My Name is Sun

“When you live long enough inside a scientific and technological marvel you start to get used to it.”

JULY 15, 2025

He stands at the very top.

A slight northwesterly wind lifts and releases the hem of his black coat. Lifts and releases it again. From below, in the direction of Changi, the azanchi’s call rises.

The Sun peers out from the murky clouds, then disappears. Shadow. Light. Shadow.

To his right, in that same cloudy haze, are the peaks of Tian Shan. Already snow-capped — yes, winter is coming. He dislikes winter, though over the course of his life, he’s grown used to it. Over the course of his long — some might say too long — life. Three children and five grandchildren. A great-grandchild on the way. No, no — not time for congratulations just yet.

But the name his mother gave him was Kuyosh — “Sun,” a star composed of hydrogen and helium, spectral class G2V, average diameter 1.392 × 10⁹ meters.

The Sun comes out again: the weak and cautious late autumn Sun.

Below him, terraced heliostat platforms extend downward. The mirrored mosaic of the concentrator shines.

At his back is a granite stele. Over these years he’s learned its inscription by heart, no need to even turn around and read it. “By the will of the Party, by the desire of the people, the Sun Complex will be built here.” And in tiny letters: May 1981.

The year of his wedding, by the way.

“Mama, why’d you give me this name?”

“...Here’s the bucket, go water the vineyard…”

“Mama, why’d you give me this name?”

“...Did you water the grapes? Get moving! Do I have to feed the chickens myself, yet again?...”

“Mama, why’d you give me this name?”

“What name? Quit bothering me. And why are you still wearing those broken glasses? What’d you do with the new ones, huh?”

So he never found out why his mother gave him the name. She could have named him Oybek, “Moon Prince.” After the famous author — he wrote the novel Sacred Blood. Ever read it? Oybek. Then he too might have become a writer, reaching some great heights. What did he become instead?

But the name his mother gave him was Kuyosh — “Sun,” a star composed of hydrogen and helium, spectral class G2V, average diameter 1.392 × 10⁹ meters. He can list more facts and figures, knows them all by heart. Don’t believe it?

Oh, how they laughed at his name when he first transferred to Russian school in the fourth grade! His name did sound a bit funny in Russian — Kuyosh. He got in fights, his mother called in. Then eventually the teasing stopped. And he understood: you’ve got to fight for your name. Even if you don’t particularly like it and would have rather been called Oybek, Jahongir, or even some Russian name like Aleksandr Sergeyevich.

So he fought. Fought for his right to be called Sun.

Though more often than not it didn’t come to blows; he’d just pull the bully close, take off his sunglasses, and look him in the eye.

Nor did his mother ever want to talk about his father. “Mama, tell me — who was my father?” “A man,” she’d say, crouched down and tending to the grapes.

All his memories of her were tied up with grapes. Parkent, fertile land of vineyards. But about his father — not a word.

Except for one time she said: “When you were born, he dimmed.” That’s all.

No matter how many times he asked — dimmed how, why, in what sense — she stayed quiet. Go, she’d say, do your homework. Feed the chickens.

Is he still standing up there?

No, he’s descending slowly. The Sun comes out again, illuminating his figure in the black coat. Black coat, black cap. Black shoes with slightly worn toes, a present from his oldest son. Dark glasses.

The heliostats glisten, washed clean by the recent rain. A few mirror shards lying on the asphalt, still waiting to be cleaned up. The mirrors are being replaced. Their archenemy, of course, is dust. If it settles on the mirrors’ surface, that’s it. So long design capacity.

The qishloq where he was born is named after it. Changi means “Dusty.” Not a very appealing name. And there’s not even much dust there — visitors praise the air. But probably to someone travelling through in ancient times naming things, their village seemed dusty. Perhaps a gust of wind blew in, kicking up the dust. The person sneezed and gave it the name, not really understanding how things were. Oh well, people were used to it. Changi was Changi; for a city with theaters and fountains, it might not be the most fitting name, but for a qishloq it will do. And so he is Kuyosh from Changi — “Sun from Dust.”

He planned to study the celestial body after which he was named. His name should be good for something, right?

And so. Long before those at the top thought of harnessing solar energy here, he, Kuyosh, was already around. Helping his mother, feeding the chickens, running to school.

He knew, of course, that he was different. And not only because of the dark glasses he was always breaking, much to his mother’s annoyance. Dark glasses weren’t easy to buy back then, for His Majesty the Commodity Shortage reigned supreme. But not far away, in Krasnogorsk, they had goods supplied directly from Moscow and you could get whatever you wanted. True, life there was peculiar — uranium mines, radiation… But what could you do? The state needed uranium. And soon it would need the Sun too.

“Suncatcher No. 4”

No, they didn’t have a catcher like that in Changi. It’s from a movie he saw in childhood — the whole class went.

“The solar energy reaching Earth is roughly a billion times the world’s current energy needs. We want to harness that energy for the benefit of humanity…”

Spoken by People’s Artist Lyubov Orlova — he had watched the film three times. Springtime was in black and white, but still luminous, somehow, and bright. While now he watches color films, their shades brighter than real life. But the feeling from them — it isn’t even black and white, but somehow grayish. As if there’s no sun within them, only dusk.

Or is that just his old age talking? Old men see everything from the perspective of sunset. From late autumn, where he is now.

But that Lyuba Orlova — she was something. Spoke beautifully about the Sun and sang and danced better still; even visited him at night, in pleasant dreams. He was already in high school then, reborn as a man. “The babbling brooks, the cawing rooks, the ice is melting and hearts are mel-ting!”

His first girlfriend was named Zuhra. She looked a little like Lyubov Orlova, had she been born an Uzbek girl and raised in their qishloq. She too liked dancing.

They’d walk together slowly, not talking. What could he say to her? Or she to him? Sometimes he’d take her hand. “Don’t,” her eyes would say. “Why not?” his eyes would respond through the dark lenses of his glasses.

Even her name seemed fitting. Zuhra is the planet Venus. Not the closest to the Sun, but still… They’d find some place to hide. He’d kiss her forehead. Her braids. Her hands. And his heart would melt like the ice cream he bought her.

He asked his mother to send for matchmakers to arrange the marriage, but she had her own maternal plans for him. She’d keep silent and nod absently, busy with the household chores. Or the grapes.

After high school, he wanted to go to university — this thought had taken root in his young mind. To study physics, or maybe even astronomy. He’d been fascinated by physics in school. He planned to study the celestial body after which he was named. His name should be good for something, right?

His mother didn’t like this idea either. She grabbed a broom and went to sweep the courtyard. Though she’d swept it just an hour before. He followed her outside:

“Since you named me Sun, I’m going to study it. Scientists do well for themselves and are widely respected. The Sun will feed me…”

“It feeds all of us already,” his mother said, leaning on the broom. “Grapes don’t ripen in the moonlight…”

“It’s always grapes, grapes with you… Do you want me to become an agronomist?”

“No, there have never been any agronomists in our family. Builders, yes. But not agronomists, ever. Now builders…”

The black coat descends slowly in the direction of the concentrator.

It’s a gradual descent, like in a theater: the stage is below, and above it are the rows of seats, rising one after another, higher and higher. So the people in the back can see the stage too, and what the actors are doing on it… He built a theater like that once. A concert hall, rather, The Friendship of the Peoples Palace. Not alone, of course. But his hands did their part and left their mark. He was living in Tashkent then, where the republic’s great construction projects were underway. A big city, the capital, trams, cultural activities.

And the Sun Complex is its own kind of theater. Only instead of seats, its rows of heliostats rise upward. And in place of the stage — His Majesty the Concentrator. An enormous, curved mirror. Fifty-four meters wide and 42 meters high. Measure yourself, if you don’t believe it.

Smiling at his own joke, he approaches the concentrator. Bird noise fills the air. Birds are always making noise there in the evening, their avian hour.

Not long until twilight. But he keeps his dark glasses on. Before, if he was alone somewhere inside or outdoors, he’d occasionally take them off. Just briefly, to see the world not in darkness. Then he grew accustomed and, even at night, started keeping them on. His wife lies beside him… He thinks she’s almost never seen him without his dark glasses. She’s a teacher by profession.

 In 1980, the Friendship of Peoples Palace was completed, and the authorities came to cut the ribbon. He was given a certificate of merit; can show it to you later, if anyone wants to see.

He worked as a general laborer, mastering different trades. Could have been a foreman already, but he would’ve had to steal. And he didn’t care for that. Even to steal competently requires a certain predilection. To steal sand, for example. And other building materials. This was not even considered stealing, especially in those days. Since everything was no one’s back then — it was the state’s. 

Sun City was being built. A city that would feed on energy from the Sun. Where the sunny people of the future would live, work and laugh.

And what was the state? It was like the Sun. It could warm you and give you a certificate, or else it could hit you in the head with sunstroke. But sometimes a cloud crept over it. And while the state was there behind the cloud, busy with its great affairs and the problems of the century, you could think about your own pocket. Everyone has a family, after all. Come home and right away your wife looks at your hands. The kids look at your hands to see what you’ve brought. Man is the principal source of bringing. 

But he never felt the urge. Perhaps his name would not allow it. How could one Sun steal from another?

Besides, his pay was good. Especially after they brought him here, to the site. A secret project, heavily secured. They built homes for the support personnel nearby. “Kuyosh” — Sun City. Well just a settlement, really. But maybe with the idea that, one day, a city would grow from it.

After construction was completed, he stayed at Site 1158, as the Heliocomplex was called in official documents. Facilities management. Why go off to another construction site when there was work and respect right here? He’d fulfilled his mother’s wishes and became a builder, could lay bricks with his eyes closed. He never married Zuhra, their local Lyuba Orlova, though he’d wanted to so badly it nearly brought him to tears. He married the woman his mother pointed out with her calloused, hard-working finger. He actually did cry once, but who could see his tears behind the dark glasses? And anyway, with a name like his, he shouldn’t cry. If his name had been Bulut — “Cloud” — that would have been a different story. But no Sun has the right to tears, does it?

“Mama, why’d you choose me this wife?”

“...Would you look at these vines! We’ll have a good harvest this year…”

“Mama, why’d you choose me this wife?”

“...But they need to be pruned again… Well, how are things at the site? What’s new?...”

“Mama, why’d you choose me this wife? She doesn’t love me, and I don’t love her.”

“Why’d I choose her? I chose what was there. One day you’ll be grateful. One day you’ll ask: Mama, where’d you find me such a wife? Such a smart woman, and for me, who half the qishloq won’t even say hello to.”

He stands in front of the concentrator.

All this was built before his eyes. So what if his eyes were covered by dark lenses? On a construction site, no one cares what kind of glasses you wear. What shirt you have on or what cologne you smell of today. Only there, down below, where people lived ordinary, earthly lives, did such things have any meaning. While here, way up high, there was construction. Sun City was being built. A city that would feed on energy from the Sun. Where the sunny people of the future would live, work and laugh.

He remembers how the mountain was fenced off. How before that the bald academic Aleksandrov came from Moscow and, removing his jacket, in only his shirtsleeves, broke the ground and laid the first stone. He too wore dark glasses, that luminary of science. How the people of the qishloq talked about this news for a long time. Some said there’d be a new cosmodrome here, like Baikonur, but even better — it was higher here and you could send the spaceships farther: to the Moon or even the Sun. Others said there’d be a military base with top-secret rockets that ran on solar energy…

He knew what was being built but told no one. Because he’d signed a non-disclosure agreement. And because he didn’t like to talk much in general or spread information around. Now if his name had been Shamol — “Wind” — that would have been a different story. But a Sun must quietly perform its duties. Shine and not talk too much.

Mainly, however, because no one really asked him. His mother was right: he was not well-liked in the qishloq. All because of his eyes. They said his gaze could cast spells. Even through his dark glasses. They had no proof of this; it was sheer superstition. He even went to a clinic, to the eye doctor, to get a certificate saying his gaze posed no danger to others. Went to one clinic, then another…

Only one of the doctors treated him with any seriousness: Since you've come, he said, we might as well check your vision… His vision turned out to be normal and, regarding his eyes, the doctor agreed that, yes, they were a little unusual — they seemed to glow.

“They refract sunlight in a peculiar way…”

“But could this somehow cause my gaze to give a person chickenpox, for example, or make a cow give less milk?”

“No,” said the doctor, “medicine does not subscribe to such beliefs.”

“Then can you give me a certificate stating that my gaze falls within the acceptable sanitary norms? With a stamp?”

The doctor thought about this.

“No, I can’t give you a certificate.”

“Could the head doctor? I’ll make it worth his while.”

“The head doctor can’t either.”

“Who can?”

“I don’t know. A parapsychologist of some sort, perhaps. Or a hypnotist… It’s more in their line.”

He went to hypnotists. But they too refused him the certificate.

The concentrator is a massive mirror spanning half the sky. Made up of a multitude of small mirrors. They light up when the Sun shines, then dims. The wind keeps on blowing.

He remembers how it started running. Not instantaneously — they spent two more years adjusting the mirrors. But in 1990 it was all up and running, he remembers. How the sunlight reflected by the heliostats reached the concentrator in a fraction of a second… and then, focused into a beam, made its way to the manufacturing tower, also in a fraction of a second, then…

The experiments at the Heliocomplex continued; it seemed like they always would. So long as the Sun kept shining; so long as the state with its harsh but socially just light kept shining. When you live long enough inside a scientific and technological marvel you start to get used to it.

What happened at the manufacturing tower, he didn’t know. It was classified. He knew that an extremely high temperature was reached, up to 3,000 degrees Celsius. But what they were melting or testing up there, he didn’t know.

In the end, he had enough thoughts and worries without science and the Sun. Children were born, his mother fell ill. He moved up from the qishloq to the new Kuyosh settlement.

Left his mother down below. In their small clay house that now really did seem dusty to him, and foreign. He’d go there to help her, say nothing, then leave. To live all together would have been impossible; his mother and wife couldn’t stand each other. Even though, as has been said, it was his mother who chose his wife. Now his mother blamed him for everything. “A wife is her husband’s mirror. If you respected me, she would have to love and respect me too.” What could he say? A wife might be a mirror, but mirrors come in all kinds. Some are ultra-precise, like the ones at the Heliocomplex; some are warped, like the funhouse mirrors in Gorky Park, which he used to visit sometimes when he lived in Tashkent. No, of course his wife was not a funhouse mirror; there was nothing fun about being with her. And she, in her own way, probably reflected him truthfully. But with his mother she formed some kind of system of mirrors, and the way light bounced between them made it impossible for them to be together. Which of them was a heliostat and which was the concentrator — mother or wife — who could say? But if he happened to get caught between them… It wasn’t 3,000 degrees, but it got pretty hot. More than once his heart hurt, scorched by their screams and tears. But the years passed somehow. One, two, three, four… The children, three boys, grew up, and his mother grew old. The Sun rose, reflected in the mirrors of the concentrator, traveled its usual route, then slipped behind the mountains. The experiments at the Heliocomplex continued; it seemed like they always would. So long as the Sun kept shining; so long as the state with its harsh but socially just light kept shining. When you live long enough inside a scientific and technological marvel you start to get used to it.

And he got used to it. Every morning he struggled out of his cramped marital bed, splashed water on his face, ate some leftovers from last night’s dinner, and went to work — to the Sun.

And then it started coming to an end.

The Sun, of course, kept throwing its rays at the mirrors of the concentrator. He kept going to work, in dark glasses. But the huge, heavy Sun of the state broke apart. It shattered into a multitude of small Suns. Some said this was bad. Some said it was good. That we would finally build our own separate and salubrious Sun.

Salaries at the Heliocomplex dropped lower and lower — it was hard for the young republic to maintain such a large and cumbersome mechanism. And why should they? It had been a site of union-wide significance, with ties not only to Moscow, but to the other republics. And now everyone was solving their own problems, far away from the Sun… Her Majesty the Market Economy reigned supreme. The Heliocomplex was depopulated. They tried various things… Firing ceramic spools for textile factories. The spools were durable, but that didn’t save it. He ran into one of his co-workers, a physicist, at the bazaar. When their eyes met, the man turned red all over. Like the tomatoes he was awkwardly and abashedly selling.

A sacrifice was needed.

Turned out his mother had been right when she forced him to become a builder. Now he picked up side jobs on various construction sites. “There, you see!” said his mother. “I see,” he replied.

Although — what was it he saw?

Still, he waited. The Sun is an optimistic star, right? A celestial body of its sort has got to be optimistic. It can’t just spiritlessly produce such enormous quantities of energy. Every day sacrificing itself, giving itself to the world. Without hope, without belief in some higher cosmic goal, right? It’s not just some lifeless mass of fire dangling in the darkness and cold, and he’s not named Sun for nothing, right?

But then… What is there to tell? Those were dark days. Dark, sun-filled and quiet days. Rumors spread that they wanted to dismantle and cart away the Heliocomplex. The order from Tashkent was not yet signed, but things were heading that direction. Buyers were already being sought for the metal and for the other parts and equipment. 

Was there such a decision or not? Some said yes, they’d seen the proof. Others said no: just tall tales and misinformation. But the first group was larger.

It was then they devised the Plan. He and a few co-workers whose names he won’t disclose. They decided to save the Heliocomplex. But how? How…

A sacrifice was needed.

One that would draw attention to their Heliocomplex. From the people, and from Tashkent. And from the global community. From scientists, researchers and academics. Those who weren’t off selling tomatoes.

Then his mother died. She was sorting grapes at the time and died right there, with a bunch still in her hand. He observed the proper period of mourning. And the Sun hid for several days, as though sensing this. Wandered somewhere behind the clouds, not showing itself to the people. And he wandered too, alone as now. Wandered and thought.

And he said all right.

That he should be the one to sacrifice himself for science. That’s what he told them. His comrades who he won’t name here. At the funeral repast for which a ram was slaughtered. That’s what he told them as they were eating plov, now cold from sitting. All right.

“My name, after all, is Sun…”

He filled their piyolas with vodka. They drank in silence. The Plan was simple.

There were still some experiments being conducted at the Heliocomplex. The mirrors on the concentrator were of course not so finely adjusted as before. Each one was supposed to be set at its own strictly defined angle… But that was fine. Not 3,000 degrees, perhaps, but hot enough for what they needed.

On a clear and sunny day, they’d climb to the top of the manufacturing tower. As though for an experiment. They’d get the cart — there was a cart there on rails… They’d turn on the furnace. Everything as usual. The sun’s rays would travel from the heliostats to the concentrator in a fraction of a second and be focused into a single scorching beam… As for any experiment.

Only — your attention, please — this time the experimental material would be him. The ray of light would be directed at his heart. All this would be recorded on camera. He’d give some brief remarks beforehand. A call to preserve their Heliocomplex. Not to heed the Market Economy, but to think instead about science, about the future, about our children… At this point he’d show a picture of his own. Sooner or later all the Earth’s energy resources would be depleted. Both oil and gas. And uranium. Humankind will need to turn to the Sun and its energy. And then our republic, with its great Heliocomplex, will find itself ahead, riding high. On the magnificent white steed of scientific and technological thought. He’ll plead for the Heliocomplex to be preserved. Do you hear? His final plea… Do you hear?

He woke up early that morning.

Hardly slept the night before. It was raining. That’s good, he thought, turning over. It’ll wash the mirrors on the heliostats and concentrator, and they’ll reflect the sun’s rays better… His wife wasn’t around — he’d sent her to their relatives the day before, with the children. She hadn’t wanted to go, and he’d had to raise his voice and give the table a manly smack. Her eyes had actually widened — he’d never allowed himself to do that before. She packed her things, dressed the children, and left. He wanted to hug her quickly, for the last time… He watched as she put on her shoes and noisily went out the door… He didn’t hug her.

So he got up. Washed his face and hands. Shaved carefully and dried off with a fresh towel. He prayed. Tried to eat something. Sat for a while, looking at the spoon.

It was time.

He stood and pressed a hand to his heart. That’s all right, be patient, not long now. Got the note he’d prepared and placed it on the table. Looked at it and moved it to the other side of the table.

But in his soul… in his soul, it was as if something burned out that day. Something dimmed. Or melted and took on a new form. Was this good? Bad? He doesn’t know. He just keeps living.

Got the picture of his children, also prepared in advance to bring with him. Three boys… Slipped it quickly into the inside pocket of his jacket. Yes, he’d wear a jacket. Though before presenting his chest to the stream of solar fire, he’d take everything off. His jacket, shirt, and tie. Let his sons have them — good-quality clothes…

The sky was high and clear, as the plan required. He walked quickly uphill. Two more turns and their Heliocomplex would come into view. He checked his watch… And then stopped.

There around the corner was his wife.

The rising Sun fell on her back, and her face remained in darkness. Beside her were the children. The youngest clinging to her leg.

She threw herself at him. He can’t really remember what happened next. She screamed. Embraced his legs. Said terrible words, the likes of which he’d never heard.

“My love, my love — my Sun!... Don’t leave us, please. Don’t go up there, don’t, don’t! Go on living, please…”

The children ran over too, the youngest wailing in fear. He tried to get her up, but she wouldn’t let him, kept clinging to his legs and screaming. His eyes went dark, as though the Sun had gone behind an enormous cloud. An enormous, heavy cloud. Clutching his heart, he staggered sideways.

How had she known? He tried to answer this question on his cot in the intensive care unit. Looked at the ceiling and thought. An IV gurgling next to him.

Must have heard him practicing his last words. Or found the note he’d prepared…

“I didn’t hear anything or find anything,” said his wife after they moved him from the ICU. “Your mother came to me in a dream.”

He raised his head but then lowered it right away from weakness.

“The night before,” she continued. “Said, ‘Well hello my little snakelet! Doing well, feeling well? Lying there sleeping? Dreaming your sweet dreams? You keep lying there,’ she said, ‘slee-eep… Soon your bread will be salted with tears!’ And she told me everything…”

She stroked his arm. His whole body shrank from her.

“Promise me you’ll never try to sacrifice yourself like that again. What does the Sun need with your sacrifice? The Earth needs you, think about it. The Sun is far away, while the Earth — it’s right here…”

He stayed quiet. His mother had been right again. She’d chosen him a good wife. Not fun, not beautiful, but good…

His comrades with whom he’d planned the whole thing came to visit. Sat with him for a long time in the ward. Brought flatbread and grapes. And good news. A decision in Tashkent to preserve their Heliocomplex. On the very day his sacrifice had been planned. Although later he heard that no one had ever planned to touch their Heliocomplex, all that was just rumors and confusion. Perhaps so. Who knows? Silence…

Only from that day on his life was different.

No, he recovered quickly. And kept taking side jobs on construction sites; his heart wouldn’t bear heavy labor, but laying floor tile and wall tile, his hands were still of great value. If anyone needs tile work done, feel free to ask. He doesn’t lay tile himself anymore — age, you know — but he’ll give you a number. Only recommends the best.

But in his soul… in his soul, it was as if something burned out that day. Something dimmed. Or melted and took on a new form. Was this good? Bad? He doesn’t know. He just keeps living.

He’s never learned to think of the Earth. Yes, of course it’s a good planet — no argument there. If his name had been Zamin — “Earth” — he’d think of nothing else. How round it is, how beautifully and merrily it spins. Its human settlements, the qishloq of Changi, for example, Parkent, and even Tashkent… And other places he’s never been but knows well, thanks to the television and now the internet. But plenty of people think about the Earth already. Someone should think about the Sun too, right? Silence. Everyone’s silent. Tell me, shouldn’t someone think of the Sun?!

He is still standing there by the concentrator. The sun has almost set, once again disappearing behind the clouds.

Hopes, in fact, did appear. A few years back, the state started thinking about solar energy again. And it remembered their Heliocomplex. Allocated funds. Started conducting experiments again, collaborating with scientists from other countries and discussing various solar topics.

And another hope arose, from a very unexpected source. His eyes. Somehow or other his dark glasses broke. He used to keep a reserve of new ones, but he searched and searched — no, the reserves were depleted… He went half a day without them before he could get a new pair. And just then, his granddaughter burned her hand. Good thing he wasn’t around, or they’d have started in about the evil eye, and all that. He rushed over and she was screaming, a serious burn, they called the ambulance. He took her in his arms, blowing on the burn to ease the pain… And then, right before his eyes, she began to calm down. The ambulance came, they checked her out: What burn? Where? Hmm, just some minor redness… And it left empty, just half an hour later when his granddaughter was already back running and playing with her friends — the neighbors saw it all.

Since then, anyone with a burn is sent to him. “Go,” they’re told, “to Kuyosh-aka with the evil eye — he’ll give it a look or two and — gone, like it never happened!” What can he do? He has to take off his dark glasses and look… No, not everyone gets better as quickly as his granddaughter. But they thank him, nonetheless. He refuses their money, of course, despite his wife’s campaigning in that direction. He’s not doing anything, after all, just looking. If some food is brought, apples from their tree or meat from their cow, then, fine, put it there on the table. But otherwise, no. For the Sun demands no payment for its light — no meters, no fees, nothing. It just moves through outer space shining.

It’s just a pity that his gift for healing was discovered so late. When the Sun of his life was already setting behind the dark mountains… But thanks for it, even so. Thanks for everything. And for them as well. Just see how they run…

He walks slowly away from the Heliocomplex. Walks slowly, clutching his heart.

The birds are crying out. The northwesterly wind lifts and releases the hem of his coat. Lifts and releases. To his right, the peaks of Tian Shan are darkening.

Two children come running toward him. His grandchildren, yes. Calling him for dinner. Worried, probably, that their grandpa is out so late. The older one, Zuhra, is interested in astronomy. Especially her planet, Venus; Zuhra means Venus — he might’ve mentioned that already. She wants to be an astronomer when she grows up. And he, her grandfather, supports it.

Soon the grandchildren will run up to him and he’ll hug them. They’ll stand like that, hugging, for a long, long time. So that when the Sun finally struggles out from behind the clouds it will manage to cast its last light on them — on the three of them and on the Heliocomplex. On the qishloq of Changi, and the settlement of Kuyosh. On their home, where dinner is already waiting. On his mother’s grave in the local cemetery. It will cast its parting light on everything. And then disappear behind the mountain peaks in the west… But it will rise again tomorrow; you just have to remember it, the Sun. And it will be sure to rise; he, as its namesake, can promise that. No matter how long and dark the night may be, you must think of the Sun. Do you hear?! Just think of the Sun…

✺ Published in “Issue 30: Fever” of The Dial