We however did delight at the whispering of that
mythic past seen in
the monuments and minarets made of hardened sand that survived the occupation
as we drove out of the capital city, Tashkent, the City of Stone, toward
the heartland and direction of my grandfather’s village.
Those feelings were soon jarred once we finally arrived.
Having the
excitement of a child, my grandfather ran, pointing with his cane toward his
neighborhood, saying “look, look this is where we had our family’s store.” Only
to break down in tears at seeing no trace of it, and instead where a statue of
Lenin stood instead.
Among that grave disappointment, were also tears of joy,
All around us in my
grandfather’s village were relatives, beaming, smiling, welcoming us—reactions
we were used to after having made so many stops in villages in cities
throughout the country where we had been welcomed into every house for a meal
and in which my Grandfather, continuing his role as community elder, was
teaching, learning, sharing, remembering—but here the joyful reactions were
more pronounced among his own kin.
As we were welcomed into a courtyard, surrounded by many
others, there
was a face in the crowd my grandfather would recognize after last seeing it
last at age 7—when they were both boys, cousins, among the best of friends, having
playfought with one another in the mountains while shepherding. In
one “battle”, my grandfather’s cousin had struck my grandfather’s tooth—the latter’s
tooth having wobbled for all those years without ever falling. The two cousins,
now elderly men with wrinkles and beards, having lived long years of loss and
grief reached for one another in a brotherly hug, just as the tooth that had
wobbled for 70 years fell straight into my grandfather’s hand.
“You got
your revenge 70
years later, Cousin..” my Grandfather laughed, looking at both the loss and
gain in his hand.