The sky had cleared, and the sun finally took its place on the grand stage above. The snow began to melt, though the heaps that hadpiled up along the streets after days of relentless snowfall still stood untouched. Only the pathways where people walked and cars passed had turned dark, revealing the wet asphalt beneath. Even the sidewalk at the entrance to our apartment block had emerged from under the snow–its surface now gleaming like a sheet of white paper, smudged with streaks of grime and rust-stained slush, resembling some abstract sketch of clouds. The same kind of “cloud" was now forming in front of the next building’s entrance. Ah, so they were finally hauling away the garbage bags that had been piling up there for weeks.
The sun also cast its warm smile upon the brick-clad, brownstone buildings of Brooklyn’s Midwood neighborhood. Yet, the people remained as colorless as ever–dressed in dark, muted tones of gray and black, rushing about with hurried steps, their eyes glued to their phones. Some wore wired earphones.
That’s enough–I’ve had my fill of staring out the window. The cold air creeping in numbed me, so I pushed the window shut with force. Sliding my hand under the crimson blanket nailed over the frame, I twisted the handle tight. Once the chill sets in, it’s a struggle to warm the place back up.
When I first moved in, I was impressed by the spaciousness of the room. But then, there was the smell. Naswar. Yes, naswar. Yes, in America. Turns out, the previous tenant–a fellow countryman–was quite the naswar enthusiast. His habit? Spitting the remnants onto the floor before drifting off to sleep. To rid the room of that pungent stench, I kept the window open for five to six hours a day. Eventually, the smell faded–but so did the warmth, and that became a whole new problem.
The city’s usual hum had died down, replaced by the lively clamor echoing through the apartment. “Bacheem! Injo biyo!..”
After living with a family from Samarkand for over two weeks, I had started to pick up bits of Tajik. Not much–just the most frequently repeated phrases: Turn off the light, close the door, put away the dishes, hurry up, do you understand? But my favorite one? Ziyod gap nazan–don’t talk too much. Hospitality runs deep in their blood. Even when they absentmindedly switched to Tajik while offering me something, I had learned to understand it instinctively.
“Saidjooon!"
A knock on my door.
“Come, have some warm, fresh bread."
I step into the kitchen.
“Oh wow, this looks amazing. So, you don’t buy bread from stores at all? Too many additives, is that it?"
“Saidjon, if I bake a batch like this, it lasts us a whole week. Buying from the store? Too expensive! We just can’t keep up with the costs. Come, sit, sit."
The mother seats her two Uzbek-American sons beside me–one is 13, the other 16. The younger one hums a rap tune under his breath, lost in his own rhythm. The older one is playing soccer. I pull out my own phone, scrolling through something to read. It’s my day off, after all.
The boys dive into their usual chatter–video games, soccer, cars, and the latest internet memes. No matter the topic, one word dominates their conversation: “Bruh.” Impressed? Bruh. Annoyed? Bruh. Frustrated? Bruh. It’s their universal expression, fitting every mood, reaction, and sentence.
“Man, if we ordered two large pizzas and some Ginger Ale right now, that would hit the spot," I interrupt their conversation.
“Facts!" Sheroz, the older one, immediately backs me up, nodding.
Amir, the younger one, says two words in Uzbek and two in Tajik, furrowing his brows and shaking his fist to emphasize that his mother will be furious.
Amir has been speaking English at school and with his friends ever since he arrived in the U.S. three years ago at the age of ten. At home, he switches to Tajik. Now, having to speak Uzbek just for me is an extra burden he doesn’t want.
We agreed that on a day when both their mother and father were at work, we’d finally indulge in pizza and a delicious ginger-flavored drink. After all, in this household, extra expenses, especially eating out, were out of the question.
The boys headed out, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I stayed behind, engrossed in my reading.
From the next room, I could hear Kelinoyi speaking on the phone, her voice tinged with concern. Initially, her words were muffled, blending into the background, but soon, her tone grew louder, more urgent.
As she walked into the kitchen and sat down on a chair beside me, I caught the tail end of the conversation–“Xo‘sh, Nafis, xo‘sh. Salomat bosh.” That was enough to tell me her caller was another Uzbekistani living in America, a neighbor just two blocks away.
“Saidjooon, you are good at these technologies, aren’t you? Can you help me figure out who’s been messaging me?”
I put my phone down. “Who’s texting you? What’s going on?”
“Well, ukajon, someone’s been sending me messages on Telegram... They say, ‘Keep an eye on your husband, I’m telling you this for your own good. Your husband is dating someone.’”
“What? That’s ridiculous. Where did they even get that from?”
She sighed. “I just spoke to Nafisa, and she says it’s probably a scam.”
“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. There are so many of them these days. I guess they got your contact from one of those Telegram groups.”
She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “Oh, just think about it... How am I able to sustain our family without my husband?”
The younger son, Amir, happened to walk past the kitchen door.
“Amir, injo biyo, bachem..."
Kelinoyi called him over, her voice laced with unease. She murmured something to him in Tajik– something about what if your father has another wife? What if he leaves us? I only pieced it together from Amir’s casual, half-English response:
“Biyi, in scam ast. Parvo nakuned."
“Scam? Scami chist? Ibiii..."
She let out an exasperated sigh, confused by the foreign word, as if this new reality of online deception troubled her just as much as the message itself.
Kelinoyi let out a cry and called for her older son as well. A heated exchange ensued–frantic words flying back and forth in Tajik. Meanwhile, I sat there fidgeting with my phone, a creeping worry settling in. Could it be? Had Farhod aka really gone astray?
Kelinoyi works as a caretaker for the elderly and so does her husband, Farhod aka. After finishing his shifts as a “xomaten"–his own way of pronouncing home attendant–he drives Uber in his Toyota Camry. For a man whose English doesn’t extend beyond yes and no, the simplicity of the ride-hailing app has been a blessing.
Honestly, I had never met anyone who worked as hard as they did. Both husband and wife clocked in 60 to 70 hours a week, tirelessly juggling their endless shifts.
Once, Farhod aka didn’t come home for three days straight–lost in the grind, managing two jobs back-to-back. When he finally walked through the door, Kelinoyi greeted him with an ironic round of applause, exclaiming, “Vot moy muzh! Kakoy molodets. Net slov!” (How amazing my husband is–I’m speechless!)
I had drifted into thought, lost in my own worries, when Kelinoyi returned. But this time, instead of seeking reassurance, she was the one comforting me.
“Saidjooon, hey, don’t overthink it," she said with a lighthearted chuckle. “My husband? He works from morning till night. And honestly–this man has a bath only once a week!" She burst into laughter. “Who in the world would want him out there? And who would he even want? He loves his kids too much."
I nodded. “You’re right, Kelinoyi. Don’t assume the worst. Whoever sent that message just wanted to stir trouble in your heart."
First, she made me and then her sons worry, later she comforted us. Now it was time for her husband to ride this emotional roller coaster: she grabbed her phone and called him.
Telling him about the messages, she demanded to know who this other woman was and why he was cheating. Her voice was sharp, cutting, needling at his patience.
An hour later, she called again.
“Where are you? What are you doing?”
From the other end, a frustrated shout burst through the speaker, loud enough to fill the entire room:
“What do you want?”
Kelinoyi clenched her teeth, smirked, and then, in an effort to regain control, wiggled her fingers in the air and blocked her mouth to avoid laughing. Then, slipping seamlessly back into her role as the distressed wife, she softened her voice and sighed:
“If someone tricks you, how will I live? What will become of me?” Though he couldn’t see it, she batted her eyelashes dramatically. His response was blunt and irritated: “Is this woman insane?”
But Kelinoyi wasn’t done. She turned up the theatrics, letting out a sigh heavy with mock sorrow.
“If you leave us, what will I do? I’ll be ruined. Who’s going to pay off our debts? The mortgage in Samarkand? The credit bills?”
Her words weren’t just a plea; they were calculated, mischievous.
She wanted him to know she was playing a game.
Farhod aka had had enough. “I’ll come home and show you exactly who’s paying for what. I’m not fooling around–I’m working. What a day!”
The call cut off, but the battle was far from over.
In just half an hour, the mystery was solved!
It turned out that the same account had also messaged an Uzbekistani lady residing in Brighton Beach. Desperate to uncover the truth, she had willingly parted with $500, only to realize–too late–that she’d been scammed. What could I say? In America, con artists knew exactly how to prey on people’s fears, weaving lies to squeeze money out of them. It happened all the time. With that revelation, everyone finally breathed a sigh of relief. Peace was restored.
The television flickered on in the living room. Soon, a wedding video from Samarkand completely captivated Kelinoyi. She leaned in, enthralled, and before I knew it, she was recounting, in vivid detail, how spectacular her younger brother’s wedding had been last year.
I watched the footage with genuine curiosity. A lavish banquet hall, elegantly dressed guests, a gleaming convoy of luxury foreign cars parading through the streets. Only one thought crossed my mind–utterly breathtaking.
And I found out that Kelinoyi paid a couple of thousands of dollars for her favorite singer to perform at the wedding.
To my question that slipped out of my mouth: “Isn‘t it too expensive?”, she replied: “Saidjooon, we only live once, we have to savor the moments!..”
I headed to my room and pushed the window open once more. The streets had come to life, glowing with fresh energy. At the car washing stations, vehicles queued up one after another. Cars whizzed by in both directions, people exchanged hurried words, dogs barked, birds sang, and the stores were bustling with customers. Mexican laborers–the tireless amigos–unloaded crates of goods from delivery trucks, their movements steady, relentless. Brooklyn, as always, was performing its usual symphony.
Thinking about how impossible it is to keep my high-ceilinged room warm, I shut the window again, sealing off the crisp Brooklyn air.
And I unwillingly repeated the words that I heard earlier: we only live once, we have to savor the moments...
Saidaziz A'zamov
