STORY
It was a snowy morning. The sky over the capital was filled with thick fog, and the air was as cold as glass. Aziza Kadyrova, tightly tying her long scarf, walked towards the “Gulchehralar” MTT—in adult language, kindergarten 145. She had always been interested in taking her niece, but today the surroundings, in a strange silence, seemed to invite her to a conversation. The ice crunching under her shoes, mixed with the air that swallowed the light of the passing cars, and made her heart tremble. The girl was more frightened by the transience of these beautiful moments than by the cold. They say that everything passes. With this thought, she opened the door and was greeted by the warm smell of the kindergarten.
She saw two boys fighting in the hallway. One was a dwarf Husanboy, with his hair pulled back with both hands and his light brown eyes were curious; the other was a more daring boy, a bicycle-like boy with a protruding freckle. There was only one chair, but it was as precious as a king's throne. "I came first!" said one. "And I took my turn to take the night!" replied the other. Aziza watched with pleasure their heated arguments, dragging the chair, clicking their heels, and a mixture of joy and anger that could not be contained in her. Finally, the teacher Nargiza came in and found separate colored chairs for the two of them. The situation calmed down, but Aziza's heart was filled with a warm smile after that simple conflict. Just as children fight for a chair, adults also fight for some "seat" in life, ahhh!.
As he walked back along the road, his mind drifted back to his childhood. In the old courtyard in Esonkent, the sisters sat in the smell of firewood. There was a colorful bicycle; both sisters wanted to ride it. Finally, their father tried to broker a compromise between them: “Sharing things, exchanging seats is the highest sign of every believing heart.” This lesson had guided him until now. His heart was relieved, but it was also clear that in his time there had been many struggles that
could be compared to that bicycle. “Is it supposed to be like this?” he asked himself, unable to find an answer.
Five years have passed. The election of class captain for class 11-B of “Mirzo Ulugbek School No. 65” was announced. Two candidates were nominated for the nomination — Aziza and Dildora Rakhimova, who was always thin and smiling, leaning on her chair. For a week, the class was filled with demonstrations, promises, slogans, and even organized songs. As Aziza stood in front of the classroom windows after class, watching the misunderstandings flying like dandelions, her imagination again saw children fighting for a chair. This time, instead of a chair, the title of “captain”, but the dreams were grander. The word “losing” is not as gentle as the word “desire”.
On election day, the classroom climate changed and chaos erupted. As the sweet teacher counted the votes, the classroom was filled with breathless anticipation. “Aziza — nineteen, Dildora — eighteen!” Doors slammed shut, some hugged, and others fought back tears. Aziza felt more clearly the responsibility that had fallen on her shoulders than the joy of victory. But the scene in the kindergarten flashed before her eyes again and again. The thought, “Has the chair found its owner?” crushed her heart a little.
Two years later, Aziza took the entrance exams to Tashkent State Pedagogical University. The university building looked like a tall, crooked foundation, but she found the courage to do so. When the admission results were announced, she tried to hide the tears in her eyes, remembering her parents' advice: "My child, strive not to be the first to occupy, but to be useful." But the joy also seemed to her like a victory in the struggle for a seat.
The old Bunyodkor dormitory… As old as a bird that has traveled the world, but breathing a new melody in the students’ imagination, this building was able to give Aziza the necessary feeling. After greeting her roommates—Feruza, Nodira, Shahnoz—they discussed who would sleep on which bed. As Aziza again felt the competition of people fighting for space like children, she felt embarrassed at first,
and then laughed. “Do my eyes always see the same scene, or is the world like this?” she wondered.
Aziza began working as a student-laboratory assistant at the Department of Linguistics and Modern Literature at the beginning of her second year. During morning meetings, an argument over who would own the old computer desk in the lab eventually escalated into a heated argument between Anvar Beknazarov and Timur Islamov. Listening to their heated arguments, Aziza felt like she was once again holding the same knife she had been carrying inside her for three years: people — no matter who they were — were fighting for space. Now it was not a chair, but the “desk” that decided the fate of the entire department that was being fought over.
At lunchtime, as he sat in his favorite garden, leafing through a book, the argument was still raging behind him. Suddenly, like a cloud over the sea, a thought settled in his heart: "If all life consists of searching for a place, where is the joy?" This question seemed to pierce the sky, which was immersed in silence. Just as lamps glow in the dark, so this lingering doubt seemed to call for the light of his goal to shine even brighter.
Spring came, and swallows built nests in the yards, where the soil had been slightly loosened. After class, Aziza would leaf through the collection of poems by her teacher, Khurshid Davron, in the university library, comparing the poems with nature. Then a competition was announced for the position of head of the department. Anvar aka and Timur aka spontaneously became two poles. Behind the podium in front of the council of professors, each of them knocked the other to the ground with his speech. Aziza again remembered the children's quarrel. Now the "seat" was larger, but the noise was also louder.
On the day the results of the competition were announced, the atmosphere of the conversation was as cold as frost. The ticking of the second hand on the wall clock in the council hall could be clearly heard. When the words “Professor Beknazarov won because he received the most votes” were heard, Timur aka turned his face away. The bitter words under his tongue scattered into the air like
snow. Aziza’s hands froze. Along with strange inner feelings, that chair reappeared in her eyes. For a moment, she wanted to say, “Maybe everything could have been solved easily,” but she bit her tongue.
The next day, on her way to class, Aziza sat down on one of the chairs near the university fountains. The wind rustled the leaves, mixing with the students' books. She opened her notebook and wrote: "Justice is not about sharing space, but about sharing pleasure." This light thought affected her like hot tea. Now the issue of space was not inside, but outside. Could she really see everyone as equal? She asked herself the question. "What if I missed a step? What if I failed the test?" She began to question herself...
The cold was getting worse in December. It became a habit to return to the dormitory late after class. That evening, class was also late. The streetlights were yellow, and the ice on the sidewalk stood like long daggers and cried. The girl was still in the shadow, but in her heart there was the warm light of the rain. When she reached the iron cauldron in the street, which was emitting hot steam, she saw a group of cats gathered there.
The black cat, sitting at the bottom of the pile, spread its hind legs like a director, and next to it sat a white cat, who was known to all as a brave man. The third, a spotted cat, looked at them and meowed, “I want to escape the cold too.”
The gaze was hard, the fur was standing on end, and the temperature was as cold as anyone could imagine there, on this very cloud. The spotted cat, signaling that he was ready to jump on him at any moment, gave a jerk with its tail. The inattentive white cat, on the other hand, pushed away with the behavior of a prince trying to seize the “throne.” The spectacle seemed to be a stage play.
Aziza compared the thoughts hidden behind this scene to herself. “Children are chairs, teenagers are titles, professors are positions, cats are steaming pots... It's all the same scene, just different roles,” she said with a grin. Although the thought made her laugh, her heart sank. “Am I also fighting for something and squeezing someone else?” She was surrounded by questions like, “Am I not also fighting for
something and squeezing someone else?” For the first time, she felt herself facing a problem bigger than a chair, and her flesh shuddered.
In the kitchen on the first floor of the dormitory, the samovar was constantly roaring, the sound echoing throughout the hall, and the moon outside the window added a special color to the night. Aziza took a hot lagman on a plate and sat down in the far corner. Her tongue was not just filled with the taste of food, but with memories that warmed her heart. She overheard a few words in the middle of the guys' conversation: "Who else would like to be the head of the headquarters?" The girl shook her head again: "The world is full of cats who still haven't found their place..."
Aziza, writing an essay for her department, began the first line with the following: “It’s no secret that struggle makes a person perfect, but the only reason for all of this is not struggle—on the contrary, it means teaching, learning, and practicing the value of equality—struggle.” All the thoughts seemed to come together. Although the pages grew, her spirit was not driven and wandering, but rather free. Aziza felt as if the knots that had been stuck inside her had been torn out to the very roots.
The next day, Professor Maruf Mahkamov read his work. He adjusted his glasses and said, “Aziza, you have seen the disease of the whole society from one incident.” “To fix this situation, first of all, start by not fighting yourself.” The student tried to hide his agitation, but his efforts were in vain. Because inside, he felt that several waves were intensifying. It was as if he had put an end to the issue of the seat, but this end itself was in the form of the beginning of a new story.
Years flew by. In the huge hall of the building, solemn music sounded, and on the stage, which had seen so many celebrations, a pomp arose that drowned out the noise. During the awarding of diplomas, Aziza's eyes lit up at the enthusiasm radiating from the people, as if looking down from above, she saw the seats of different colors. Each color was unique and beautiful in its own way, but the main thing was still the same - the joy of hard work, fighting for a place. As she herself
came down from the stage, she realized that the main place she had achieved, that is, the "throne", was not only a diploma, but also the lessons she had learned.
Holding her diploma tightly in her hand, she walked along the wide corridor of the university courtyard for the last time, the sun blinding her eyes. Under the trees, students talked about the next shelter, and those one year below about the next year, but the air was as pleasant as the white steam of a teapot. Aziza slowed her steps, there was no need to hurry anymore. She saw that they had been arguing over chairs, tables, cupboards, and even various social "thrones" for four seasons, and finally she whispered these words softly: "Oh, cats who stole the place..." The cool wind seemed to be trying to give wisdom to the unanswered questions. The laughter of the students, heard from all around, became a song and rose to the clear sky... Aziza thought that one day, at least once, they too would find themselves in the same situation as these cats, and she continued to take steps...
Love
Love is not a letter written on hands,
Or a gesture spoken.
Love remains in the prisoned hurur,
The nightingales sing...
Love is a sweet red rose,
Not in the hands held,
Love is the waves in the eyes,
In those trembling lips...
That empty space kept in your heart,
It is in the thoughts you did not dream of,
Even the birds that did not fly in your sky,
It is in the dreams that are not real...
That joyful light caught in the mirror,
It is not the happiness that made your cheek smile.
A thoughtful black eye fixed on a point...
That is love, that is love...
I am not a poet…
I say poetry, but I write non-poetic words...
I string my thoughts like a coral...
I give up hope in poetry,
I am in poems that are not wings, but sadness...
I speak airy words about luck and happiness, I decorate my life with words, I swim like a fish in my thoughts, I swim, but I am in unknown floods...
Living with words is like lifelessness,
A hidden emptiness in every line.
What am I looking for in a page, in a pen?!
I am complaining, in the years I have been waiting for...
Uzoqova Marjona was born on May 14, 2004, in Shahrisabz district, Kashkadarya region, Uzbekistan. She is a dedicated and talented student at Uzbekistan State World Languages University (UzSWLU), majoring in English language and literature. Marjona is the author of more than 15 poems and the short story titled "Cats Fighting for Place." She has been awarded the "Ilm-fan iftixori" medal in recognition of her academic achievements, and she is also a proud recipient of the prestigious Navoiy State Scholarship. Furthermore, she is the founder of the educational initiative "EduStep," which aims to support and inspire students in their learning process. With her passion for language, literature, and leadership, Marjona continues to be a role model for many young scholars in Uzbekistan.
