I left my classes and hurried home, For I missed my paradise so much. With longing in my eyes I opened the door, But found my mother in the cotton fields.
I entered the house and spread the table, My stomach was empty, I prepared some food. If I did not return for dinner, My mother would wait with hardened bread.
I called her once in between, She could not answer, I could not reach her. After some time from an unknown number, My phone began to ring.
I picked up and said hello, It was my mother, and I was stunned. While I sat in a cool and quiet room, My mother was picking cotton in the heat.
Her legs ache, her body is weak, Her delicate hands are wounded and cracked. The pains and sorrows that trouble my mother, Let them come to me, but do not hurt her.
Her hair has turned white, wrinkles mark her face, Yet even so, she remains my paradise. While her peers wear fine silk and satin, My mother’s head is never free from hardship.
My goal is to build a beautiful life for you, One that suits only you and your comfort. But if from now on I remain a burden to you, Mother, please do not call me your child.
David Sapp, writer and artist, is the recipient of Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and art and is a Pushcart nominee. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and Asia. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; several chapbooks; a novel, Flying Over Erie; a book of poems and drawings, Drawing Nirvana; and four books of poetry and prose, Love and History, Acquaintances, A Precious Transience, and a memoir titled The Origin of Affection, winner of the Violet Reed Haas Poetry Award.
This short story recalls a childhood memory connected with the tradition of singing Ramadan songs in Uzbek neighborhoods. Through the innocent perspective of a child, the narrative reflects on warmth, kindness, and the first experience of injustice. The story highlights family affection, particularly a touching moment that reveals a father’s quiet love and care for his child. It also captures the cultural atmosphere of Ramadan and the emotional memories associated with it.
Keywords Ramadan tradition, childhood memory, fatherly love, family values, Uzbek culture, neighborhood traditions
Story
I was still a small child then. It was one of those years when the month of Ramadan fell in the middle of winter. The days were short, the nights were long, and the air was cold and biting. One evening, together with the children from our neighborhood, we set out to sing Ramadan songs from house to house. The older boys came with us as guards. They never sang themselves—perhaps they were too shy. The younger children, however, would step up to the gates and sing loudly: We came to your door singing for Ramadan, May God bless your cradle with a baby boy. Ash in the hearth, money in the pocket, Please bring out a hundred soʻm for us. With that hundred soʻm we bought a horse, We sold the horse and married a girl. The girl’s name was Nigora, Poor thing, she bakes bread. Nigora ran away, And the dough was left to rise. What shall we do now? We will keep wandering, singing Ramadan!
The homeowners would come out with bread, sweets, fruit, or sometimes a little money. Four of us would hold a cloth open like a tablecloth, and the gifts would be placed into it. In this way we walked through several neighborhoods, happily singing and laughing. But when it was time to divide what we had collected, the older boys took the money and the best things for themselves. The rest—the leftovers—were given to us. Looking back now, I realize that this was probably the first injustice my young heart had ever witnessed.
When I returned home, my hands had turned blue from the cold. In my hands I carried a small bundle: dark bread, some fruit, and a few small treats. My mother looked at me with worry, pulled me into her arms, and said, “Oh, my poor child, why did you need this? Look how cold you are.” I kept telling her about the unfairness I had seen. No matter how hard she tried, I couldn’t warm up. My hands were stiff like wood, and tears slipped from my eyes.
Then my father took my little hands into his large, warm ones. Gently, he blew warm air onto them again and again, trying to warm them. Slowly, the warmth returned. That day, I discovered something new about my father. Until then, I had always thought of him as a strict and stern man. But in that quiet moment, I realized how deeply kind and loving he truly was. Every time the month of Ramadan comes, and children walk through the streets singing Ramadan songs, this memory returns to me.
Ramadan, thank you for revealing to me a father’s love.
Author Bio
Sardorjon Nabiyev is an emerging writer from Uzbekistan whose works focus on childhood memories, cultural traditions, and family values. His writing reflects everyday life and emotional experiences through simple yet meaningful storytelling.
In the heart of a golden autumn, a young kitten named Pufik saw the forest changing for the first time. While squirrels gathered nuts and storks flew south, an ancient Owl named Aqlbek revealed a terrifying secret: this winter, the “Spirit of Frost” intended to freeze the forest forever, aided by invisible “Virus-Spies” known as the Flu.
Determined to save his friends, Pufik embarked on a journey to the “Valley of Miracles” to find Grandfather Year. Along the way, he was helped by a swift rabbit, wise snails, and brave hedgehogs. Grandfather Year gifted Pufik a Golden Key, warning him to return before sunrise.
As the icy breath of the Frost Spirit began to harden the trees, Pufik reached the Ancient Oak. With the help of his friends who shielded him from the ice, he turned the Golden Key in the tree’s heart. Suddenly, a warm, golden light erupted, melting the eternal ice and driving the “Flu” viruses away.
The forest was saved. The animals celebrated a great “Harvest Festival,” and Pufik was no longer just a kitten—he was the Hero of the Forest. Since then, winter only visits for three months, and the animals stay safe and warm in their homes.
That day there was no sun, so I did not step outside. The whole day slipped away thinking of something I cannot name.
I kept looking at the sky, waiting for rain supposed to fall. The hours passed in expectation— yet not a single drop descended.
In the hush between light and shadow old leaves of spring kept falling, quietly, over and over. Green did not meet me today either.
There were words to be spoken— I almost said them, again and again— yet they remained unsaid.
Perhaps your sky too was heavy with clouds.
When all the lights of the world go still, night arrives, darkness settles. And in that darkness I see a blooming light.
In that flood of radiance I lose myself somewhere.
The rain does not fall, the sun does not rise exactly— yet in your light I am illuminated again and again.
The darkness that surrounds me is never greater than the light you unfold before me.
The rose-petals of dawn unfold in the gentle dance of a dove.
Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.
From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry.
On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium.
On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.
In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively.
His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix. His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings.
