**The Brand**
The seasons of Romitan have their own unique charm. Even though autumn has arrived, water gurgles softly in the irrigation ditches, the mulberry trees stand with solemn majesty, and in the early mornings before sunrise, smoke rises from the clay ovens in the courtyards...
On the old streets of the village, life seems in no hurry. Behind every door lies a story worth a lifetime, in the heart of every neglected wall lives a sorrow, and in the eyes of every old man dwells a tale that never ends, no matter how often it is told.
It has been in my mind’s eye since childhood: it must have been over forty years ago... On the edge of the neighboring village of Qumrabod, there was an old courtyard. Its gate was crooked, the kitchen roof was aged, and the mulberry tree in the center grew leaning to one side, like a person whom no one had leaned on for years.
Recently, a man with graying hair and slightly stooped shoulders appeared in front of that gate. A small suitcase was in his hand. A bundle of keys was in his pocket. And a silence like an entire graveyard was in his heart. This was Uncle Rahim. If I am not mistaken, he left this courtyard back in the 1980s...
His parents, his wife, and his young children had seen him off. But today, there were no parents to welcome him back... No wife, either. And what about his children? Uncle Rahim felt like an old coat hung on a nail on the wall. He looked all around him. He froze.
— Grandfather, have you come?
— Father showed us your photos many times. We recognize you from those pictures. You are our grandfather...
The suitcase in Uncle Rahim’s hand nearly fell to the ground. Two young boys stood before him. They were seeing their grandfather in person for the very first time...
***
Rahim was not yet twenty-five, a young man with broad shoulders, confidence in his eyes, and boundless energy in his hands. His father, Uncle Abdunabi, had worked on the collective farm all his life, and his mother, Aunt Oygul, also spent her days in the fields. Rahim’s family consisted of his wife, Mehriniso, and two little children. His son, Ilhom, had not yet reached school age, and his daughter, Zuhra, was a little girl who never left her mother’s skirt.
When winter came to this household, coal was saved, and everyone squeezed into a single room. When summer came, the worries of the coming winter began all over again. Rahim’s parents were growing older by the day, and his children were growing up.
One day, while stacking firewood in the courtyard, Rahim approached his father:
— Father, I am thinking of going to Russia. They say there is work there. If I earn money, build up the house, educate the children...
Uncle Abdunabi remained silent for a long time. Looking at his son, he remembered his own youth; once, he too had taken the burden of the household upon his shoulders in just the same way.
— The burden of a family and household is heavy, my child, — the father said at last. — It weighs more on the heart than on the shoulders. What can I say? If you must go, then go, my child. But remember, do not lose your humanity for the sake of earning money and return a changed man.
Rahim received his parents’ blessing. Putting on the robe of a migrant, he promised: “I will provide you with a home, I will ensure my children lack nothing, I will return quickly.” Alas, at that time he had no inkling how many long years those words “I will return quickly” would stretch into in the measure of his own life.
Rahim set off on the train. Beyond the window, the dirt roads of his homeland fell behind one after another. Deep in his heart, he placed his wife’s words “I will wait, return quickly!”, the cheerful voices of his two toddlers, and his parents’ blessings like precious pearls.
Where in a foreign land does a complete and prosperous life await a person, ready to welcome Rahim with open arms? Dampness, freezing barracks, grueling construction sites, a foreign language, unfamiliar people, and deceivers who cheated him out of his wages awaited him instead. Being far from home, it turned out, sometimes changes not only a person, but their very name as well. No one called him “Rahim” anymore; to strangers, he had turned into merely a “Gastarbeiter,” a “national,” or a “hey, you.” He would send every single penny he earned to his wife, writing in his letters: “I sent money, buy clothes for the children. Get medicine for my parents. I will return soon.”
Every day he returned exhausted from work, taking shelter in the damp, musty corner of a basement. He shared his morsel of food with his companions. With hands trembling from the cold, he would carefully draw from his pocket the photograph of his children, gaze at it until he felt a little warmth, and fall asleep wrapped in sweet dreams. One day, a companion who had been watching him spoke:
— Hey, friend, do not grieve so much... When a person leaves their homeland, their journey begins. Yet the heart can never truly leave that place. Be patient!
At first, Rahim could not grasp the deep meaning of his companion’s words. Only later did he come to understand... But by then time had passed, and it was too late for everything. Far too late...
**A Night on the Kazakh Border**
Years passed, and Rahim saved a portion of the money he had earned and decided to return to his homeland. Unfortunately, this time things did not go as smoothly as he had envisioned. The endless switching of transport heading toward the Kazakh border, document checks, long waits, lack of funds, and the indifference of people drained him of his strength.
For several days, along with other stranded passengers, he spent the nights in a cold corner of a train station in the freezing border zones. He could not close his eyes as the frost seeped into his bones. The ordeals of crossing the border, constant anxiety on the road, and the hunger endured in hopes of saving money settled like a heavy stone on his heart.
At last, after a thousand and one hardships, he returned to Romitan. Seeing that his aging father had managed to make minor repairs here and there around the courtyard with the money he had sent, his spirits lifted a little. But his children had grown significantly, and his wife, Mehriniso, looked exhausted and worn out, like a tree without support.
Before long, he began preparing for the road once more:
— I have no choice but to leave again, Father... — he said one day in a despondent voice.
— They say a person’s sustenance and patience both come from the earth, my child, — Uncle Abdunabi said with a heavy sigh.
— Before I can turn this house into a proper home, my patience will be completely exhausted, Father.
— It is not the running out of patience that is dangerous, my child... It is the direction it might turn...
Although his father’s words scraped at his heart, Rahim saw no alternative for himself but to return to the cold lands. In the hopes of making his family whole, he set off on the migrant path once again...
**Silence in the House**
During the years Rahim spent abroad, life in the village went on at its own pace. His parents grew even older. Mehriniso grew tired of the loneliness. Ilhom outgrew his shirt, Zuhra’s hair grew long... Rahim still sent the same letter every time: “I sent money, buy clothes for the children. Get medicine for my parents. I will return soon.”
— When will you think of me, Rahim aka? — his wife would whisper mournfully whenever she received the next money transfer and brief letter through the post.
Yet that promise of “soon” was repeated incessantly over the years... And finally, the woman’s patience ran out. Unwittingly, she became attached to Sobir, a young neighbor who had initially helped with household chores and later checked in to ask how they were doing. With the passing of time, their relationship crossed the line.
Into the house that had only just escaped poverty, its foundation newly laid, the curse named betrayal entered soundlessly, in complete silence. The elderly parents tried to resist evil thoughts and dismiss it as mere gossip, comforting themselves, but they would go into their dilapidated rooms and cry from the depths of their hearts. Although Mehriniso protected Rahim’s parents and children, serving them faithfully, she answered their silent, hidden questions only by bowing her head in silence.
— Sometimes even silence makes the roof of a house leak, my child... — Uncle Abdunabi said with a heavy sigh.
From Rahim, however, the same identical letters kept coming; caught in the vortex of migrant life, work, documents, and money worries, he postponed his return home every single time.
**Belated Regret**
Uncle Abdunabi could not bear the heavy gossip and the whispers among the villagers. One day he fell ill, collapsed, and never rose again. Even in such a difficult moment, Aunt Oygul spared her daughter-in-law: she showed magnanimity, as if she had seen no ill from her. She acknowledged that her daughter-in-law had raised the children with utmost care and had never shied away from hard work. After all, during the difficult years when the family was desperate for affection, they had relied not on their own son, but on this very daughter-in-law.
Rahim, who had begun preparing to return to his homeland, told his mother over the phone that he was held up due to travel expenses, documents, and other obstacles, but that he would arrive no matter what the circumstances.
— What could you do if you came? Could you bring your father back to life?! Do not torment yourself, my child... The road is long, the weather is cold... — the mother said. But she could not bring herself to tell her son: “Our home is broken, our family is falling apart.”
After the conversation with his mother, Rahim stood rooted to the spot. His father’s words from long ago — “do not lose your humanity and return a changed man” — overturned his conscience at that moment. Rahim, who had been unable to forgive himself for a long time for missing his father’s funeral, received the cold news of his mother’s death just about half a year later.
— How long my mother must have waited for me... Constantly staring at the gate, hoping that ‘my child will come’... — The agony and guilt that engulfed Rahim tossed him from water into fire, and from fire into water...
**Sorrows Without a Destination**
The year 2004.
— So, it turns out I could return after all... — Rahim sat down at the foot of the magnificent, unfinished gate.
It was spring when he returned to his village. But autumn was eroding his insides, and the biting cold of winter seemed to slash at his face. First, he visited his father’s grave. Kneeling before the headstone, he wept bitterly:
— I have come, Father... I am so late, Father...
Then he moved to his mother’s grave:
— I have come, dear Mother. I have come as a sorrow without a destination, one that time could not contain, Mother...
He stepped into his courtyard as if entering a ghost house. The mulberry tree in the yard had grown even larger, and the walls that were once crumbling and decayed had turned into grand, high walls. His children were no longer children; they had grown up. Though sparks of longing for their father flickered in their eyes, a feeling of estrangement prevailed. Rahim wanted to embrace them, but over the years an invisible, solid wall had built up between them.
Mehriniso, meanwhile, had grown completely cold toward him. She made it clear that she did not even wish to shake hands. Between them lay the ruins of a life that had once been called a “family,” but was now completely destroyed...
**The Secret Revealed**
Having spent so many years enduring bitter freezes and icy winds, forsaking rest to work in foreign lands, Rahim had, in reality, returned to his village only once during all that time...
When he heard about the secret affair between his wife and the young neighbor Sobir, the world went dark before his eyes. A fire of rage consumed his body. The resentment and anguish accumulated in his heart during his years as a migrant burst forth like a dam breaking.
He confronted Sobir. But he did not waste time arguing with him. There were no excessive insults, no prolonged dispute... With a kitchen knife that came into his hand, Rahim struck Sobir repeatedly wherever the blows landed.
Even when Sobir’s parents arrived screaming in horror, Rahim seemed out of his mind... No one could stop Rahim, whose eyes were filled with blood...
**Years Behind the Iron Door**
The law took him into its grip. The year 2004 was not just a date on the calendar for Rahim, but a cold line that shattered his life in two. On one side lay the sweet dreams of his migrant days; on the other stood the iron doors of the prison, endless nights, bottomless regret, and a long sentence.
— Life outside is boiling... Children go to kindergarten, someone rushes to work, someone to study. Trees bear fruit, crops are harvested. New homes are built, someone rushes to a wedding, someone to a celebration. And inside? Here, every day is measured only by the creaking of iron doors opening and closing. Everyone wears the same clothes, has the same haircut. Only in every heart lives a silent scream: ‘Will I be released? Will I survive?’... — Rahim said mournfully to a fellow prisoner one day.
Rahim spent the first years of his captivity in intense rage and hatred. He blamed everyone: fate, poverty, life abroad, loneliness, even that cursed train that had carried him away to distant lands. But as the years passed, he realized one truth — the mistakes of others could not justify the gruesome crime committed by his own hands.
In time, letters from his children began arriving at the prison. They had already grown up, found their own paths in life, and secured employment. His son had even managed to get married. In one of the letters it was written: “I put my sister through her studies. Her wedding is soon. It is true you cannot be by our side, but keep us in your prayers, Father...”. Reading these words from his son, Rahim burst into loud tears.
“If I ever return to freedom, I will live only to ask for forgiveness and make up for my sins before my children. If nothing else, I will ease someone’s burden!” — he decided.
As a son, he could not see his parents off to their final resting place. As a father, he could not preside over his children’s weddings. He likened himself to that crippled mulberry tree growing in the distant courtyard of his childhood, its branches mercilessly chopped away...
**The Return**
Years passed, and Rahim fully served his sentence, finally gaining his freedom. Leaving the iron bars behind, he packed a couple of changes of clothes, yellowed old photographs, and the diary that bore the imprint of his heart’s anguish over many years into a small suitcase.
The air outside felt entirely different to him. He set off straight for his beloved village. Along the way, he saw great changes and renewal at every turn. The streets had changed; the roads were wide and smooth. Even the familiar sandy path leading to his old courtyard had been paved with asphalt. Uncle Rahim stopped dead in his tracks in front of his gate, his body trembling. He slowly peeked inside. The old mulberry tree in the middle of the courtyard still stood proudly.
At that moment, two young boys appeared in front of him. Recognizing Uncle Rahim from the photos, they welcomed him with open arms:
— Grandfather, have you come? — one of them said, his eyes shining with joy.
— I am Ilhom’s son!
— Come, grandfather, let me carry your suitcase! — the second one reached out his hands.
Uncle Rahim’s eyes filled with tears. His two grandsons took him by the arms and led him into the courtyard. Walking with heavy, unsteady steps, the father entered that far corner room where his parents had lived. The room was empty... Only on the old nails on the wall hung his mother’s dress, still faint with the scent of clay-oven smoke, and his father’s old robe. In the corner, bundles of old belongings were piled up, and in the middle stood a fragile stool left behind from years past. From the wall above the stool, a photograph of his parents gazed down at him...
Standing forlornly on the threshold of the room, lost in thought, the old man snapped out of it at the soft creaking of the door. He turned around... Standing before him, looking into his eyes with the longing of years, was his son Ilhom...
**The Heaviest Punishment: People’s Memory**
Great trials still lay ahead for Uncle Rahim. How would the villagers receive him? Now, some would greet him with an open face, while others turned away in disgust, pretending not to see him. He realized that merely returning to the village was not enough; he had to melt the ice in people’s hearts. Knowing there was no point in sitting idle, he decided to get to work — he opened a small workshop. Having been tempered in the fires of life abroad and forced to learn various trades over the years, his skills now proved useful. At first he hired three people for his workshop, later five. Gradually, the volume of work expanded.
Before long, this small venue turned into a thriving enterprise producing construction materials. New workers came, and several poor families in the village began earning a steady income there.
One day, one of the young workers asked him:
— Uncle Rahim, why do you always prioritize paying workers their wages on time above everything else?
— Do you know, my child... Life taught me that the hardest thing in this world is waiting in expectation, and the delay in making someone wait is the most terrible injustice, — Uncle Rahim said with a heavy sigh. — Once, I too delayed the hopeful expectations of my loved ones for years.
He said no more. The heavy burdens of the past were still alive inside his heart.
Uncle Rahim performed many good deeds in the village. He helped the neighborhood, supported those in need. In particular, wishing that his past would serve as a lesson to fellow villagers intending to leave for work abroad, he tirelessly spoke to each of them individually. He showed them the right path and created jobs so they could stay and work in their homeland.
Despite this, the talk behind his back did not stop. Cold words like “He became rich, a good businessman, but he still killed a man, a murderer, an ex-convict” clung to his shoulders like invisible dust.
— All my life I dreamed of building a house, of living in luxury, — he said one day, opening his heart to his son Ilhom. — But it turns out building a stone wall for a house is easy... Preserving the lost trust inside it, or rebuilding it, is extremely difficult, my child...
A single hope and desire lived in Uncle Rahim’s heart for years. He had felt it even within the cold walls of the prison. No matter what happened, he desperately wanted to ask forgiveness from Sobir’s family. He constantly asked himself: even if he got down on his knees and begged for forgiveness, could he bring back a human life that had been cut short so early?
He went to Sobir’s household and bowed his head before them:
— I do not justify myself at all... Neither my anguish abroad, nor my resentment, nor my wife’s betrayal can serve as an excuse for the terrible deed I committed. I put an end to a human life. I could not pay the penalty for this sin even through years in prison. I still carry this cold, heavy burden in my heart. Forgive me...
— You are asking for forgiveness, but we will never hear his voice again! — Sobir’s wife cried out, weeping from the depths of her soul. — We cannot stroke his hair, we cannot press him to our chest. Every time, we return embracing cold and salty earth... Can you feel what a terrifying pain that is?!
Uncle Rahim returned home with heavy steps, weighed down by dark thoughts. As he grew older, he had formed the habit of putting his inner pain onto white paper — writing a diary. On one of the final pages of his diary, these painful words were inscribed:
“I left home at twenty-five years of age to earn money.
Over the years I showed my face only once or twice, and then returned back. When I turned thirty, I stepped into my own courtyard like a stranger. That mistake I committed, blinded by rage, deprived me of lifelong peace of mind. I stained my hands with blood. My youthful years grew old behind iron bars. Today I am not inside those iron bars, but outside them. Unfortunately, I know full well that no good or righteous deed I do can bring back the life of that man who died prematurely. On the streets, people still point their fingers at me, calling me a ‘murderer.’ Children mockingly call out ‘jailbird’ behind me, without understanding its meaning... Yet once upon a time, I was a devoted son who received not the curses, but the white blessings of his parents. I was a compassionate father who missed his children...”
***
Uncle Rahim came to the shade of that old mulberry tree standing in the center of his courtyard. Kneeling down, he opened his trembling hands in prayer and made a final plea:
— Oh, my Lord... Let others learn a lesson from the terrible mistake I made. Let me never forget the rights of the deceased, the pain and anguish in the hearts of his loved ones. Only grant patience and fortitude to my children... Protect my grandchildren from the curse of rage and hatred...
Early the next morning, cold news spread throughout the village:
“You know that murderer, Uncle Rahim, the one who came out of prison... His funeral prayer is to be held after the afternoon prayer...”