Болот Бегалиев – Efendi 1: the path to love (страница 3)
Efendi asked quietly: “Did you ever see her again?”
Poyuzbek smiled faintly, continuing the memory:
“Not long after, she came back—dressed up, radiant, full of confidence. Looked me right in the eyes: ‘Don’t you want me? Every guy chases me. But you didn’t even ask my name.’ I shrugged.
‘Alright. What’s your name?’ She smiled: ‘Angelica. I’m staying here.’ He added, with a glint in his eye: “I always knew girls liked me. It’s my fate—dusty roads, a motorcycle… and someone always wanting to stay.”
Efendi believed him—because he’d never seen this kind of film. Poyuzbek went on: “One time, the neighbor’s donkey got into our garden—trampled everything, ate it all! I caught him, grabbed scissors, shaved his mane, and drew a big black German cross on his forehead. Looked at him and couldn’t hold it—laughed so hard I cried!”
He laughed again, then sighed: “Alright, time for bed. I’m afraid of the dark, you know. Sometimes at night, a demon sits on my chest and chokes me… I’ll keep the flashlight on, okay? And if I start gasping—wake me up, alright?”
“Okay. Goodnight,” Efendi whispered, still smiling from his friend’s stories.
The night passed quietly. The flashlight glowed. The stars drifted above the mountains. Somewhere in the bushes, a quail still chirped. In the morning, the sun rose over the hills and spread its warmth. Efendi and Poyuzbek washed in the stream, had breakfast with leftover meat, boorsoks, and kumis, saddled their donkeys, and with light hearts set off again—on the road leading to the mysterious land of Shnapsland.
The Vegetable storу
Evening was drawing near. Efendi and Poyuzbek rode along the dusty shoulder of a wide highway that meandered through the hills. The wind rustled through the sparse bushes, and the road stretched lazily like a snake napping on warm asphalt. Crickets sang somewhere in the distance, and the sky was filling with lavender hues.
They had been riding in silence for nearly half an hour when Poyuzbek suddenly perked up and said:
“Want to hear a story? Might be made up… or maybe it’s true.”
Efendi smiled.
“Go ahead. With you, every story feels like a joke life itself decided to tell.”
Poyuzbek shifted in his saddle, adjusted his jacket, let out a nostalgic sigh, and began:
“This happened when I was in fourth grade. I must’ve been around ten. A friend and I were wandering around in the mountains when suddenly, just off the road, we found a truck. An old cargo one—it looked like it had gotten tired of driving and just laid down to rest. No driver. Doors wide open. And in the back—sacks.
Now tell me, how could two mountain boys
Efendi nodded, already grinning.
“And the sacks, brother—not full of cement or rocks, but of some strange vegetable. Long, orange, weird-looking. We’d never seen anything like it in our mountains. So what do we do? We grab one, take a bite. Sweet. Juicy. Another one. Then a third.
Basically, we stuffed ourselves like bulls at a festival.”
Efendi leaned in, amused.
“And then?”
“Well,” Poyuzbek continued with mock seriousness, “years later, when I was studying in the city after ninth grade, I walked into a market. And there it was—the same vegetable! I went up to the vendor and asked,
‘Eje, what’s this called?’
And she goes,
‘
Efendi burst into such laughter even the donkey turned its head. It was the kind of laughter that’s warm and real, like sunrise tea on a chilly morning.
“
Poyuzbek was laughing too, slapping his knees.
“Yeah… That was the first time we ever tasted that vegetable. I told my friends later—they didn’t believe me. But my buddy still swears that wild mountain carrot was the best he’s ever had.”
They laughed all the way to the next stop.
Because stories like that—weren’t just memories. They were someone’s soul, simple and warm, like familiar earth under your feet.
Uncle Kolya and Uncle Misha
Night had nearly fallen. The campfire crackled, scattering sparks into the darkening sky. Efendi and Poyuzbek sat by the flames, sipping hot tea from a kettle, breathing in the scents of smoke and mountain herbs. They were still giggling from the carrot story when Poyuzbek waved his hand and said:“Alright, one more. This was when I was living in the city. Me and the guys shared a dorm on the outskirts, and next door lived two colorful old-timers—Uncle Kolya and Uncle Misha. Both were older, with big bellies and bigger opinions. Loved to chat. But even more—they loved their drinks.”
Efendi leaned in, intrigued.
“Go on.”
Rubbing his hands against the cold, Poyuzbek continued: “So one morning, around seven, we see them outside the building—wide awake, shirts tucked in, ties on, serious faces. We ask,
‘Where you off to?’
And they say,
‘To church. Gotta pray. It’s a holiday today.’
‘Wow,’ we thought. We were actually proud of them. But a couple of hours later, we see them again—staggering back, faces red, eyes glazed, barely walking. Uncle Kolya clutches the fence, Uncle Misha’s hanging on to a lamppost.
We ask,
‘So… did you pray?’
And without blinking, they answer:
‘Yep. Prayed by the liquor store… and came home!’”
Efendi let out such a laugh he nearly spilled his tea. The donkey nearby snorted in confusion, shaking its head.
“Ahah! Poyuzbek, you’ve got a gift! You should write this all down—publish a book!”
Poyuzbek, smiling into his beard, just waved him off:
“What for? You’re here. You’ll remember everything.”
The Chick and the Driver
The fire was dying down. Sparks flew into the sky like golden stars. Only the whisper of wind and the soft crackle of branches broke the silence of the mountains. Poyuzbek had shared two hilarious stories. Now it was Efendi’s turn. He stretched, smiled warmly at a memory, and said: “Alright, here’s one. I was in fifth grade. Still little, but already responsible. I had chicks—tiny yellow fluffballs. Every morning, I let them out and they’d march across the road like little soldiers to drink water from the irrigation ditch. The road wasn’t busy, but still—it was paved. Cars came through now and then.
One day, I remember it clear as daylight—hot sun, dusty air, my chicks waddling across the road… and then—bam! A car! The driver saw them. He could’ve slowed down. But no—he hit the gas. Like he did it on purpose. Right at them.” Poyuzbek tensed, listening. “One chick didn’t make it. Got caught under the wheels. I ran up—there it was, flat as a pancake, like it had been fried. My chest tightened. It was like someone poured salt on a wound. Then the driver stopped, stepped out, looked at me, and with a smirk asked: ‘That your chick?’ And I, staring him straight in the eye, didn’t flinch. I said: ‘Flat one? Nope. Mine’s only the one that’s alive.’”
Poyuzbek erupted in laughter, slapping his knee: “Ahah! What an answer! That’s a line worthy of a diploma!” Efendi laughed too, shaking his head.
“Well… That day I learned something. In life, you’ve got to know when to let go. Especially of the ones that won’t rise again.”
“Here’s one more, brother. Happened during Ramadan.” Poyuzbek grinned, then began: “We were going to the mosque regularly—praying, listening, doing everything right. One day, this mullah comes up to us. Serious guy. Voice like a physics teacher. And he says: ‘Boys, remember: during fasting, you must not take a bath.’ We look at each other.
‘Why?’ we ask. He frowns, deadly serious:
‘Because… you might accidentally drink water… through your butt!’
There was a five-second pause. Dead silence.
We all stared, thinking:
And then there was silence again.
Not awkward, but strong—the kind shared by men who understand each other. No frills, no drama. Just real friendship. The fire glowed, the night wrapped itself around the mountains, and stars shimmered above their heads. These stories, the fire, and simple brotherhood made the journey truly warm. And like that, they fell asleep—smiling.
Chapter 2. The Story of Three Girls
Ayla was born in a small village on the border of Tanzania and Kenya, where the dawns blushed crimson and life was as simple as the clay bowls in her mother’s hands. They called her
She loved to dance in the rain, care for the younger children, learn weaving from her grandmother, heal birds, and she knew the names of all the stars.