Elchin Safarli

I want to go home

Daughters Denise

... When they ask me what I would take from a burning house, I answer - fire.

Jean Cocteau

Cover design Jamil Aslanov (https://instagram.com/aslanow)

Model in the photo: Nastya Guz (https://instagram.com/nastyagoos)

Is it not happiness to have meaning in the midst of triumphant meaninglessness?!

To seem like you are here, but to be there. Or live there, and seem like ...

Well, you understand me.

But what am I doing here? What is my fault?

So tell me, what did I do wrong?

After all, unlike you, I cannot take off or, more precisely, sink into the place where you sink. Understand?..

I just can't do it. And I'm afraid.

Afag Masud

I want to find new ways. If I can't find it, you can help me.

“…The ways I know are already outdated, others know them too. You better work hard yourself and find completely new ones, unknown to anyone.

- ... I will think and I will certainly find it.

- Think, my friend. It is your duty to think and discover new ways.

Jafar Jabbarli

You won't really be anywhere until you get home.

Terry Pratchett

... Day after day, he takes a pen in his hand and writes to her. Bartlebum does not know her name or address, but he firmly believes that he must tell her about his life.

For who, if not her?

He believes that when they meet, he will with trembling joy set a mahogany box filled to the brim with letters on her bosom and say:

- I was waiting for you.

Alessandro Baricco

I grew up in a house with a green roof in Absheron. A peninsula on the western coast of the Caspian, covered with a yellow blanket of salty sands. Here the sea is calm and humble, like a dervish, and the vines are ornate, like Arabic letters. We came here by train. June heat, Fig station, grandmother with two straw bags. In one - my things with my brother, in the other - sheep's cheese, salted cottage cheese shor and a can of katyk.

It is three hundred and eighty-two steps to the dacha through a typical Absheron desert with green thorns. Specially measured with my brother. We are in a hurry, otherwise the milk will turn sour. Grandmother Sona, a strong woman with a short haircut and skin the color of overdried dried apricots, is ahead of us: “Dates, there are three hundred and two steps to happiness. Do not sleep!" Happiness for us was and is the house. A home where it's always good.

Sona unlocked the heavy wooden door of the dacha with the word "Bismillah" and went in first, whispering a prayer. With words from the holy book, she cleansed the house of jinn. “They should be sent home with a kind word, prepare halva with doshab in memory of the deceased, distribute it to those in need.” Doshab, sweet syrup, Sona brewed from black mulberry juice with cinnamon.

Next came my brother and I, inhaling the smell of last year's summer. There is our inflatable dolphin in the hallway, a little thinner from melancholy, it would be necessary to inflate again and revive in the cold water of the morning Caspian.

The winter dampness in the corners has already been dried by the summer sun. It remains to warm up the pillows, blankets, mattresses. “Dates, let's get to work: pillows on the sunny side of the veranda. Otherwise, we will sleep in the cold sea at night.” We ran for pillows, I chose the blue ones. They were really saturated with the winter breath of the sea. Salty, with sticky coolness.

The next morning, Sona sorted through the thyme plucked in the garden, neatly laid out the branches on a table covered with parchment. She dried for the winter and treated them when her grandchildren caught a cold. I sniffed the purple blossoms, helped cut the roots, and talked to my grandmother about everything life is made of.

“Finik, we are all free, and this is our uniqueness. You will live with what you believe. If you accept life as a struggle, prepare for a constant struggle. If you think that you have to pay for everything in life, you will pay, and double the price. Everyone has free will - we ourselves determine our own truth and attitude towards it.

The brother, a chubby tomboy, quickly got tired of "boring" conversations, ran into the yard. And the conversations with Sona filled me so much that sometimes I could not fall asleep at night - a sea of ​​emotions overwhelmed the rocks of consciousness.

Over the years, he found a way to pacify the excitement - he began to write it down.

At the end of the country house there was a room without windows. We named it Marine. The walls were covered in blue-blue waves, and the light brown floors underfoot looked like the bottom of the Caspian Sea.

For a long time, the room served as a marinade room: my grandmother put jars of olive jam, eggplant caviar, marinated medlar and tomatoes there.

Over time, the room was forgotten, and it turned into a repository of household rubbish.

One summer my brother and I caught rubella. During the illness, we were forbidden to swim in the sea, which we were very worried about. They whimpered, acted up, tried to run away from the house towards the coast. But the grandmother did not leave her naughty grandchildren a single step.

Grandfather, who was once fond of painting, thought for a long time how to alleviate our longing for the sea, and decided to transform the marinade. He quickly cleaned and freshened the floors, painted the ceiling blue, painted snow-white clouds, and waves on the walls. The room dried up, was carefully tidied up by my grandmother and became our sea for the time of rubella.

Sona made rugs for us, we spent hours lying in the Sea Room, imagining that there was no illness and we were on the Caspian coast. It was happiness.

After breakfast, my grandmother and I went to see grandfather off to work. An excuse to take a walk. shipyard was at the seventeenth mark of the coast, fifteen minutes along the sea. Old upturned boats rested on the brown sand, painting the shoreline. Here is a green one, with a holey bottom and the inscription "Murad". That was the name of the son of a hoarse-voiced fisherman named Musician, he lured the mullet in the net with the help of the sad song of Ney - a reed flute.

In the East they say that its sound is filled with the love of the Creator. The poet Fizuli wrote: “I am always moaning, reed… Now with passion, now with complaint my cry is full... I will not stop crying... Even if I am cut for her.”

The Musician had a long-awaited and only son. “I will teach Murad to play it and he will also return with a catch.” In the sixth year of life, the baby was diagnosed with leukemia, a year later he passed away.

The musician continued to go to sea, but he did not bring a single fish home, did not hand it over to the market. All the catch was given to poor families.

I remember a time in my life when almost everyone left, and those who remained did not hear me. From the outside, this picture may have looked desperate and lonely, but I did not feel either despair or loneliness.

The city and the land were with me, giving me bread, water, sea and understanding. The earth also taught. Humility, for example.

I distinctly felt how the linden trees along Zheltaya Street, the crooked stone stairs down to Bulbul Street, the stretch of embankment not far from the plane tree grove, and the honeyed eyes of the curly-haired muse of the street musician fill me with calmness.

Everything that sailed towards me pacified my boat, rocking on the waves, and turned it into a ship.

The land on which for days on end I moved, it would seem, into the unknown, was my friend. Each new dawn filled it with the radiance of the Universe, which then illuminated the souls of those who seek, expect and are grateful. This is the law of life: those who wait receive, while others simply pass by and also ... continue on their way.

During the period of getting to know myself, I often turned to childhood memories. Especially at night, when there are four walls around, one window and you can't hear the sea. I traveled in the days when my brother and I, tired after the sea, hurried home, where our grandmother was waiting for us with cheese cakes and cool feijoa compote and the blissful Sea Room.

The sources of strength are not only around, but also within us. It's time to stop relying solely on the mind and turn to the soul for help.

Rumi wrote: “There is eloquence in silence. Stop the weaving of meanings and you will see how understanding improves.” Sometimes we lose native sounds. The voice of a loved one, the song of a city dear to the heart, or the sound of the boundless sea. They either subside, or we stop hearing them. There comes a silence that frightens at first, but then heals, revealing something new in us.

Hearing becomes sensitive. We hear ourselves better, which means we better understand what we need.

Grandma Sona had a favorite saying: "All paths lead to morning, dates." Then, in the Absheron childhood, her words seemed like a joke. Now I realize their depth.

Sona went through a difficult life, fell more than once, but got up and continued on her way. She didn't like to talk about it. I learned a lot after her death from relatives who call her Sona-rock with a smile.

A spoon of tar! Fans of the author will throw tomatoes at me, maybe they will be right, but I only mastered 50 pages.
Bought the book based on the rave reviews. It's time to stop doing this. I hoped that it would be a fictional story about the wanderings (maybe even mental) of a certain person who managed to find the way "home", without actually having one. The girl on the cover is confused. I thought it was a metaphor for the work, but it's just a girl in the desert. Maybe from the "She" part, I don't know, I haven't finished reading it.
But it turned out that this work is not fiction. This is an autobiography. This is not a novel, but a memoir. The person writes about himself. He always had a home (oh, how few can boast of this), he just returns there in his memories for strength, wisdom, inspiration.

For me, this work is still "snotty". The author writes how inspired he was from childhood - he saw everything, he heard everything. It was his brother who was a prankster, but he is not. He's special. And the grandmother is always there, and no one made any mistakes in his upbringing - everyone is restrained, spiritualized, burdened with universal wisdom by the time of his birth, regardless of age (parents are no less wise than grandfathers and do not allow any educational mistakes). Uh-uh, where is it?

Let, for some, this book is a "harbor of rebirth" and a "source of strength", but for me it is snot. A guy would be born in an ordinary family where the father drinks / beats, grandfathers either don’t exist, or they don’t care about their grandchildren, the older brother comes off on the younger one for insulting his parents, and they live on the West Siberian Plain (not by the sea), deeper in the taiga . I wish I could see what kind of autobiography he would have written then.

In my opinion, the author writes no better than the authors of notes in free blogs. The work itself can somewhere and immerses in "nature with smells and flowers", but in fact it is a boastful memoir. Here, they say, what I am, and these are the people / nature that surrounds me. Those. the author is not through "fire, water and copper pipes"Everything described (wisdom, surrounding beauty, relatives supporting in word and deed) received. It was immediately, by default, given by birth.

Is this an example? But it's not given to you? Everything? Now, only through the keyhole of such memoirs to watch someone else's "happiness"? The book does not teach how to achieve, does not show that even without having, you can find. But he simply boasts that someone is born in the "cradle of the World." Such examples are free on TV in batches.

I do not recommend this book if you are looking for answers, ways, inspiration for your life. You can take the views of "heroes" as a standard of perception, but few people will be able to figure out how to become like this in your life, in your living conditions, because Few people are born with so much.

Daughters Denise

... When they ask me what I would take from a burning house, I answer - fire.

Jean Cocteau

Cover design Jamil Aslanov (https://instagram.com/aslanow)

Is it not happiness to have meaning in the midst of triumphant meaninglessness?!

To seem like you are here, but to be there. Or live there, and seem like ...

Well, you understand me.

But what am I doing here? What is my fault?

So tell me, what did I do wrong?

After all, unlike you, I cannot take off or, more precisely, sink into the place where you sink. Understand?..

I just can't do it. And I'm afraid.

Afag Masud

I want to find new ways. If I can't find it, you can help me.

“…The ways I know are already outdated, others know them too. You better work hard yourself and find completely new ones, unknown to anyone.

- ... I will think and I will certainly find it.

- Think, my friend. It is your duty to think and discover new ways.

Jafar Jabbarli

He

You won't really be anywhere until you get home.

Terry Pratchett

... Day after day, he takes a pen in his hand and writes to her. Bartlebum does not know her name or address, but he firmly believes that he must tell her about his life.

For who, if not her?

He believes that when they meet, he will with trembling joy set a mahogany box filled to the brim with letters on her bosom and say:

- I was waiting for you.

Alessandro Baricco

1

I grew up in a house with a green roof in Absheron. A peninsula on the western coast of the Caspian, covered with a yellow blanket of salty sands. Here the sea is calm and humble, like a dervish, and the vines are ornate, like Arabic letters. We came here by train. June heat, Fig station, grandmother with two straw bags. In one - my things with my brother, in the other - sheep's cheese, salted cottage cheese shor and a can of katyk.

It is three hundred and eighty-two steps to the dacha through a typical Absheron desert with green thorns.

Specially measured with my brother. We are in a hurry, otherwise the milk will turn sour. Grandmother Sona, a strong woman with a short haircut and skin the color of overdried dried apricots, is ahead of us: “Dates, there are three hundred and two steps to happiness. Do not sleep!" Happiness for us was and is the house. A home where it's always good.

Sona unlocked the heavy wooden door of the dacha with the word "Bismillah" and went in first, whispering a prayer. With words from the holy book, she cleansed the house of jinn. “They should be sent home with a kind word, prepare halva with doshab in memory of the deceased, distribute it to those in need.” Doshab, sweet syrup, Sona brewed from black mulberry juice with cinnamon.

Next came my brother and I, inhaling the smell of last year's summer. There is our inflatable dolphin in the hallway, a little thinner from melancholy, it would be necessary to inflate again and revive in the cold water of the morning Caspian.

The winter dampness in the corners has already been dried by the summer sun. It remains to warm up the pillows, blankets, mattresses. “Dates, let's get to work: pillows on the sunny side of the veranda. Otherwise, we will sleep in the cold sea at night.” We ran for pillows, I chose the blue ones. They were really saturated with the winter breath of the sea. Salty, with sticky coolness.

The next morning, Sona sorted through the thyme plucked in the garden, neatly laid out the branches on a table covered with parchment. She dried for the winter and treated them when her grandchildren caught a cold. I sniffed the purple blossoms, helped cut the roots, and talked to my grandmother about everything life is made of.

“Finik, we are all free, and this is our uniqueness. You will live with what you believe. If you accept life as a struggle, prepare for a constant struggle. If you think that you have to pay for everything in life, you will pay, and double the price. Everyone has free will - we ourselves determine our own truth and attitude towards it.

The brother, a chubby tomboy, quickly got tired of "boring" conversations, ran into the yard. And the conversations with Sona filled me so much that sometimes I could not fall asleep at night - a sea of ​​emotions overwhelmed the rocks of consciousness.

Over the years, he found a way to pacify the excitement - he began to write it down.

At the end of the country house there was a room without windows. We named it Marine. The walls were covered in blue-blue waves, and the light brown floors underfoot looked like the bottom of the Caspian Sea.

For a long time, the room served as a marinade room: my grandmother put jars of olive jam, eggplant caviar, marinated medlar and tomatoes there.

Over time, the room was forgotten, and it turned into a repository of household rubbish.

One summer my brother and I caught rubella. During the illness, we were forbidden to swim in the sea, which we were very worried about. They whimpered, acted up, tried to run away from the house towards the coast. But the grandmother did not leave her naughty grandchildren a single step.

Grandfather, who was once fond of painting, thought for a long time how to alleviate our longing for the sea, and decided to transform the marinade. He quickly cleaned and freshened the floors, painted the ceiling blue, painted snow-white clouds, and waves on the walls. The room dried up, was carefully tidied up by my grandmother and became our sea for the time of rubella.

Sona made rugs for us, we spent hours lying in the Sea Room, imagining that there was no illness and we were on the Caspian coast. It was happiness.

After breakfast, my grandmother and I went to see grandfather off to work. An excuse to take a walk. The shipyard was at the seventeenth mark of the coast, fifteen minutes along the sea. Old upturned boats rested on the brown sand, painting the shoreline. Here is a green one, with a holey bottom and the inscription "Murad". That was the name of the son of a hoarse-voiced fisherman named Musician, he lured the mullet in the net with the help of the sad song of Ney - a reed flute.

In the East they say that its sound is filled with the love of the Creator. The poet Fizuli wrote: “I am always moaning, reed… Now with passion, now with complaint my cry is full... I will not stop crying... Even if I am cut for her.”

The Musician had a long-awaited and only son. “I will teach Murad to play it and he will also return with a catch.” In the sixth year of life, the baby was diagnosed with leukemia, a year later he passed away.

The musician continued to go to sea, but he did not bring a single fish home, did not hand it over to the market. All the catch was given to poor families.

I remember a time in my life when almost everyone left, and those who remained did not hear me. From the outside, this picture may have looked desperate and lonely, but I did not feel either despair or loneliness.

The city and the land were with me, giving me bread, water, sea and understanding. The earth also taught. Humility, for example.

I distinctly felt how the linden trees along Zheltaya Street, the crooked stone stairs down to Bulbul Street, the stretch of embankment not far from the plane tree grove, and the honeyed eyes of the curly-haired muse of the street musician fill me with calmness.

Everything that sailed towards me pacified my boat, rocking on the waves, and turned it into a ship.

The land on which for days on end I moved, it would seem, into the unknown, was my friend. Each new dawn filled it with the radiance of the Universe, which then illuminated the souls of those who seek, expect and are grateful. This is the law of life: those who wait receive, while others simply pass by and also ... continue on their way.

During the period of getting to know myself, I often turned to childhood memories. Especially at night, when there are four walls around, one window and you can't hear the sea. I traveled in the days when my brother and I, tired after the sea, hurried home, where our grandmother was waiting for us with cheese cakes and cool feijoa compote and the blissful Sea Room.

The sources of strength are not only around, but also within us. It's time to stop relying solely on the mind and turn to the soul for help.

Rumi wrote: “There is eloquence in silence. Stop the weaving of meanings and you will see how understanding improves.” Sometimes we lose native sounds. The voice of a loved one, the song of a city dear to the heart, or the sound of the boundless sea. They either subside, or we stop hearing them. There comes a silence that frightens at first, but then heals, revealing something new in us.

Hearing becomes sensitive. We hear ourselves better, which means we better understand what we need.

Grandma Sona had a favorite saying: "All paths lead to morning, dates." Then, in the Absheron childhood, her words seemed like a joke. Now I realize their depth.

Sona went through a difficult life, fell more than once, but got up and continued on her way. She didn't like to talk about it. I learned a lot after her death from relatives who call her Sona-rock with a smile.

I love morning too. For a new hope and a chance, for the freshness of the air and the radiance of the sun after a rainy night. Every "tomorrow" is a new morning.

Tomorrow morning we will become even better, we will learn not to succumb to general chaos. Let's take care of our worlds, hug our loved ones more often, help those who need help, travel more. In fact, everything is simple.

Tomorrow morning we will understand that not a single event in life is accidental. We know this, but we often forget it when we face difficulties. Suffer, feel like a victim, complain about " heavy share It's easier than getting up, thanking the Universe and moving forward, further.

And tomorrow morning we will come to the sea, and there will be even more of it in us.

I often visit our dacha near Figirnaya station. Let it be just a thought. There is no longer that house, nor that station, nor those roads. Grandma and grandpa died. Now my brother and I have other houses, but memories are something that you can’t take away from anyone. We often travel in their ways, and for this we do not need any visas, or tickets, or flights, or money.

2

From time to time, for many years, and sometimes for the rest of our lives, the feeling that we are missing something does not leave us. An understanding man, a sensitive woman, a healthy child, a warm home, a fulfilled vocation, an attractive appearance, a stable income.

Even after getting what we want, after a while we again experience dissatisfaction. If earlier we were worried about the lack of a good job, then, having settled in a prestigious company, we complain about the inattention of a loved one.

Someone will say that such is human nature - to live in halftones. In fact, this is something that cannot be put up with. The feeling of dissatisfaction must be overcome with the word "thank you". As Tolstoy wrote: “I don’t have everything that I love. But I love everything I have."

I loved the morning in the country. When I woke up, I immediately ran to the garden. Every day something changed there: in color, shape, sound. Here the fruits of the fig tree turned slightly yellow, another two weeks, and they can be plucked - cook jam with cinnamon.

Here is the booth of Pyalyang already in blue: for two days grandfather Asad built it, insulated it, polished it, and today he woke up early in the morning and painted it. The house for our dog is ready!

The plum marshmallow hung on the veranda rope finally dried up. I couldn't resist and ate one. It's time to roll up the rest with rugs and put it in a linen bag sewn by my grandmother. Until winter!

When I, sleepy and unwashed, ran out into the garden, my grandmother came up to me and, embracing me, returned me to the room where the unmade bed, scattered clothes, toys, apple cores.

“Pinik, until you put things in order on your territory, it’s stupid to look for joy outside of it. They will bore you anyway, and you will return to your bedlam. Start with yourself."

The feeling of dissatisfaction begins when we look for happiness outside, not inside ourselves. Having abandoned our house, we go to the outside world, where nothing is eternal and everything changes every second.

At night I was afraid to leave my room. The house fell into silence, the cries of migratory birds took on an ominous echo, and the groans of an invisible monster were heard in the rumbling of pipes. If suddenly in the middle of the night I wanted to go to the toilet or drink water in the kitchen, I, without closing my eyes, endured until dawn. Boyish pride did not allow the adults to wake up, and the light left on in the hallway did not lessen the fear.

Once, at the age of eight, I could not stand it and wet the bed half asleep. The next morning, Sona found a damp mattress and, without saying anything to anyone, replaced it. When we were alone, Grandmother said: “I can put a bucket in the room, but this is not an option. Phoenix, don't be afraid to open the door. Whatever it is."

I snorted and, not hiding my eyes, admitted: “But when the door opens, I won’t be able to forget what I see behind it.” Sona smiled, “Your fears are not real. You yourself invented them. Before you open the door, create something in your head that doesn't scare you. For example, seagulls, the sea and a basket of hot sims 1
?Simit - a bagel in sesame sprinkling.

I tried it the next night. It didn't work right away. Only on the third attempt, drawing seagulls in my head, I went to the night kitchen and drank a glass of cherry compote.

In the memory of everyone there are pictures-rescuers, we turn to them in difficult periods. In my rescue picture, there are not only seagulls and simits, but also the foam of yellow cherry jam, which is cooked in the yard of our dacha in a copper basin with crooked edges.

Here Sona passes me a copper spoon-skimmer. “While I wash the jars, collect the foam. Look, don't look. Today, Phoenix, you are in charge of collecting the clouds." Foams resembled clouds, only they were sweet and hot. Trying them, I burned my tongue, but I did not regret it at all. “Well, let it tingle. But I tasted the clouds."

Grandma never stopped dreaming, creating her little space in the kitchen. She was friendly with age, did not worry about wrinkles and deeply understood life, which was a wonderful journey for her. Death did not frighten her. “I don’t think about age or death. I took it all for granted and fill my days with what makes me happy.”

Life is made up of daily challenges. And they are performed not in the name of the gates of heaven, but to improve hearing. His own. Hearing yourself is the only way to find, maintain balance.

“Someone says or does evil, and you feel like you are losing your hearing. Anger overwhelms the head, boils in the ears, and incites to answer the same. When I was young, I answered, and then I got sick. Over the years, I learned to appreciate, to protect hearing. When I see evil somewhere, I either silently help the offended, or I cross to the opposite side of the street.

3

You need to be able to stop. To hear the sea. In yourself and in the world around you. The vanity did not bring peace to anyone: we are in such a hurry to live that we do not have time to see life itself.

A person does not always have to strive for something. There are days, months, years when you just live: doing work, walking the streets, cooking, meeting friends. And it would be nice to find a balance in this everyday life - to hear life in yourself and discover new worlds that are not like your past ones.

The past is stronger than any anchor holds in place. And the brighter it was, the stronger it will pull back. Grandmother said that she spent a lot of time learning to live in the present.

“I didn’t know how to enjoy the moment. He had not yet become the past, and I was already looking at him from the future. Only closer to forty was able to change the attitude of the present.

On autumn evenings, Sona brewed black tea with cardamom. I learned this during the years I lived in the City of Overturned Boats. Sona brought a bunch of magical stories from there, which she told my brother and me instead of fairy tales.

On the City Hall of the City of Overturned Boats, two pods of cardamom are knocked out - a symbol of forgiveness and prosperity.

Once I asked my grandmother about the connection of cardamom with forgiveness. She told a legend about how many years ago an army of foreigners attacked the City of Overturned Boats. They needed a strong land, where the harmony that the neighboring peoples so envied was found not in struggle, but in the acceptance of the contrasts of life. Foreigners hoped, having received the land, to master this skill.

The men of the city moved to the defense. Without weapons. First with the heart, with the word, then with the bodies. The women and children were hidden in cardamom plantations.

Foreigners killed almost all the men, broke into the city. They were approaching the shelter when a strong earthquake began. Houses and streets went underground in seconds. Only cardamom plantations remained intact, saving the lives of women and children.

Years later, the city was reborn. The wives of foreigners buried by the earthquake asked to live in the City of Overturned Boats. They were let in despite the past. Since then, cardamom has been adopted in the city as a sacred spice, which, as legend has it, softens the deepest grudges.

The City of Overturned Boats taught Sona to "breathe deeply". When you live among people who from birth know how to appreciate every day, no matter what it is and no matter what happens in it, this quality is also revealed in you. It is revealed. Love and gratitude are inherent in everyone, but not everyone wants to get off the nails.

Although even in a life with a high degree of awareness, there are days when you need to recharge your batteries.

“There are days when everything fades. As if bright feelings become colorless. Don't like it, don't believe it, don't want it. On such days, I came up with a simple excuse so that no one would worry, and with a calm face I left until the evening. Just don't offend or upset anyone. I got on the bus, left for a neighboring city, looked at the rain outside the window and did not think about anything. Or walked for a long time ... Let go.

I did not share such days with Assad. What for? These are my internal failures, and the only way recovery for me is silence... The more a person strives for the light, the more obstacles arise on this path. As they say in the East, "demons torment" - once you fall for the bait, and it seems like a bad person. The main thing is to always return to yourself.

Rumi said: “This world is mountains, and our actions are screams: the echo from our cry in the mountains always returns to us.”

4

I have an aunt named Amina. Mom's sister. Both of them grew up in the picturesque village of Khilya. Sariya, having married her father, moved to the city. Amina is still there. She has a plot of land and a small house where she and her husband Jafar live in silence.

Children grew up, got families, chose a metropolis. And Amina is still in the place where she was born. Proud of it.

“I went to India and Iran, that's enough for me. I built the world and what I would like to see in it, on this rocky piece of land, I don’t have to go somewhere for something. She raised three sons, two grandchildren, planted twenty-eight persimmon trees, saw Mecca. Now I have a friend, a home and silence... People are harassing themselves on the way to supposedly great goals, striving to ensure that as many people and cities as possible know about them. In the struggle for this, they abandon their home - the one that is in them, and not outside. If you want to be useful in a new place, learn to be useful at home.”

On the first day of winter holidays, my mother and I always went to Khilya. In honor of our arrival, Amina took out a saj from the cellar 2
?Saj - a concave frying pan without sides.

She baked kutab - cakes with pumpkin-pomegranate filling. Tea was served with peach jam pie. Tradition.

Amina has swarthy large hands and henna-painted nails. On the middle finger of the right hand is a gold ring with a garnet, inherited from her great-grandmother. “On the heart of every woman there are scars from once bleeding wounds. Time and pomegranate heal them. In Khil, garnet is called the stone of honesty. It's scary to live life in a lie to yourself. Whatever the truth, you need to hear it, accept it. Otherwise, you will run away from silence.”

If the road to Khil itself was spacious and comfortable, then Aunt Amina's house had to be reached on foot. He was on the outskirts, near the red building of the transformer plant. Rescued in the rainy season plastic bags: my mother and I pulled them on our boots and chapali on the squelching earthen slurry.

We had to overcome impassability and a landfill with fragments of wooden stands. They showed the profile of a bald man with a beard. Once I asked my mother: “Who is he? Why was it thrown out?" Saria, jumping over a puddle with me, answered: “This is Lenin, he ruled the country. Now is another time. Not him, son. Then I was not childishly surprised: how can such an immense concept as time belong to someone? ..

We crossed the threshold, and fatigue from the difficult road evaporated in the atmosphere of our home. Warm, cozy, delicious. Amina hugged and fed us at the same time, and she laughed off her sister’s complaints about the inexpensive price: “Heaven doesn’t get without difficulty ... Who else needs kutabs?”

I was put to bed in a small room with floral wallpaper and an absurdly large window. White frame, brass handles, a view of the back of the garden, where persimmon trees looked like peacocks at night. Here is a tail spread like a fan, here, a little lower, an elegant crest, amusingly riding up under the gusts of gilavar 3
?Gilavar - south wind.

I was not afraid to fall asleep alone here: the room adjoined the living room, from where the voices of my mother and aunt could be heard, chatting late into the night about everything in the world. About dreams, children, memories. About love and its forms.

“Sariah, have you ever forgotten yourself because of a man?”

- It was business.

- But not me. Always over your head. At one time I was sad about this, but over the years it stopped, it's scary - to lose yourself because of a man ... I love the world through myself: the beam is not refracted through someone else.

“That is healthy selfishness, Amin.

More like a choice.

- Probably ... I don’t understand when feelings are simple and unambiguous. Some dubiousness and drama cause me more respect. So much more alive.

I was warmed by my aunt's winter pillows, smelling of walnuts. The whole last month of autumn, the nuts were dried in the kitchen, in front of the oven, soaking every corner of the house with aroma. Uncle Jafar treated with special trepidation the two walnut trees in the garden, the trunks of which were smeared with light yellow cardamom oil in September so that the harvest was sweeter, healthier ...

I want to go home

Daughters Denise

... When they ask me what I would take from a burning house, I answer - fire.

Jean Cocteau

Cover design Jamil Aslanov (https://instagram.com/aslanow)

Model in the photo: Nastya Guz (https://instagram.com/nastyagoos)

Is it not happiness to have meaning in the midst of triumphant meaninglessness?!

To seem like you are here, but to be there. Or live there, and seem like ...

Well, you understand me.

But what do I have to do with it? What is my fault?

So tell me, what did I do wrong?

After all, unlike you, I cannot take off or, more precisely, sink into the place where you sink. Understand?..

I just can't do it. And I'm afraid.

Afag Masud

I want to find new ways. If I can't find it, you can help me.

“…The ways I know are already outdated, others know them too. You better work hard yourself and find completely new ones, unknown to anyone.

- ... I will think and I will certainly find it....

- Think, my friend. It is your duty to think and discover new ways.

Jafar Jabbarli

He

You're not really going anywhere until you get home.

Terry Pratchett

... Day after day, he takes a pen in his hand and writes to her. Bartlebum does not know her name or address, but he firmly believes that he must tell her about his life.

For who, if not her?

He believes that when they meet, he will with trembling joy set a mahogany box filled to the brim with letters on her bosom and say:

- I was waiting for you.

Alessandro Baricco

1

I grew up in a house with a green roof in Absheron. A peninsula on the western coast of the Caspian, covered with a yellow blanket of salty sands. Here the sea is calm and humble, like a dervish, and the vines are ornate, like Arabic letters. We came here by train. June heat, Fig station, grandmother with two straw bags. In one - my things with my brother, in the other - sheep's cheese, salted cottage cheese shor and a can of katyk.

It is three hundred and eighty-two steps to the dacha through a typical Absheron desert with green thorns. Specially measured with my brother. We are in a hurry, otherwise the milk will turn sour. Grandmother Sona, a strong woman with a short haircut and skin the color of overdried dried apricots, is ahead of us: “Dates, there are three hundred and two steps to happiness. Do not sleep!" Happiness for us was and is the house. A home where it's always good.

Sona unlocked the heavy wooden door of the dacha with the word "Bismillah" and went in first, whispering a prayer. With words from the holy book, she cleansed the house of jinn. “They should be sent home with a kind word, prepare halva with doshab in memory of the deceased, distribute it to those in need.” Doshab, sweet syrup, Sona brewed from black mulberry juice with cinnamon.

Next came my brother and I, inhaling the smell of last year's summer. There is our inflatable dolphin in the hallway, a little thinner from melancholy, it would be necessary to inflate again and revive in the cold water of the morning Caspian.

(ratings: 3 , the average: 4,33 out of 5)

Title: I want to go home

About the book "I want to go home" by Elchin Safarli

A young contemporary writer and journalist, born in Baku, Elchin Safarli is the author of the novel I Want to Go Home, which tells about the calm way of life of a small seaside town, where serious passions reign behind the door of every house. The gentle sound of the surf, the disturbing cries of seagulls and the alluring smells of the sea waft from the pages of the book and carry the reader into a small cozy universe of ordinary people living in the neighborhood.

Elchin Safarli devoted most of the book to a beautiful description of the measured life and exquisite cuisine of the East, immersing fans of his work in a world warm and dear to the author's heart. The heroes of the novel are endowed with folk wisdom, but they are in rush and search for truth, causing compassion and participation in their fate in a person holding the book “I want to go home”.

The events taking place in the novel give hope and fill with love, because, according to the author, this is very important for a person. On the pages of the book, Safarli often uses quotes from Eastern authors, confirming his conclusions and observations.

Elchin Safarli lived in Istanbul for many years, and his work absorbed the bright flavor of the East. The abundance of descriptions of the enchanting aromas of spices, exotic fruits, detailed recipes for gourmet dishes and the unsurpassed taste of famous oriental sweets is associated with the author's undisguised passion for cooking. In the novel “I want to go home”, Safarli takes the reader to the cramped streets of a small town, skillfully creating a vivid impression of complete immersion in the indescribable atmosphere of the traditional oriental way of life.

Severe critics unanimously call Safarli the writer of the soul of a small person. From book to book, the author tells stories and experiences ordinary people immersed in problems, seeking and finding happiness in simple things. The writer shares his genuine love for people and the multifaceted world in which they exist, endowing the reader with similar feelings. Safarli's latest novel was no exception.

A kind, warm and wise book about love - "I want to go home" - will give connoisseurs of Safarli's talent bright hours of joy, make them think and feel, and heal a wounded heart. Each reader will find something about himself in the novel, and wise oriental advice will warm the soul. "The best medicine for sadness and sadness!" - sounds an enthusiastic review of the conquered reader.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online book"I want to go home" by Elchin Safarli in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. Buy full version you can have our partner. Also, here you will find latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginner writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from the book "I want to go home" by Elchin Safarli

The feeling of dissatisfaction begins when we look for happiness outside, not inside ourselves. Having abandoned our house, we go to the outside world, where nothing is eternal and everything changes every second.

“There is no fullness without emptiness, baby. Learn to love those days when everything stops. When you can't be strong, decisive, collected. I call such days “kanska”, which means “maybe” in Faroese. When you can’t answer any of your questions definitely, you just keep silent, sleep, eat, or walk along an inconspicuous street until you feel better. And it definitely gets easier. The most severe downpours end in sunshine."

Happiness comes when you take charge of your life and don't wait for a lifeguard in love, sunny weather, or the completion of a dark stripe. Forever remembered the words of Mahatma Gandhi: "Become the change that you want to see in the world."

“Finik, we are all free, and this is our uniqueness. You will live with what you believe. If you accept life as a struggle, prepare for a constant struggle. If you think that you have to pay for everything in life, you will pay, and double the price. Everyone has free will - we ourselves determine our own truth and attitude towards it.

“Pinik, until you put things in order on your territory, it’s stupid to look for joy outside of it. They will bore you anyway, and you will return to your bedlam. Start with yourself."

There are days, months, when everything seems to be clear to you, and things are neatly arranged on the shelves. And there are times when it hurts, and nothing can be done about it. It is important to choose not despair, but humility. Humility is not hands down or inaction, but a quiet faith that the morning will certainly come when you wake up and realize that it no longer hurts. Let go.

True love is selfless, it does not require anything in return. And if it requires, then it is not love.

It is quite possible to stop blaming yourself for the mistakes you have made and stop being afraid of the ones you have not yet made. To do this, the world in which we correct the error must be different from the world in which it was made.

“There are days when everything fades. As if bright feelings become colorless. Don't like it, don't believe it, don't want it. On such days, I came up with a simple excuse so that no one would worry, and with a calm face I left until the evening. Just don't offend or upset anyone. I got on the bus, left for a neighboring city, looked at the rain outside the window and did not think about anything. Or walked for a long time ... Let go.

It is important for a woman to be heard. Even if she is naughty. It is this attention that is more important to her than any gift. A woman is a sensitive, contradictory creature. If a man ceases to notice her, hear her, she dies next to him or ... leaves.

Free download the book "I want to go home" Elchin Safarli

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