Page 75 - June 2021 Litterateur
P. 75

Nodirabegim Ibrokhimova was born in Fergana, Uzbekistan
                                                                  on  18.07.1989.  She  holds  BA  in  International  Journalism
                                                                  from the University of Foreign Languages in Uzbekistan and
                                                                  currently  doing  a  Master  program  of  Higher  Literature  at
                                                                  Alisher  NavoiUniversity.  Her  published  books  include
                                                                  "Yoningdagi baht" (Happiness next to you), "Zhodugar" (The
                                                                  witch), "Zulm va muhabbat"(The oppression and love). She
                                                                  is  the  winner  of  "Young  Novelist  -  2017"  competition  in
                                                                  Uzbekistan.  Her  stories  have  been  published  in  countries
                                                                  such  as  Russia,  Pakistan,  Mexico,  Peru,  Ukraine,

                     Nodirabegim                                  Bangladesh,  India  and  Kazakhstan.  She  runs  her  own-
                                                                  established literary website www.nodirabegim.uz.

                     Ibrokhimova





                                                            WRITER'S DEATH



                     The writer, who had already suffered one heart attack, was very well looked after. In spite of this, he

                     was struck down by insidious cancer in the midst of summer. In his last moments, only a nurse
                     stood  by  his  side.  The  one  who  was  an  admirer  of  his  work,  the  one  who  read  his  stories  with
                     rapture. Hence, she tried to stay close to her special patient longer than the others.
                      -Your wife is here. Shall I invite her in? - She asked.
                      The writer refused and turned his gaze to the door: waiting for someone. However, the children did
                     not have time to say goodbye to him - when they came to the hospital to his father, he had already
                     left this mortal world. Their painful grief was clear: he always remained not only a talented prose
                     writer, but also a good father...
                      ... And now the writer was sent off to his last journey. The coffin with the deceased, like a ship,
                     sailed on the shoulders of people who came to say goodbye to the famous writer. From the photo,
                     carved on the marble tombstone, a man was smiling sweetly. It was as if he was saying goodbye to
                     all the pain that had accompanied him in recent years.
                      There were tears in the eyes of all present, everyone tried to put flowers at the feet of the deceased.

                     The  writer's  last  resting  place  became  a  sort  of  pilgrimage  site  for  his  admirers.  Reciting  his
                     wonderful works, they sighed bitterly. After all, in every line was so much life philosophy, human
                     pain, beautiful deep feelings. But even such a brilliant man was powerless against the disease.
                      One day, a stack of letters appeared on the writer's grave.
                      -The letters that I wrote to you, but dared not to send... - with a deep sigh, said the stranger.
                      A month passed and readers began reading other books, a year later and for his family life went on.
                     Only for one person nothing had changed: she never stopped visiting the writer's grave every day,
                     praying for the repose of his soul. Again and again she used to read his books, as if she were living
                     in his works. The spirit of the writer began to visit her in dreams.
                      ...The writer's sixtieth birthday was held in the ceremonial hall of the Creative House. He had often
                     been there: first as an amateur novelist, then as a devoted book lover, later he became a talented
                     writer. A little more time passed, and he was already speaking from the podium, giving his word on
                     literature. It was here that the presentation of his first book took place, and he received a standing
                     ovation. However, with time fame, applause, and fame began to weigh on him, and he preferred to
                     seclude himself away from the hustle and bustle of creativity. Works written in solitude penetrated
                     to the very depths.
                     He  received  so  many  letters  inspiring  him  with  unfolding  story  lines.  But  among  them  was  one
                     particular letter...







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