Ibrokhim Rakhmatov
Limina

Chapter 1.

Transitional Phases.

"We didn't summon you here for nothing."

"A Catholic, a Jew, a Shinto priest, even a Zoroastrian… And now me? This is absurd."

"They are merely hoping for a miracle. But you—you can offer something more. A rational explanation. The kind of insight the rest of us have missed."

"But I’m no exorcist."

"You’re a metaphysicist."

"Technically… no."

The old observatory in Tokyo, a subterranean lab last used in 1948, had once again opened its doors to guests. Four individuals had gathered there today. After a brief exchange, the LED-lit corridor’s door creaked open, and two figures stepped inside.

Inside, four religious representatives already sat in solemn silence, each absorbed in their own ritual. A Catholic, a Jew, a Shintoist, and a Zoroastrian—each positioned around a circular disc, deep in their respective prayers.

The newcomers quietly took their places at the opposite end of the circle. One of them spoke:

"Per your request, we’ve prepared the lab—the lighting, the layout. I trust the conditions are adequate for the ritual."

"Adequate enough that we can’t even tell who’s sitting across from us," the second added dryly.

"Allow me to introduce: Mr. Shamsiddin, member of the Turanian Academy of Sciences, Uzbekistan. He’s here to observe the phenomenon from a scientific perspective."

No response followed. The participants remained immersed in their rites.

Shamsiddin, slightly uncomfortable with the formal introduction, focused on the figures seated around the circle. He could already identify the Catholic exorcist without difficulty. His gaze drifted with curiosity to the others. Suddenly, one of them—seated directly opposite—clapped twice.

Shintoist, Shamsiddin noted silently.

Two remained. They faced each other across the circle. The one to Shamsiddin’s right murmured something softly. The other sat with eyes closed, in complete silence.

What is he whispering? Louder… just a little louder…

In the dimly lit room, it was easier to rely on hearing. Gradually, the whispered words began to form.

Drawing on his historical and religious background, Shamsiddin carefully echoed what he heard:

"Azi drafso dareni Anxra-Mainyu. Aena o razig rah fradaram…"

What does that mean? Loyal servant of Ahriman… I summon him through the unseen passage…?

The room's aura had grown heavier, darker. Religious rituals intertwined—colliding belief systems pulling reality in opposite directions. The very atmosphere bent beneath their weight, turning dense, distorted… unsettling.

Shamsiddin was not alone. Accompanying him was Yuichi Aizawa, the senior custodian of the very observatory in which they now stood. It was Yuichi who, acting on a special commission, had assembled this unlikely gathering of exorcists.

Wasting no time, Yuichi addressed the group:

"First and foremost, I extend my deepest gratitude to each of you for making the time to be here. Today, in a break from tradition, we will also be giving space to the perspective of science—through the man who stands among us now. I urge you not to see this as a slight to your faiths or rites. His presence reflects a desire for a broader, more unified approach—a way of seeing what perhaps we have all missed. Your thoughts and practices remain equally valued."

He turned to Shamsiddin.

"Now, if you will, I’d like to show you what you came to see. This way—there’s a boy, just a little apart from the circle."

"Of course. No problem, Mr. Aizawa."

They approached a young boy sitting on a plain wooden bench. The child appeared frozen, his gaze fixed, unblinking, on a single point in the void. After a minute of silent observation, Shamsiddin saw no use in trying to "read" the boy any further. He looked away and turned to Yuichi.

"What do these… exorcists say?"

"They claim the boy is currently in a state of astral projection. According to them, his soul has been… taken."

Yuichi hesitated. "Forgive the fantastical phrasing. I know such words can be difficult for a man of science."

"It’s fine," Shamsiddin replied calmly.

He thought for a moment, then asked:

"Forgive my bluntness, but if the doctors of Tokyo could do nothing for him and now you've handed him over to ritualists, then I'm afraid I may be out of place here."

"I understand… But the matter concerns a soul trapped in the astral realm. These four religious practitioners have all tried—and failed—to retrieve it. Perhaps, with your scientific method, you can reestablish a connection between his body and spirit?"

"What do you want me to do, hold a ritual myself?" Shamsiddin chuckled. "Just kidding, Mr. Aizawa. Don't take it seriously. I’ll do my best. Let’s return to the circle."

They made their way back, but Shamsiddin did not sit down. He remained standing, choosing instead to face them all directly.

"This is a first for me. If I try to perform a ritual too, the poor boy might end up worse off…"

His words drew every eye in the room toward him.

"I'm not here to dissect your rituals or beliefs. The only thing that matters is the boy on that bench. I promise to focus solely on him. Please, Mr. Aizawa—turn the lights up a bit."

Though his tone was measured and concerned, to some it rang with a sharp edge, almost mocking. To those seated—monks sworn to their faiths—it bordered on irreverence.

The Jew could tolerate the Zoroastrian. The Catholic might accept the Shinto priest. But Shamsiddin's words? They sounded like accusations straight from the parchment of a medieval inquisition.

No one felt this more acutely than Aizawa, who lowered his gaze after each of Shamsiddin’s remarks, visibly uneasy. With a quick gesture, he signaled for the lights to brighten slightly.

Then, at last, the silence cracked.

The rabbi spoke. His voice was soft, but laced with tension:

"There is one question I cannot silence, and I hope you’ll forgive my candor… I am not a radical believer, but what we are discussing here is a soul. And you, sir—pardon me—you seem to be a man of science. How can we speak of faith with you?"

Silence returned.

Shamsiddin raised his head and met the rabbi’s gaze directly. His voice was not loud, but every word rang with clarity and calm conviction—each syllable struck like a chisel to stone.

“I’ll explain. I am not an atheist.”

A pause.

“I am a Muslim.”

The final words dropped into the room like a hammer on cold steel.

Every man present—the Catholic, the Zoroastrian, the Shinto priest, the Jew—turned their eyes toward Shamsiddin in unison. In their expressions was surprise, disbelief… and, for a fleeting second, something deeper. Doubt—not in him, but in themselves.

Shamsiddin said nothing more. He let the silence breathe. It was his silence—deliberate, steady. His gaze moved slowly, methodically across each face, as if to peel back their layers. And then, gently, he smiled—directly at the Shinto priest.

For the first time, the priest spoke. There was no resentment in his tone, no sanctimony—only genuine curiosity.

“If you are Muslim,” he asked, “why do you stand here not as the fifth representative of faith?”

Shamsiddin gave a small laugh. This time, his smile bloomed fully—an expression that held irony, resolve… and perhaps, the faint glimmer of hope.

“It’s quite simple. Islam does not partake in this kind of farce. That is why I’m not here as a man of religion—but as a man of science.”

A hush settled over the room again. But this silence was different.

The monks’ eyes had changed. Their wariness had faded. They were beginning to listen. And perhaps, in that moment, they stopped seeing Shamsiddin as an outsider…

And started to see him as a rival in spirit.

Or perhaps—just perhaps—as an ally.

************************************

That evening, the lecture hall buzzed with a soft, academic restlessness. Most of the students looked drained from the day’s classes—but Shamsiddin’s lectures were different. Here, dialogue reigned. Debate thrived. And every now and then, something deeper stirred—an inner upheaval.

Tonight would be no exception.

Standing at the front of the hall, Shamsiddin asked, as he always did, a simple question that weighed heavy:

“So—any questions?”

From the back row came a hesitant but bold voice:

“Do you believe in the afterlife?”

Shamsiddin paused. The question seemed to strike a hidden chord. He looked out across the room—almost every student now leaned in, silently watching. This wasn’t just a question. It was a challenge. A duel in disguise.

He gave a faint smile.

“A mediocre question,” he said softly. “But perhaps… one of the most necessary.”

Taking a few steps forward, he moved closer to the center of the hall. His gaze fell on a girl by the window. She was staring at him with a quiet, searching expression. He turned to her directly:

“And you? Do you believe?”

The girl hesitated, then nodded.

“I do.”

Shamsiddin dipped his head slightly.

“So do I.”

The words held no sermon, no persuasion—only a quiet conviction, spoken with a careful tone.

Then another voice rang out. A familiar face—one of his regular contrarians, a student who never let a lecture pass without tension.

“Then doesn’t that make you… not secular?”

A ripple of tension passed through the room. The word “secular” had landed like a stone in still water—accusatory, almost loaded.

Shamsiddin smiled, giving a small shrug. His reply was warm:

“Maybe it does. Who’s to say?”

But the student pressed on:

“You advocate for secularism. Doesn’t that imply you reject all religion? All belief systems?”

Shamsiddin straightened slightly. A hint of steel appeared in his expression.

“Secularism doesn’t mean ‘believing in nothing.’ It means that state and public institutions remain independent of religious influence. It means freedom.”

The student smirked.

“Then why call yourself a secular person if you say you believe in Allah?”

Shamsiddin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card. He didn’t fidget with it, didn’t show it—just held it, while looking the student directly in the eye.

“I support a secular society. And a secular society respects all faiths. I don’t impose my belief on anyone. Now let me ask you—

Must a secular person believe in nothing at all?”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall.

The discussion had shifted—rising to a different plane.

In the piercing quiet, Shamsiddin spoke again:

“I want to ask something of you. What are the questions we forgot to ask today?

Not about secularism…

But about humanity. About the search for the self. About personal responsibility.”

He turned once more to the student who had challenged him:

“Right now, it feels as though you're interrogating me. Perhaps you'd like to come up here? Take my place? Tell us—what is it you’re really looking for in these questions?”

With a slight smile, he gestured invitingly toward the podium.

“Dear student, please continue this chain of inquiry.

And by the way—atheists are usually quite good at this sort of thing,” he added with warm irony. “Just a joke, of course!”

“Alright… ahem…” the student cleared his throat. “Tell me—have you ever wondered: Why Islam?”

“I have. That’s a question I had to ask myself.”

“And? Why Islam, specifically? Are the other religions inferior?”

“That’s a slightly provocative question… but fair enough—students are allowed such things.

Even if I had been raised within a different faith, after studying all religions, I would still have chosen Islam.”

“Why? Do you think religion is inherited genetically from one’s parents?”

“First—no, I don’t.

And second—my answer ends here.”

A low wave of noise stirred through the audience.

Whispers turned into voices: “Why? What does that mean?”

“If you weren’t going to finish the answer,” the student called out, frustrated, “then why invite me up here in the first place? You could’ve just said not to ask that kind of question!”

“That is secularism,” Shamsiddin said with a smile.

“No one has the right to stop you from asking. Secularism is what gave you the freedom to stand at this podium today.

“And likewise—I, standing here now, do not have the right to answer your question in a way that might cause any of you to doubt your own beliefs.

Secularism does not permit that. Do you see?”

At that moment, the bell rang for break.

“I suppose it’s time we all step down from the podium of secularism—

and return to our personal lives.

See you next time!

And bring even more questions.”

After his lectures, Shamsiddin would usually return home for a brief rest.

He wasn’t the kind of man “tied” to his house—

But for an afternoon nap, home was ideal.

Each day, he spent about two hours dozing on the couch in his kitchen.

Then—he would walk. Sometimes through the streets.

Sometimes, he would simply sit in the garden, watching the stream drift beneath the trees’ shadows.

But when evening came, he didn’t head to a library.

He went to a café with a library.

Not the library itself.

Because libraries were too quiet.

Too sterile.

Every step felt watched. Every breath, measured.

And that silence? It made it easier to fall asleep than to read.

But in the café, he could rest a cup of coffee on his knee and turn the pages of a book to the background hum of life:

– “Cappuccino ready?” a waitress’s voice would call.

Laughter would bubble from a nearby table.

This—this was life.

For Shamsiddin, that delicate balance—between the hush of thought and the pulse of the world—was the perfect atmosphere for deep reading.

More often than not, he sat in the same corner.

The one by the window, beneath the old shelf stacked with forgotten grammar books no one ever touched.

Only one lamp lit the space, casting a warm, faintly amber glow.

Here, he read books on all manner of subjects.

He never restricted himself to one field—anything that sparked curiosity could become his evening pursuit.

But if he stumbled upon a vague hypothesis or a questionable claim, he wouldn’t let it go. He would dig until he hit bedrock.

For instance, once he read that the first standing army in history was created by Sargon I.

He didn’t stop at the article.

He traced the claim to museums in Iraq, searching for the source.

Where had this “fact” even come from? The inscriptions from that era were fragmentary at best—

And it wasn’t as if Sargon had carved somewhere: “I was the first.”

Tonight, the café-library was steeped in the rich aroma of bitter, steaming coffee.

Behind the bar stood Diyor, as always—headphones in, nodding to soft background music as he prepared a fresh pour-over.

And Shamsiddin, nestled in his usual corner beneath the grammar shelf, was once again chasing down another incomplete fact.

But this time, his gaze drifted a little farther—

To where the barista in a slightly crooked black beanie was busy behind the counter.

Shamsiddin slowly approached.

“Diyor,” he said, “you know, on some of those ancient stones, there are inscriptions that can only be seen at sunrise.

That’s why they read them in museums only at dawn.”

(Of course, it was a joke.)

Diyor looked at him with a curious grin.

His smile was kind—untainted by sarcasm.

“Really? So now we’re supposed to believe everything we see at sunrise, huh, Shamsiddin-aka?”

“No,” Shamsiddin replied, “to disbelieve, you must read.

And reread.

The same line.

The same word.”

Diyor fell quiet for a moment, thinking.

Then he slid a glass across the counter.

“Here. Double espresso.

Careful not to fall asleep.

Next time, I’ll prove to you that I know how to analyze which words are used in which kinds of articles.”

Shamsiddin raised an eyebrow, amused.

“What articles?”

Diyor reached under the counter and pulled out two thick academic journals.

“Archaeology. And Historical Source Criticism.

Some are translated into other languages.

I’ve read them already… back when I had the time.”

For the first time, Shamsiddin looked at him differently.

Now, he no longer saw just a barista.

He saw someone with that same inner flame—

A hunger for knowledge.

“You’re a strange one, Diyor,” Shamsiddin said, squinting slightly. “You know, maybe one day we should debate.”

“About what?” Diyor asked.

“About facts.

Real ones.

About the difference between stone… and story.”

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