Efendi 1: the path to love

Prologue

Sometimes a journey doesn’t begin with a step – but with a glance.

A photo, torn from a magazine and forgotten on a breezy windowsill.

Or a breath you suddenly hold, without knowing why.

Efendi stood by the window, gazing at the mountains. Life in Alaya was unchanged – sheep in the valley, clouds above, the scent of smoke and fresh bread in the air. He didn’t know he had already begun walking. That his heart was already on the move.

The photograph slipped out of an old album like a stray ticket.

A girl – unknown, unnamed – with a face you couldn’t look away from. Not conventionally beautiful. Just… a gaze that held something he hadn’t realized he was missing.

And in that moment, Efendi understood: he had to find her.

Not because he knew her. But because he recognized himself.

That was how the journey began.

First – outward. Then – inward.

Chapter 1. Efendi: The Path to Love

In a mountain village called Alaya, nestled among snowy peaks and crystal-clear springs, lived a young man named Efendi. He had just turned eighteen—the age when the heart yearns for love, and the soul begins to search for a great dream. He was a simple boy: hardworking, kind, with a clear gaze and a nature as pure as the mountain air.

One evening, flipping through old magazines in his uncle’s library, he stumbled upon a photograph. And from that moment, something within him changed forever. In the picture was a girl—Cindy.

Her image was caught in golden light, almost frozen in time. Her hair—ash-blonde, with hints of silver—looked like moonlight on snow. Soft waves cascaded over her shoulders, giving her an ethereal grace. Her eyes—gray-green like a mountain lake in morning mist—looked at the camera with a quiet confidence, as if she already knew that somewhere, someone was destined to find her. Her face was clear and radiant, with a faint freckle near her left temple, and her lips—like they had just been kissed by a gust of wind. Not a trace of arrogance. Only light. And silence.

Efendi stared at the photo, unable to look away. She wasn’t just a girl—she was his future, his fate.

“She’s the one,” he whispered. “I’ll find her. I’ll win her heart. I’ll do everything, so that one day she smiles at me—not from paper, but right here, under our sky.”

From that day, his great journey began—not only across lands and roads, but along the path of the heart. He had no map. Only a goal. A dream. And a name he now repeated like a prayer:

Cindy.

That day, the air was so pure it felt like, with a deep enough breath, one could dissolve into the sky itself. Efendi stood barefoot on the threshold of his father Kawai’s home. The earth was still cool from the night, but the sun was already rising over the valley, flooding the mountain slopes with golden light. Before him stretched a tranquil landscape: towering mountains stood like ancient guardians around a green valley, where the wind played through tall grass. From beneath the rocks, springs gushed forth, cascading down the slopes in silver streams. At the heart of the valley, a wide river—born of glaciers—carried its rushing waters down toward the plains.

In this land, nature was like an artist who painted the world with tenderness and skill. Efendi walked along the stream, the wind carrying the scent of currants from the thick bushes along the banks. The berries gleamed like drops of amber, and even the birds seemed to sing differently here—with a gentle, almost fairy-tale intonation.

Golden-yellow marmots grazed calmly in the sunlit meadows, where the grass swayed like waves. Their fur shimmered like golden silk, and they raised their heads as the traveler approached, but did not flee—as if they knew Efendi meant no harm. Nearby, white hares darted into the bushes—so white, it seemed they were made of glacier snow.

Higher up the slopes, where the air grew colder, Efendi spotted deer—slender and graceful, with antlers like the branches of an ancient tree. They stood dreamlike among speckled stones whose patterns seemed anything but random.

The stones… They weren’t just stones. One resembled a dog, another a bird with outstretched wings. A third, long and slightly leaning, looked like an old man with a staff. On the northern slopes lay massive jade boulders covered in moss—not a dull green, but variegated: emerald, golden, even violet. The moss curled around the rocks as if dressing them in robes of ancient sages. One especially large stone looked like a giant in prayer, his hood of green moss and collar lined with brown lichen.

Efendi stopped and looked around. His heart filled with stillness and sacred awe. He whispered:

“What need have I for gold, when beneath my feet lies the earth that gives strength? When the air is purer than silver, the water cold and clear as truth, and every stone seems to live?”

He bent down, scooped up a handful of earth and sand laced with flecks of mica, and whispered:

“This is my treasure. This I will carry in my heart, wherever the road may lead.”

Efendi breathed in deeply. Everything around him felt eternal and dear, yet in his heart now burned a new fire—the desire to find that one girl whose face he had seen in a picture painted by a traveling artist. Bright, wide-eyed, tender as a flower—Cindy had become his dream.

His father, old Kawai, sat on a rock, smoking a long pipe, watching his son.

“I see a great flame has been lit in you, son,” he said, squinting. “Love is no joke. It will drive you to places your mind fears to go.”

Efendi nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon—beyond which, he believed, destiny awaited.

“I’ll find her,” he said firmly.

Kawai laughed a deep, rumbling laugh and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Then prepare yourself. But remember—your heart may lead, but your legs must be strong, and your mind clear. Love is not just a dream. It’s a road. Long, hard, and sometimes dangerous.”

That very night, Efendi began to prepare. He packed warm clothes, some dried meat, a flask of glacial water, prayer beads his mother had given him, and his grandfather’s old knife. His faithful donkey, Alai, stepped lightly, as if he too sensed that great adventures lay ahead.

At dawn, as the sky began to brighten, Efendi kissed his mother Sumaya’s hand, embraced his father, and without looking back, set off on his journey.

Ahead of him lay a road full of wonders and trials—where he would learn that true love isn’t just about finding someone, but about becoming someone worthy of being found.

Efendi rode slowly on his donkey, gently swaying in the saddle, taking in the beauty around him with wonder. The mountain landscape unfolded before him in its pristine, untouched glory.

The slopes were blanketed in wildflowers: purple lupines, crimson poppies, bluebells. It was as if the earth itself had bloomed in a thousand hues. The wind rolled down from the peaks, carrying the scent of herbs, honey, and damp stone. In the distance, snowy ridges gleamed, and closer by, among the greenery, crystal-clear streams shimmered, laughing as they danced over the stones.

The sky above was a deep, endless blue—a vast, transparent dome. White clouds drifted lazily, as if carrying dreams from peak to peak. Birds with long wings soared high above, their cries sharp and free.

On rocky paths, wild goats frolicked, and rabbits rustled in the underbrush. Now and then, cautious eyes peeked from behind boulders—watchful woodland creatures, hidden and wise. Everything around breathed freedom and ancient wisdom.

Efendi filled his lungs with the fresh air. He felt like a small part of this vast, living world. Even his little donkey walked with pride, as if he too understood: here, every stone, every blade of grass held a secret.

In this kingdom of nature, under the gentle sun and in the arms of the mountains, time lost its grip. Only the road stretching toward the horizon reminded Efendi of his quest—of Cindy, the dream that now led him through this magical land.

Conversation on the Road

The mountain trails had come to an end. The narrow, stony path Efendi had been descending merged with a wide asphalt highway, glinting in the sun like a drawn bow of destiny. On both sides—dry grass, scattered with lone cornflowers. The wind carried the scent of mountain dust and sun-heated resin.

At a roadside stop stood Delgara-agay, the schoolteacher—tall, courteous, in a worn light shirt, a book in hand. He was one of those elders who carried wisdom and kindness in equal measure.

He spotted Efendi at once, squinting as if against the sun, and asked with a gentle smile:

“Efendi, where are you headed, son?”

Efendi stopped, adjusted the saddle strap, looked into the old teacher’s eyes—as if checking his own heart—and answered:

“I’m looking for a girl. Her name is Cindy.” He showed him the photo.

For a moment, Delgara-agay’s face grew serious. He nodded, as if understanding something deeper than the words.

“I know,” he said quietly. “She lives in Shnapsland… But be careful, my son. There, the roads may be smooth—but fate can be slippery.”

(He didn’t mention that the girl was a princess. Perhaps he didn’t want to scare the boy or take away the purity of his pursuit.)

“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.”

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 not peek inside?”

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,

‘Carrot, balam. Carrot.’”

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.

“Carrot!” he repeated, clutching his stomach.

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.”

The Ramadan Rule

“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: How the hell do you drink with your backside?”

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.