A Quiet Farewell to Tashkent

Saying goodbye to Tashkent was bittersweet. On our last evening there, we took a slow walk around the makhalla and met an elderly Russian woman. She stopped us to ask where we lived and worked, somehow assuming that we must have jobs nearby. She walked with two canes, and it was clear that every step was painful for her. Her pale blue eyes and delicate features, marred by the wrinkles, hinted at how beautiful she must have been once.

Lyudmila invited us into her garden across the street. "I live here alone," she said. Her one-story house, likely built during the Soviet era, had never been renovated. Meanwhile, all the other buildings on the street looked like palaces, with huge windows, massive gates, and lofty fences. "My husband died, and my son, who lives nearby in an apartment, doesn't want to come here. My daughter-in-law never visits me either.” As she spoke, she began to cry.

We stepped into the yard, where dry brown and orange leaves covered the ground. The only bursts of bright color came from a lemon tree heavy with ripe fruit. Lyudmila was proud of her garden, and her eyes brightened as she talked about the plants. We each picked a couple of lemons at her insistence. Seeing us take them seemed to comfort her, and she smiled through her tears.