Болот Бегалиев – Efendi 1: the path to love (страница 2)

“In love, are you?” he asked more softly, with a half-smile.

Efendi didn’t answer. He only nodded and said gratefully:

“Thank you, Delgara-agay. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

And he moved on.

He rode along the road as the sun leaned toward the horizon, casting long shadows. Ahead—uncertainty. But in his heart—an unwavering certainty, known only to those who have found their dream and now walk toward it, step by step, never asking how far.

As the sky spilled golden and crimson across the mountain peaks, a fellow traveler joined Efendi on the path—a sturdy, sun-darkened young man with cheerful eyes. His donkey trotted along, and before long, they struck up an easy conversation.

Tales from the Road

As the mountains turned to bronze in the setting sun and the air filled with the warm whispers of the grass, the stranger chuckled and launched into a story:

“There was this kid in our village—Batai. Stubborn as a mule, and not the brightest. Lived next to this old trickster who knew just how dim the boy was. So one day, the neighbor walks up to Batai, looks him over, and says:

‘Tell me, Batai, what are you? A sheep or a ram? A girl or a man?’

Batai flared up.

‘I’m a man!’

The neighbor grinned and pointed at a clay wall:

‘Well then, if you’re a man—headbutt that wall!’

Batai didn’t even hesitate. Took a few steps back, lowered his head like a ram, and slammed into the wall. The stones shook, the echo rang through the yard. He staggered a little, blinked, but stood his ground, teeth clenched.

Then the neighbor egged him on:

‘For good measure—one more time!’

Batai, red-faced, stepped back again and rammed the wall a second time. This time he swayed more, knees trembling, fists clenched, fighting off the dizziness. He just stood there, dazed.

Finally, the neighbor asked, squinting:

‘So? Does your head hurt?’

Batai blinked, took a heavy breath, and replied with pride:

‘No. Doesn’t hurt!’

The neighbor clapped him on the shoulder and burst out laughing:

‘Well done, Batai! You’re no sheep—you’re a real ram! Horns and all! Not some weakling.’

They both laughed, and the whole village kept retelling the tale, marveling at the boy’s stubbornness and grit.”

Efendi laughed too, imagining young Batai crashing into a wall, dead serious, just to prove his manhood. In the golden twilight, even foolish tales of headbutting boys seemed warm and kind.

Their donkeys plodded rhythmically down the rocky path, the wind carrying echoes of their laughter through the valleys.

“I’m Efendi. Pleased to meet you,” he said simply, looking at the stranger like an old friend.

“Where are you headed?” asked the young man, lazily leaning back and tossing a twig into the fire.

“I’m searching for Cindy,” Efendi said, gazing up at the starry sky. “Delgara-agay told me she lives in Shnapsland. I’m going there.”

The stranger paused, then smiled:

“Well then, let’s go together. We’ve become friends, haven’t we? It’ll be more fun with company. Even the donkeys will enjoy it more—if one falls behind, the other can catch up!”

Efendi nodded. “Alright.”

The stranger already knew Efendi was… different. His gaze was thoughtful, his movements dreamlike, and he was crafting a toothpick from a blade of dry grass as if forging a sacred weapon. But the stranger said nothing. He was a man who kept his thoughts to himself.

They unsaddled the donkeys, let them graze nearby in the swaying grass, and laid down on cloaks and gear. Above them—the vast sky, where the stars shimmered so brightly they seemed alive.

“Let me tell you another story,” the stranger said, turning on his side.

“Go on,” Efendi nodded, still examining his grass toothpick.

“So, listen… One time, I went to the mosque for prayer. Everything proper, everyone bowing. The prayer ends, and the guy to my right turns and says, ‘Assalamu Alaikum wa rahmatullah.’

And me—without thinking—I blurt out: ‘Wa Alaikum Salaam, Beka!’ Just like that, like we’re chilling in the courtyard. He jolted, looked at me… and burst out laughing! Couldn’t help himself—had to start the prayer all over again. He stood there, trying to hold it in, but couldn’t—he was cracking up out loud!

Then I went and grabbed one shoe from each guy—left from one, right from another—and tossed them into the river! Then I ran like I’d seen a jinn!”

Efendi didn’t like that story very much. He asked:

“Tell me, friend—why are you called Poyuzbek?”

Poyuzbek lay on his side, looked into the distance, and replied calmly:

“My parents were both officers. My mother gave birth to me right on a train—between two stations, no platform, no doctor, just the rhythm of the wheels and the wind outside. And when my father heard, he jumped off the train mid-ride, grabbed a bunch of wildflowers, and climbed back in. My mother asked:

‘We have a son. What should we name him?’

He smiled, put the flowers in a tin cup, and said:

‘Since he was born on a train, let’s call him Poyuzbek—a man of the journey, born in motion.’”

Efendi thought for a moment, then said softly:

“You know… that sounds like a scene from a movie.”

Poyuzbek grinned, a bit slyly, and added: “The truth’s simpler, but no less poetic. When my grandfather first saw a train—this massive, smoking beast—he ran after it as fast as he could. Of course, he couldn’t catch it. So he stopped, caught his breath, and said:

‘If I can’t outrun a train, let my grandson be named after it—a name of strength, speed, and relentless drive.’ So here I am—Poyuzbek, grandson of a dream and the railway.”

He paused, then smirked again, eyes half-closed as if recalling something cinematic:

“Once I was riding my motorcycle down a dusty back road. The sun’s blazing, dust everywhere. I see a fancy car pulled over—hood open, girl standing there, clearly lost.

I stop, take off my helmet.

‘Need help?’ I ask.

She sighs in relief.

‘Car’s being towed tomorrow. Can you help me find a hotel?’

Well, there weren’t any hotels nearby. So I said:

‘Come to my place. It’s old, but the roof doesn’t leak.’

She comes in, looks around, and the first thing she says:

‘Where’s the shower?’

I show her. She walks in and closes the door… halfway. Through the gap, I can see her washing. Steam curling in the air. My blood boiled—I felt like a stallion. So I went outside and started chopping wood just to calm down. The night was long—but I held my ground like a soldier by the fire.

In the morning, her fiancé arrived. Nice suit, new car. He picked her up. She offered me money for the ‘hotel.’ I shook my head and said:

‘May the road be kind to you, and your memories light.’

She left.”