Path of the Healer. Returning to Yourself. Serving the World. A Story That Can Change Your Life

Chapter 6

Three, Seven, Ace

From Alexander Pushkin’s novella

“The Queen of Spades”

As you already know, I’ve always been drawn to the unknown — to everything mysterious and unseen.

Deep down, I always felt that the material world isn’t all there is. There is something beyond it. Something hidden.

All you have to do is reach out… and you can touch the very foundations of existence.

To understand how karma works. To ask what is good, and what is evil. Why Yin and Yang are both black and white — yet each carries a piece of the other. Who created this universe. Why we are here. What is Alpha and Omega. Where humanity is heading.

These are the questions I search for answers to even now.

But at seventeen or eighteen… my head was full of nothing but wind.

I loved it when my parents left the house and my older brother Timur stayed over at a friend’s.

Because that’s when I was alone.

And when I was alone… I would begin.

I would practice magic. Summon spirits. Call on the Queen of Spades.

In my parents’ bedroom, there was a small three-panel vanity mirror. Whenever I had the house to myself, I turned it into a ritual space.

I would place the mirror on the floor. Light candles in the center. Say prayers over a small book I had found somewhere — I no longer remember where.

And then, after completing everything, I would whisper the final words:

“Queen of Spades… come.”

I created a corridor of reflections — one mirror repeating endlessly into another, stretching back into some infinite darkness.

And something… really did begin to happen there.

One time, at the very peak of my concentration, everything was suddenly interrupted.

Timur came home early.

I had never seen his eyes like that before — wide, frozen.

He was genuinely afraid. Afraid even to come near the mirror, let alone look into it.

And me?

I was the younger sister — but not a stupid one.

I understood very quickly what kind of power that gave me.

Whenever Timur tried to lecture me or tell me off, I would widen my eyes and whisper:

“Do it again… and I’ll call the Queen of Spades. She’ll come for you.”

That was enough.

He backed off instantly.

Of course, it was childish. Just a game.

But now — knowing what I know about the unseen — I would never recommend anyone try to summon anything.

Because you never really know who — or what — might answer.

A mirror, in its essence, is a portal.

And if you stare into the abyss long enough…

the abyss begins to stare back.

Some things are not toys.

Magic is one of them.

Today, you can find anything online — any ritual, any instruction. But what no one tells you is what stands behind it. And what it will ask for in return.

So just live your life.

And be grateful to the Creator for it.

And now — let’s get back to my story.

Chapter 7

Besides higher education, one needs

at least average common sense and,

at minimum, elementary upbringing

I graduated from school in 1994.

I’d love to say I did it with honors… but I fell just a little short.

To be honest, that final year wasn’t exactly about studying. All I could think about was getting out — leaving my parents’ home and finally tasting freedom.

Choosing a profession didn’t take long.

Why go all the way to Alma-Ata when Karaganda had plenty of universities? My relatives advised me to aim for a state-funded spot. So, following my father’s suggestion, I became a student at Karaganda Technical University.

He used to speak about it with such conviction — that the future of Kazakhstan lay in oil and geophysics, in the search for black gold.

And just like that, I enrolled in the geophysics department, focused on the oil and gas industry.

Truth be told, I had only ever seen oil on television.

And the only real reason I chose geophysics… was because the competition was lower.

Think about it — where in the Karaganda region do you even find oil? Coal, metals, minerals — sure. But oil?

Naturally, most of my classmates came from Aktau and Zhanaozen — places where oil was a real part of life. We were taught how to explore, locate, and develop oil and gas fields.

Students on government grants were offered dorm rooms.

I actually wanted to move in.

But my family had other plans.

So I ended up living with my uncle on my mother’s side — Uncle Olzhatay. His wife, Aunt Gulya, also had a niece — Indira. And so the two of us were placed in the same room.

Indira had also just arrived in Karaganda, admitted on a scholarship like me — though she studied IT.

We lived in a district called Mikhailovka, or as locals called it — Steklyashka.

Classes started on September 1st. Indira and I, like proper scholarship students, rode bus number 24 to the Polytechnic every single day.

Then October came.

Leaves fell across the city — yellow, red, gold — swirling slowly in the wind. Each morning, a cold, biting air cut through the streets. People stood silently at bus stops, shoulders hunched, waiting.

Unlike me, Indira only had her mother. And she loved her deeply.

One day in October, her mother sent her a hat.

Not just any hat.

A badger fur hat. Warm. Thick. Soft. Grey.

Today, you can walk into any store and buy whatever you want. Back then, in 1994, people were simply trying to survive. They sold whatever they could at the market.

And the strangest part? Indira didn’t like the hat.

No matter how much I tried to convince her, she refused.

So we decided to go to the flea market — the barakholka — and sell it.

Back then, the market was the heart of the city.

Thousands of former factory workers and engineers sold everything imaginable — jeans, coats, frozen Bush legs… anything. Cardboard boxes and wooden pallets became display counters. Grandmothers, grandfathers, young people — everyone unpacking goods from enormous Chinese bags.

If you’ve never changed jeans behind a curtain in freezing cold, standing on a piece of cardboard… you’ll never understand what that place really was.

Thousands of buyers wandered through, searching for something cheap. Among them — well-dressed men and women, strolling calmly. And then there were others. Short-haired men in leather jackets. They didn’t care about trade. They moved like hunting dogs, making their rounds, collecting their share.

People called them the roof.

Protection. Racketeers.

The day we went to the market, it was freezing.

The wind cut through us from all sides.

“Would you like to buy a hat?” Indira asked quietly, offering it to a young man passing by.

“Ugly style,” he smirked. “How much?”

“One hundred tenge.”

“Too much. Thirty?”

“At least seventy…”

No deal.

Two hours passed like that. We were cold, hungry, tired. People avoided us, probably assuming the hat was stolen.

Then a stocky man with a buzz cut appeared.

“Hey, little sister… what are you doing here? This is my territory. You have to pay.”

“Can we just sell the hat and go?” Indira said softly. “My mom sent it… I’m a student…”

To make it more convincing, she started crying.

“Don’t care,” he said flatly. “Five tenge.”

“But that’s money for a whole week…” Indira went pale.

He didn’t care.

His hand reached for the hat.

But another hand stopped him.

“Serik-aga, assalauma aleikum,” said a man in a warm jacket, stepping forward. “She’s with me. Just got lost — first time in the city.”

“Is that so?” the racketeer narrowed his eyes.

“Absolutely,” the man said calmly.

We nodded like little dolls.

When we walked away, he introduced himself.

“I’m Ybyrai.”

“I’m Zhanara,” I said. “This is my friend Indira.”

“Come on, girls. I have a spot nearby.”

We walked past a few rows of dairy stalls. He showed us his place — he sold margarine. Next to him stood his partner, Bakhytbek.

Bakhytbek, a large and unhurried man, took one look at us and understood everything. He threw coats over our shoulders and handed us hot tea with pigodi.

Half an hour later, we were laughing.

The guys felt sorry for us… and bought the hat for fifty tenge.

And just like that, our little adventure with the badger hat came to an end.

But something else had just begun.

We rode home warm and full.

What luck, I thought, to meet such kind, generous people.

I had no idea then how fateful that meeting would turn out to be.

Chapter 8

…Love will visit unexpectedly

when you least expect it!

From the song “How Many Good Girls There Are”

Author: Leonid Utesov

They say our thoughts shape reality — that we must think positively.

Otherwise, our fears take on a life of their own… and begin to manifest.

Believe it or not, it’s true.

Each of us carries a certain kind of power. Potentially, anyone can influence their life — attract opportunities, success, happiness, abundance. This is exactly what vision boards and manifestation techniques are built on. The whole idea of a success mindset.

But we should never forget: there are always two sides.

Light… and darkness.

And depending on a person’s inner state — their energy — one or the other begins to take form.

Most people, unfortunately, lean more toward fear than toward love.

And fear, just like love, is incredibly powerful.

In fact, there are only two fundamental emotions: love and fear. Everything else is just a variation. Fear gives rise to anger, hatred, pride, irritation. Love gives rise to compassion, care, warmth, connection.

And very often, it is our own fears that attract trouble into our lives.

My mother used to say:

“Daughter, don’t get married too early. Finish your studies. Get a job. Live for yourself first. And only then think about relationships.”

“And most importantly — don’t marry a man from the south. They are different. They have a different mentality.”

“Mom, why would you say that?” I would wrinkle my nose. “I have a head on my shoulders.”

But life has its own plans.

Love arrives when you least expect it.

Guess what year of university I got married.

That’s right — my first year.

And guess who I married?

Exactly.

A man from the south. From Taraz.

You might ask — how did our paths even cross?

But the ways of God are mysterious.

As I mentioned, Indira and I once had quite an adventure at the flea market. That story should have ended there. I had almost forgotten about it…

Until one winter day.

It was January. Freezing cold.

We were sitting in a large lecture hall — warm, crowded, and unbearably boring. The professor droned on in a monotone.

Suddenly, my classmate leaned over:

“Zhan, there’s some guy asking for you at the entrance.”

“Azamat, stop joking. What guy?” I said, turning back to the lecture.

“I’m serious,” he said, going slightly red. “He’s… big. Wearing a sheepskin coat.”

A man in a sheepskin coat.

A hundred thoughts rushed through my head. I barely knew anyone in the city. I hadn’t deceived anyone. I hadn’t broken anyone’s heart.

Still… I went.

Maybe it was just a mistake.

As I approached the entrance, I saw him.

A large man. Exactly as described.

Sheepskin coat. Fur boots. Wool mittens.

Dressed like that, he could have survived a Siberian winter.

And then it hit me.

I knew him.

“Bakhytbek?”

“Zha-na-ra!”

“If it’s hard to say, just call me Bakha,” he said with a smile.

“Alright,” I laughed. “But how did you find me?”

“You told me you study at the Polytechnic… and your group number,” he replied.

And suddenly, I remembered everything. The market. The cold. The hat. The man who had stepped in when no one else would.

“I’m glad to see you,” I said. “How’s your friend?”

“He’s good…” He hesitated. “I actually came to invite you somewhere.”

“Invite me?”

“We could go eat something.”

“Well… alright. Let’s go.”

I gave him my home phone number.

Back then, in 1994, there were no mobile phones. No internet. No Instagram. No YouTube. [The book contains mentions of organizations banned on the territory of the Russian Federation: Instagram, YouTube]. You had to arrange everything in advance. And if someone didn’t show up — you could only guess what had happened.

So, I had been asked out.

Most likely it was a date — he just didn’t quite know how to say it.

I imagined a nice restaurant. After greasy cafeteria food, anything would have felt like a luxury.

So — can you guess where we went for our first date?

A restaurant? A café?

No.

We went to a buffet.

One of those places full of men, with tall round tables where you eat standing up.

Unexpected, to say the least.

And for dinner — dumplings.

Simple, right?

But you won’t believe it — those were the most delicious dumplings I had ever tasted. Thin dough. Juicy broth. Perfect filling.

Our second date was at an ice cream café.

And just like that… everything began.

I was seventeen. He was eight years older.

I was small and thin — about 165 centimeters, barely fifty kilograms.

He was a real athlete. A boxer. Broad shoulders, strong build, about 185 centimeters tall.

Not just a man — a dream.

A real prince.

I was completely swept away.

A man like that… had chosen me.

And the following year — 1995 — he proposed.

Chapter 9

Love is stronger than all passions,

because it attacks the head,

the heart, and the senses simultaneously

Lao Tzu

As it turned out, my chosen one was from the ancient and proud city of Taraz.

He spoke only Kazakh.

I — a true daughter of the Karaganda steppes — spoke Russian, and understood Kazakh only partially.

When we talked, I tried my best in Kazakh. He would throw in Russian words, twisting them in the funniest ways. And my Kazakh wasn’t much better.

Still… somehow, we understood each other.

At that time, Bakha was in his final years at the Karaganda Medical Institute. He had dreamed of becoming a surgeon since childhood — and he was determined to make it happen.

Coming from a simple family, he supported himself.

Together with his friends from Shymkent — Ybyrai, Abai, and Timur — they ran a small business. They sold margarine and cigarettes at the bazaar. That’s where we met, as I mentioned. And that’s where everything began.

Very soon, I realized that romantic dates weren’t exactly his strength.

So instead, we started spending time at his place.

He lived in a small two-room apartment near the Eternal Flame, together with his friends. And I, carried on the wings of love, would fly over… and take care of everything.

I wanted to please them.

I cooked — learning recipes from magazines and friends. I cleaned, organized, washed laundry, ironed clothes. It was my second semester of the first year. To them, I became like a younger sister. They treated me with respect.

Bakha often left — traveling with friends, visiting his family in Taraz, or heading to Uzbekistan for goods.

And whenever he was away, I noticed things.

There were always sports bags in the apartment… filled with money. Mostly small bills — three, five, ten tenge.

And there was something else.

A sawed-off shotgun.

Thankfully, it was never used while I was there. It was more for intimidation. For protection.

“Zhanka, don’t open the door for anyone,” he told me before leaving.

“What if someone attacks?” I asked.

“Then shoot. You’ve got the shotgun, don’t you?”

And there I was…

sitting on the bed like a fool, holding a shotgun, while under the bed lay two or three bags full of cash.

The strangest part? It never even crossed my mind to take anything.

That’s just who I was.

When the guys were away, I often came to the apartment alone.

Living with relatives was fine… but sometimes I just needed to be by myself.

And then one night… it happened.

I saw her.

An old woman.

It was two in the morning. She was standing right next to my bed. A Russian grandmother — I thought I had seen her somewhere in the building before.

But what was she doing there?

To say I was scared would be an understatement.

And yet… it wasn’t quite her. Not exactly.

It was like a projection. A phantom.

She didn’t say a word. She just stood there… looking at me.

The next day, when Bakha came back, I told him everything.

He was surprised… but decided to check on her.

She didn’t open the door.

We knocked for a long time. Maybe half an hour. Neighbors came out into the hallway. Someone called the police.

When they finally broke the door open… we were in shock.

The old woman — Baba Dasha — had been dead for three days.

Her gray cat had stayed with her the whole time… curled beside its lifeless owner.

The medical examiner confirmed it: she had died of old age, at eighty-five.

It took me several days to recover.

Only a week later did I begin to understand what had happened.

It wasn’t just a vision.

Her soul had come to me.

She wanted to be found. To be buried properly.

Otherwise… she would have remained here.

Wandering. Restless.

Unable to find peace.

Глава 10

No matter how you plan your course,

Never straying from your path,

Never striving against your will —

From fate, know, you cannot flee.

Remember the Lord’s words,

Life is fate, the spinning wheel,

From above the lot is prepared

For each of us long ago.

As I mentioned, I was a frequent guest at Bakha’s place.

Following the well-known wisdom that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, I did my best to cook something delicious every time. I had a cookbook my mother had given me. After classes, I would rush — carried on the wings of love — straight to his apartment.

Pancakes. Baked chicken. Casseroles. Soups.

By the time Bakha and his friends returned from the market, the table was already set.

During that time, I grew close to his friends.

I had met Ybyrai at the market. Later came Azamat and Timur — though Timur didn’t come around often, spending most of his time in Shymkent.

Ybyrai introduced me to his wife, Zhibek. There’s an interesting story about her… but I’ll tell it later. She, like the others, was from Taraz. They all spoke Kazakh among themselves.