Wordlessness
Short Story
by Rakhshona Akhmedova
For more than two weeks we have been living wordless. I cannot remember if it was a Saturday or Sunday when we two—me and my husband—said our last words. Yet, I remember well that, as usual, a trifle caused the quarrel. We, two young people, flared up as always; and shouted, competing with each other. We tried our best. Getting fed up with our noise, the neighbour knocked at the door. Amidst our yelling, the milk seller delivered milk but the quarrel wasn't over. Both of us had only one goal: to say a word—no matter what and no matter how—that could break the other's heart.
Oh, it is not easy to express such a pleasure! Nothing is more enjoyable than shooting the most absurd remarks on a person you cannot bear at that moment. A caustic word that pierces the heart as soon as it reaches. After all, at that moment both of us had such an intention.
He managed to be the first to accomplish this challenging job. Yes, he did. I don't know how he did it, but he managed. He said a word that pierced my heart like a dagger. Such a word! At that moment, my whole world shattered; I was smashed into thousands of pieces. My eyes darkened, my knees shook, and I collapsed to the floor. That word hurt me so much that I felt as if torture was pouring from my wound. I didn't know what to do then.
He got it; he cast an arrogant gaze on me, looking contented. At the same time, he went off the deep end so that nothing could defuse his anger. I admit that I was very helpless then. Unable to find the right words, I mumbled. I had no strength to utter words; something stuck in my throat. I was completely out of breath, yet still, no words could escape my lips. For some reason, he didn't find it necessary to say anything either. Perhaps he didn't want his last words to lose their power.
I was overwhelmed, so helpless in front of a WORD. I sobbed like a child, having no strength to drag the word thrust into my bosom.
He left. It was easy for him. He put on his chapan and walked out. Behind him, I watched him take triumphant steps, holding his head high. In contrast, I sat on the floor, wounded and grieving. Tears streamed down my face as my life played out before me like a film, causing me to sigh with regret and anguish.
I remember witnessing many times my mother feeling helpless in the face of a word. My father was an angry man. In the midst of a pleasant talk, the expression on his face would suddenly change, and he would begin shooting acid remarks at my mother. She searched for the right words—apparently, for self-protection—and chose the weightiest, the sharpest ones. Yet, those delicately chosen words couldn't seem to injure my father. Or perhaps he didn't let her know it; I am not sure. She was always defeated in those battles of words. I could tell from her tears. Often she would cry over feeling unappreciated. "Throughout my life, I've fulfilled all my wifely duties, dedicating myself entirely to him. Yet, despite everything I've done, why doesn't he appreciate me?" she would say in grief.
I would search for a word that could soothe her pain then, but it was hard to find one.
"You've been disappointed by this trivial word. It isn't worth it," I said attempting to cheer her up. However, I couldn't truly feel Mum's pain.
That day… yes, that day, for the first time, I understood my mum's feelings. I felt the weight of the words that had stabbed her heart and remained embedded. On that day, I cried for Mum. Then, suddenly, strength stirred within me. I stood up and busied myself with household chores, the wound still fresh—I might have been trying to distract myself. There's no other choice; you have to keep on living.
He must have thought the same way. He came back home late that night but didn't say anything.
Since then, we hadn't spoken to each other. It seemed as though words themselves were offended by our silence, refusing to emerge; and when they did, they were quickly stifled. With each passing day, the suffocating weight of the tension intensified. We found ourselves sinking deeper into the abyss of wordlessness. Living without a word is a challenge.
He thought, "A woman cannot live without speaking; a word is a necessity for them, like water." Yet, this time, I was equally obstinate, refusing to back down. "Let it be what it will be," someone inside me said.
I believe he must have attempted to speak but changed his mind upon seeing my persistence. He remained silent. We remained silent. The days passed in silence. Words were offended; words were upset.
I would get up quietly, wash my face, and prepare breakfast. He, too, would wake silently. We would then have our breakfast, still without a word. After, he would leave for work in silence. In silence, I would attend to my daily chorus.
In the evenings, he would walk in quietly, our eyes meeting in silence. Another long, wordless dinner followed. We waited patiently, wondering whose tightened lips would finally set a word free.
I concluded, 'A word has become disappointed with us.' He thought, 'A word has left us.' Without a word, I was withering like a flower; without a word, he, too, was wilting like a tree. We needed help. Like fish, our hearts whispered 'water', 'water'. Our hearts thirsted for a tender word. We longed for a WORD.
This lasted for three weeks. One could die without a word. But then it happened—he was the first to admit his regret.
"Forgive me," he said, gathering his strength.
It was the very words I needed to heal my wounds. They seemed to begin closing; my body seemed to start reviving.
"Forgive me," I whispered, gathering my strength. He, too, longed for those words. The words 'I will', and 'we will' were arriving, snaking their way like a train.
"We won't do it anymore," we said.
"We won't hurt each other anymore," we promised. "We won't waste words arguing."
We decided not to trample words for such nonsense. Then we drank up the words with gusto. We uttered the words to please our hearts. Wordlessness had worn us out. It is a WORD that keeps us alive.
Translated by Munira Norova
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