare out the window, thinking you’d be there. But you weren’t.
One day, I returned home and went to the mulberry tree. I sat down. I waited. I waited, and then I waited some more. But you didn’t come. That night, for the first time, I cried. Silently. Without a sound. Only from within.
Mother asked, “Why are you looking so sad?”
I replied, “Nothing.” But it wasn’t “nothing.” I was losing you.
Years began to pass. And you slowly faded into memory. At first, I saw you every day. Then, once a week. Then, once a month. Finally… I only remembered you. But every time I remembered, my heart ached. Because you were still there. You had just become invisible.
One day, I looked at myself. My eyes had changed. The innocence of childhood was gone. In its place, a cautiousness, fear, and seriousness had appeared. I was growing up. And growing up felt like it came with your disappearance.
I remember the last time I truly saw you. I said to myself then, “I’m not a child anymore.” You were watching from a great distance. Very calm. Very silent. And for the last time, you said, “I will wait for you.” Then you vanished.
From that day on, the mulberry tree was no longer the same. Only the tree remained. You were gone. And for the first time, I was truly alone.
The sun, a molten gold coin, dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised plum and fiery orange. The air, usually alive with the chirping of unseen crickets and the distant hum of traffic, felt unusually still, heavy with an unspoken farewell. I sat beneath the ancient mulberry tree, its gnarled branches like arthritic fingers reaching towards the fading light. The rough bark pressed against my back, a familiar, grounding sensation. But today, even the familiar offered little comfort.
“Nurligim?” My voice was a mere whisper, swallowed by the vastness of the evening. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that she wouldn't answer. Not like she used to. Not with that shimmering presence that always felt like sunshine condensed into a form only I could perceive.
The memory of her appearance that day, the day everything shifted, was etched into my mind with agonizing clarity. It wasn't a sudden vanishing act, no dramatic departure. It was a slow, insidious fading, like a photograph left too long in the sun. She had been there, beneath the mulberry tree, just as I’d called out, desperate for her familiar comfort after the tearful confrontation with my sister and my mother’s sharp words. But she was… different. Her usual radiant aura seemed muted, as if a thin veil had been drawn across her light.
“I am here,” she had said, her voice a familiar melody, yet tinged with a strange, new resonance. It was like hearing a favorite song played in a minor key.
I had rushed towards her, my heart pounding with a mixture of relief and a nascent dread. “Why did you leave me? I called you!” The words tumbled out of me, a frantic plea.
She had met my gaze, her eyes, usually pools of gentle understanding, now held a distant, almost melancholic depth. “I didn’t leave you.”
“Then why didn’t you come?” The question hung in the air, heavy with my unspoken fear.
And then came the silence. A silence that wasn’t empty, but filled with the weight of unspoken truths, of inevitable changes. It was a silence that screamed of things I couldn’t yet grasp. Finally, she had spoken, her words falling like fragile leaves, each one carrying the promise of a coming winter. “Sometimes, people grow, Nurligim. And some things are left behind to grow.”
My childish mind recoiled at the implication. Grow? I didn’t want to grow. I wanted things to stay exactly as they were, with her by my side, a constant, unwavering beacon. “I’m not growing!” I’d insisted, my voice trembling. “I don’t want to lose you!”
A faint smile had touched her lips, a ghost of her former radiance. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also tinged with a profound sadness, like a rainbow appearing after a storm has passed, beautiful but a reminder of the turmoil. “I won’t disappear,” she had reassured me, her voice soft, almost a sigh. “I will just become different.”
Different. The word echoed in the stillness of the evening, a chilling premonition. She had lingered that day, a spectral presence, and I had reached out, desperate to anchor her, to pull her back into the solid reality I knew. But my fingers had closed on empty air. That was the moment the seed of true loss was planted. The understanding that she, my constant companion, my confidante, could slip away.
The days that followed were a slow unraveling. My calls went unanswered more and more often. When she did appear, she was like a distant star, her light faint and far away. The playful banter we once shared was replaced by a hesitant quietude, a chasm widening between us. I felt myself shrinking, retreating into the shell of my loneliness, the warmth of her presence a fading ember.
School, when it began, was a brutal awakening. The familiar comfort of my own world was replaced by a bewildering landscape of unfamiliar faces and rigid expectations. The teacher’s voice, sharp and impatient, commanded silence. The laughter of my classmates, once a sound I’d longed to join, now felt like a mocking chorus, a testament to my isolation. I’d find myself staring out the classroom window, my gaze desperately searching the distant trees, clinging to the faint hope of seeing her silhouette against the sky. But she was never there.
One afternoon, defeated and weary, I returned home and sought refuge once more beneath the mulberry tree. I sat, my small body heavy with a sorrow too profound for my years. I waited. And waited. And waited. The sun bled its last light from the sky, and the stars began to prickle through the deepening twilight. Still, she did not come.
That night, a silent storm raged within me. Tears streamed down my face, not with the noisy, cathartic sobs of a child, but with a quiet, internal weeping that felt far more profound. My mother, her brow furrowed with concern, asked, “Why are you looking so sad?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. It was the slow, agonizing realization that I was losing Nurligim.
The years blurred, each one a step further away from the vibrant reality of her presence. She became a whisper, a fleeting memory. My daily visits turned into weekly, then monthly. Eventually, she existed only in the echoes of my heart. But even as a memory, she remained, a phantom limb, an ache that never fully subsided. She was there, just… unseen.
I remember the day I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. The wide, guileless eyes of my childhood were gone, replaced by a wary, watchful gaze. A shadow of caution, a flicker of fear, and a nascent seriousness had taken root. I was growing up, and it felt like this growth was inextricably linked to her departure.
The last time I saw her, truly saw her, was under the same mulberry tree. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves. I stood, a girl on the cusp of adolescence, and a profound understanding settled upon me. “I’m not a child anymore,” I whispered, the words a quiet confession.
She was there, standing at a distance, her form less distinct than ever, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. She was utterly still, utterly silent. And then, with a voice that seemed to carry the weight of all unspoken goodbyes, she said, “I will wait for you.”
And then she was gone. Not with a crash, not with a bang, but with a gentle dissolution, like mist evaporating in the morning sun.
From that day forward, the mulberry tree itself seemed to hold a different kind of silence. The tree remained, a stoic sentinel, but the magic, the vibrant life that had pulsed around it, was extinguished. And I, standing beneath its branches, felt the true, unyielding weight of solitude for the very first time. The world had shifted, and I was left adrift in its vast, indifferent expanse.