The men in chapanas and tubeteikas crowded together at the gate, wearing mournful expressions and speaking slowly. They shook their heads as new people continued to enter the house. Inside, the sound of women’s voices could be heard, including a hoarse young girl and a lamenting old woman.
In the corner of the dark room, all the furniture had been removed, and the Mother sat silently, dressed entirely in black like a statue. Her once-beautiful face was covered by a white scarf, and her few grey hairs were tucked beneath it. She swayed slowly from side to side, looking with unseeing eyes. Only the twitching of her cracked maroon and blue lips testified to the fact that her mind had not abandoned her. She sighed deeply and slowly got up, walking towards the wall where a small photo portrait hung, covered by a piece of coloured chintz.
The woman tore off the fabric, revealing the smiling face of a young man in military uniform. His mischievous and carefree eyes looked childishly out of the photograph, and his sticking-out ears made him look funny. With trembling hands, the Mother stroked the frame, forgetting herself for a moment as she ran her rough palm over the young man’s hair.
“Mommy, my dear, what’s wrong with you?” Hamro ran up to her.
The woman opened her eyes and smiled bitterly. “Oh!” she exclaimed. That was all she said from the fateful day when there was a nervous knock at the door.
Behind the gate stood two military men and one in plain clothes with a tie. The Mother didn’t let them speak a word, only waving her hands and crying out, “My son, my son!” The news of her son’s death in the war had shattered her world, leaving her to grieve alone in the dark corners of her home.
She burst into the house like a woman possessed, her wild eyes darting around the room. “I had a dream,” she cried out, her voice echoing through the empty space. “My father came for him… May Afghanistan be cursed, and may those who sent him there be cursed!”
With a fierce determination, she pounded her head against the wall, hoping to dull the pain in her heart. But nothing could ease the agony of losing her son.
As she waited for the zinc coffin to arrive, the Mother lost consciousness several times. Her relatives were by her side constantly, but even their presence couldn’t soothe her. She refused to eat, and even the smell of broth made her sick.
As the coffin was brought in and placed in the living room, the Mother clung to it with all her might, unwilling to let go of her beloved son. She knew that soon a procession of strangers would lead them to the cemetery, where Timurjon would be laid to rest on the Alley of the Glory of brave Afghan soldiers.
Desperate to see her son one last time, the Mother begged the soldiers to open the coffin. She crawled towards them, tears streaming down her face, kissing their hands and pleading with them to grant her this one wish.
At last, a young lieutenant stepped forward and gently embraced the Mother, sharing in her grief. With a heavy heart, he opened the coffin, allowing the Mother to catch a glimpse of her son. She wept uncontrollably, holding onto the memory of him for as long as she could.
As the procession began to move, the Mother knew that her son’s sacrifice would never be forgotten. And though her heart would always ache with the pain of losing him, she found some solace in knowing that he had been a hero, and that his memory would live on forever.
The Mother stood at the doorway, her voice heavy with command. “Then everyone leave!” she ordered, her eyes fixed on the ground.
The lieutenant, however, stayed put, his gaze imploring her not to make him go.
With a deep sigh, she turned around and made her way to a nearby drawer. Her fingers shook as she retrieved an old wooden box, which she opened with trembling hands. Inside lay a once-white handkerchief, now gray with age.
“Here,” she said, passing a gold watch to the lieutenant. The timepiece glinted in the dim light, its thick chain cool against her skin. The rubies and turquoise inlay shone with an incomparable beauty.
“This belonged to my grandmother,” she explained, her voice quavering. “She was wealthy and intended to give it to her daughter. But when Timurjon went to Afghanistan, he promised to return alive and marry his daughter. He never did. Take it. I don’t mind. Can I just see it for a moment?” She gestured to the family heirloom on the lieutenant’s chest, her eyes filled with longing.
The young man recoiled. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t do this!”
But the Mother ignored him and, in the next moment, hastily removed her gold rings. “Then how about this?”
The lieutenant couldn’t bear to watch. “Put everything back. And close the door. But I warn you, you may not recognize him. He was blown up by a mine.”
“Show me!” the Mother insisted.
A sharp smell hit her face as she peered through the narrow slit. She could see nothing. With a sudden movement, she grabbed a stick and, gasping with excitement, fell heavily to the floor.
“There was something there. But who’s there, what’s there…” she whispered, examining the stick. Carefully, she placed it in the drawer, and then slumped to the ground in a dead faint.
As the days passed, the Mother’s health slowly improved. She felt that, in some way, she had spoken to her only son, Timurjon, whom she had placed such great hopes in after her husband’s death. And as the spring sun rose higher in the sky, forty days passed for Timurjon. The Mother felt better. She felt that he was still with her, in some small way.
Every morning, Mother would make her way to the branch planted in the ground. It was a stick from the zinc coffin that had released sap and had already swollen with life. The emerging buds warmed Mother’s heart, and she spent long minutes near this sprout, admiring it. She often wondered what kind of branch it was – perhaps it was a poplar, a plane tree, an apricot, a cherry, or some other exotic tree. And when glossy leaves appeared, she would proudly lead everyone to see her treasure.
“Look, this is Timurdzhon’s tree,” she would say, and everyone would nod in agreement.
No one ever criticized or judged Mother for her attachment to the branch. It was her way of coping with the loss of her son. Every time sharp pain pierced her heart, and she wanted to run out of the house anywhere, she approached the bush and shed tears. She was happy about every new leaf, and sad when the old ones fell off.
As the years passed, the twig grew stronger and taller until it became a cute green tree. One spring, it bloomed with pink flowers. Mother was overjoyed, thinking that it would bear fruit just in time for her son’s birthday. She envisioned treating her relatives, neighbors, and celebrating Timurdzhon’s failed twenty-three years.
However, nature had other plans. A strong wind blew, lightning flashed, and hail the size of pigeon eggs fell from the sky. Mother jumped into the yard with a huge black umbrella, pulled a ladder to the tree, and, bombarded with large hailstones, opened the umbrella over the tree. But despite her efforts, she couldn’t save the blossoms – the hail had cruelly beaten them. Only one trembling flower remained hidden in the glossy leaves, quivering before the elements.
Everyone was left wondering what kind of fruit would ripen. The leaves did not resemble hazelnut, and the fruit was too big. Struggling with guesses and afraid of another bad weather, Mother asked her daughter to ask botanists what kind of tree was growing. The school teacher came and examined a leaf for a long time, but left with nothing. So Mother decided to go to the botanical garden herself.
The garden workers sent a representative, a guy who, upon seeing the tree, smiled and said, “Mother, this is an orange tree.”
Mother was overjoyed. Her son’s tree was a symbol of life and hope, and it had borne fruit. She gathered the ripe oranges, and with tears in her eyes, shared them with her family, neighbors, and anyone who came to visit. It was a bittersweet moment, but Mother felt a sense of closure and peace. Her son’s memory lived on in the sweet fragrance of the orange blossoms and the taste of the ripe fruit.
As memories flooded her mind, she couldn’t hold back her tears. The cruel hand of fate seemed to never stop. It was when Timurdzhon was just a ten-year-old boy that a relative had brought oranges all the way from Moscow. The temptation proved too much, and he ate every single one without thinking of offering any to his mother or younger sister. The guilt that consumed him was overwhelming, and he spent hours squatting beside the hole where he had buried the orange seeds.
“I’ll grow a tree,” he promised, trying to justify his actions. “I’ll treat everyone to oranges. There will be enough for everyone, just wait.”
But time passed, and weeds covered the spot where the seeds lay buried. Timurdzhon let out a heavy sigh, feeling resigned to his fate.
“Well, someday I’ll still have my own orange tree,” he whispered.
Basra, Iraq, 1989.
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