A VOICE IN THE SILENCE / Short storie by Mahfuza Imomova


Mahfuza Imamova photo

Mahfuza Imomova


Mahfuza Imomova was born in Oltinsoy district, Surkhandarya region, Uzbekistan.  She is a student of  Noble School of Business, Bangalore University.  Her first book “Yorug’ yo’l” (‘The bright way”) published over 20 000 copies by Uzbekistan Writers Union.  She worked for “Akademnashr” publishing house in Tashkent.

Her poems and articles were published in several local, national and International magazines and newspapers. Her creative works also broadcasted and Uzbekistan National TV made a short film about her literature. She gained Sahitya Shree literary award organized by IICA, India.

Mahfuza’s poems also published in “Episteme” magazine of India, “Reflection” magazine of Saudi Arabia and translated in English, Persian, Italian, German, Slovenian, Vietnamese, Hindi, Spanish, Turkish, Arabic, Russian and etc.





        Before gibbeting a sympathetic doctor asked Chondora if she wanted to see anybody.

        – I want to see my mother. – Chondora said.

        – Maybe you want to meet your husband? Should I call him?

        – No! It’s better me die. – Chondora answered.

Rabindranath Tagore

(“A Judgement”)



Men began to leave the cemetery. Among them there was the village’s doctor with curly hair, named Salohiddin, whose hearing was a bit hard. He confirmed the death of a woman, who had died three hours ago.

In the evening the cemetery became deserted. A watchman, going around, went to his room to have dinner. A grave, which was appeared toward evening today, could be easily seen by moonlight. A familiar scene: there was a smell of damp soil.

The doctor couldn’t sleep. He woke his wife about three o’clock. Having listened to her husband, the woman, whose slumbers was disturbed at midnight, thought that he was delirious and she went on sleeping.

The doctor was in a deep thought:

“The woman was not wounded. Why I didn’t take her pulse? Why I trusted to my ears? It failed so many times. It might have been lethargy. The woman should have been examined two hours later. Why I jumped to conclusion from her husband’s words? It is also possible, he must have poisoned her. What am I to do? But the woman was already buried. No one can do autopsy unwarrantedly. The woman will be not able to go out, of course. Then there is no need to worry. Nobody can accuse me on that.”

Bewitching fetters of sleep shackled his eyes.

An hour later the village doctor was going to the cemetery along the big road. There was a fear and apprehension in his heart. And also some confidence. He remembered the words of her husband.

– She died. – The man told to him as he met. He stank of fetid vodka.

– How it could be?.. She had always good health. She never complained to us. – The doctor surprised.

– You are right. But she had abrupt high blood-pressure and suddenly she fell. Then she became breathless. You don’t know, doctor, her mother died like her, too. – The husband explained coldly, clenching his wife’s golden chain in his hand.

The doctor heard her heart, touching his ears on it. Yes, it is true, she was not breathing. But he failed to notice a half glass of water on the windowsill, in which a sleeping-pill was added.

The moonlight seemed lighter than ever. As if it was leading the way to him. Whole universe was in a deep slumber. No moment even to breathe.

He took a shovel from watchman’s room too quietly. Having prayed, he began to dig. An hour later the woman cried out in fear. The doctor quickened digging. He was very content with his final decision.

The woman tried to raise her head, but she couldn’t. Very strange, where she might be?

At last the doctor rouse out the woman, wrapped in white at all. Then he began to think how he could answer to the woman, who was glancing at him in fear, without comprehension what had had happened.



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