Unbearable silence

      An Iranian village in the southeastern city of Borazjan. It was unbearably hot. Thick, dry air flowed towards the sun.       Farukh patted his son on the head.       "Eat, eat. You will be big and strong."       "How much more? So that I won't get through the door?" He laughed, finishing his chewing. Farukh shook his head.       "You have chosen a difficult path, my son. Strength is needed there."       "God told us not to choose easy paths."       "It's quite dangerous there. This is not the first time I have repeated this to you. Is a caravan worth it?"       "Of course! So many fathers will go there, barely able to breathe, while I stay in warmth and comfort? Oh no!" He greedily took a sip of milk, continuing to actively gesticulate, "Besides, there are so many of our brothers who need food there!"       "Okay, okay, eat." Farukh ran his fingers through his hair again. “I have raised a good son. I will pray for you."       "Don't praise me, father, until I come back!" Mustafa shook his finger menacingly. "And thank you for the prayers."       Farukh flicked him.       "Ugh, how can you say such bad things! You will definitely come back!" He stroked his beard.       "What should I bring you?" Mustafa said, slurping.       "Bring yourself. And then we'll see."       "Dad, it’s not serious!" Mustafa spread his hands. “We have so much money, but you don’t want anything! Would you like me to bring you a carpet?"       "I don’t need anything!" His father shouted petulantly, waving, "It's better to be poor than humiliated."       "Don’t humiliate yourself and let me spend all the money on gifts!"       "Come on!" He flicked him on the forehead again, laughing. "Don't deal with rich people. Better give your last than your soul. And don't plan. Let it be as God decides. If you have time left, buy something. Then you won’t be tormented by remorse and won't regret about failed promise."       "Do you want a horse?"       "I want you to calm down!" Farukh laughed, waving it off. "It would be much better if you bring me my daughter-in-law. There will be someone to talk to."       "Do you want me to repeat the great love story of Layla and Majnun?" He grinned slyly.       "Now  now! But I hope you find a better passion for yourself."       "Do you think I'm so good at love affairs?"       "Everyone has his own destiny." Farukh looked into the distance.       "I hope in mine there is written the best. And I obey Allah."       "That's right, my son. I hope you find yourself a righteous Muslim woman. But this, of course, is your business."       "Can I bring rags into the house?" Mustafa grinned. "Who do you take me for?"       "I completely trust your sensitive heart and wise mind. Therefore, I give you the right to choose, rather than looking for it myself."       "Oh, you should have matched me with Zulfiya from the neighboring village long ago. She wears a burqa all the time, but guys go to her yard anyway. It seems she is too scary for them.       "There are no veils between you and the Almighty, my dear. Only our eyes often deceive us. You've been through so much... I don't think you'll choose someone like Zulfiya."       "I fully believe in this, dad. I want to bring a worthy bride to your home."       "Bring her to your home. How long do I have left?!"       "What are you saying, father! May Allah give you long and happy life! May you outlive everyone here!"       "No, my dear. Parents should not outlive their children. You shouldn't wish such grief on anyone." Farukh calmly looked out the window at the horizon white with haze. It was getting hot, - I remember one story... I don’t know what really happened there, I won’t undertake to judge. The parents abandoned their son. I can’t say that he was a bad person, although they paint him in different ways, but the essence was the same: he died before them. They did not come to his funeral, pretending that they had forgotten him, that he was nobody to them. They didn't bury his children. Tell me, is the offense worth it? What kind of sacred duty is there, since you did not forgive your child even in the face of death? How can you live knowing that you stepped over the lifeless body of your own child, deliberately not letting him into heaven?       There was bitterness in Farukh's eyes. Mustafa shook his head in agreement.       —That means they didn’t love you, father, hiding behind Allah. The highest sin. It is not for us to decide who to let into heaven and who to send to hell. It may happen that heaven will not accept them. But the lost soul of that unfortunate... Will she ever receive liberation? Or will she forever carry the burden of someone else’s guilt?       Farukh pursed his lips thoughtfully, sighing heavily.       — The death of children should bring enemies together, not separate them. If pride exceeds reason, it is a vice. And it will not be eradicated until they experience thousands of misfortunes - one heavier than the other. How many great love stories prove this.       Mustafa listened carefully to his father.       —People won’t understand, father. Messengers are needed who will bear such suffering that only they can bear. And only their example can touch unhardened hearts.       —And how can they live with such a burden on their shoulders? — The old man smiled quietly.       —Be happy that you have such a lot, and rejoice in everything that God gives. People who feel the burden of suffering best feel inspiring happiness.       - That's right, that's right, my son. — Farukh patted his cheek. - Do not worry. What a life you have ahead of you... Let no adversity stop you. I bless you on such a difficult path. You will go through it with dignity, as an honest person should.       A large palm fell on the top of his head. Mustafa proudly accepted the blessing, bowing before his father.       —Thank you, dad. Your words are in God's ears.       The street became noisy. A girl in a black veil ran into the passage:       - Brother, they give me water!       —Did you hear, father?! - Mustafa jumped up, without taking his admiring gaze off Farukh, - Allah heard your prayers and sent us water! I'm coming, Fatma!       Mustafa rushed to the square. He returned, ducked into the house for buckets, and again slipped out into the street. Farukh laughed.       - Oh, Allah, give him long days of life. “He folded his hands in prayer.       Mustafa enthusiastically ran with the jugs, but all the taps were occupied. The village replenished supplies as best it could. And the hike was just around the corner.       — The tank will not fill. - Rashid stated critically.       —Why? — Mustafa stopped next to him, looking at the main source of water for the next week.       —The pressure is very weak. There is only one quarter in half an hour.       Mustafa pursed his lips, looking pleadingly at the iron structure.       — Hello, Aunt Salma. “He greeted in a businesslike manner, pushing himself between the tree and his neighbor doing the laundry.       —Hello, hello, Mustafa. How is your father? - She looked around interestedly.       —With God's help. Here, I’m dialing him. — He shook the buckets. - How are you doing?       —Slowly, Mustafa, thank you. Only Allah provided water, and here we are. “She pointed to a barrel of laundry.       —This is our lot, Aunt Salma.       People slowly approached, picking up their containers. Mustafa helped those whose hands could not reach them.       “Mustafa,” Aunt Salma started the conversation, “they say you’re leaving?”       "Yes." He answered proudly.       "Where?"       "West Bengal, have you heard of this?" While waiting, he leaned on the barrel, boasting of his position.       "So far?! All the way to India?.."       "Yes. Do you know how difficult it is for planes to fly there? And our brothers live there. They are not to blame for anything."       "Why not to Kashmir? It’s cool and the harvest is good!"       "Kashmir is peaceful now, while in the east the ruler is strict... Only caravans are allowed there."       "Aren't you afraid?"       "What should I be afraid of? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Aunt Salma. And the blessing of fate is not superfluous for me."       Seeing him grinning smugly, Salma shook her head:       "You'll come to an agreement someday, you madman. People are looking for a quieter place, and you are looking for trouble."       "If it's destined to do, it would happen anyway, aunt."       "If it's destined, if it's destined!..." She grumbled, "You should think about your father! How he will survive without you?"       "He is pleased with me, aunt. This is just you swearing for show. But in fact, you are waiting for your kids to save the whole world."       He, looking slyly at her, took the bucket. Salma rolled her eyes.       "Better go, worldly savior, help people bring water."       "And that’s where I’m going. - He looked mysteriously from under his brows, - How did you know about this?"       Salma laughed out loud, causing Mustafa to grin.       "Your wife will not survive you, dear!" She laughed after him.       "And I’m looking for a hardy one." He spun around, continuing his way to another part of the village.       Salma exchanged glances with the others in line for water.       "Well, yes!"       Having dropped by home, Mustafa proudly delivered both buckets and cans to his father.       "Here you go, dad."       "Thank you, son." His eyes sparkled appreciatively.        “But,” he raised a warning finger, “I need to help someone.”       "Go, of course, you may" Farukh closed his eyes, allowing.       “Thank you,” Mustafa flashed his eyes slyly, walking away. Farukh was really pleased with him.       Mustafa ran to the other end of the village, realizing that the supply would soon stop. There were much more young people here, the watering was much more active: girls and boys poured watering cans and buckets under the fruit bushes, scurrying back and forth.       "Do you need help?" Mustafa shouted loudly, looking around in search of someone more mature. The girls began to hide their faces, wrapping themselves tighter in scarves.       "Yes, Mustafa, help pour the water." Uncle Ozdemir appeared, "Just take the bucket there, from Fatma. There is no one."       Mustafa nodded and rushed on. Little Fatma stood with an old rusty pipe, filling a barrel, trying with all her might to bear the weight of the burden. At the sight of Mustafa hurrying, she shrank, not knowing where to take herself from the aisle. Mustafa chuckled and picked it up, squeezing towards the barn. Fatma giggled in surprise, swinging her legs.       "Are you having fun, right?" Putting it on the ground, he began to look for a bucket.       "It's ticklish!"       "There will be more now,” having found something to water, he raised Fatma again, she laughed more than ever.       "What kind of colossus are you holding? Place it on the edge and stand there."       "It can’t hold on like that! It falls."       The girl demonstrated a rolling pipe. Mustafa thought about it, lowering the bucket.       "One step aside, please," In Fatma’s place he rolled out an empty barrel, putting pipe to it.       "So you need to type this one too! I can't reach it!"       “You still have a long time to stand with that one,” Mustafa grinned, “wait for now.”       "Thank you." Fatma smiled. Mustafa nodded, indicating that the praise was well deserved.       Towards the end some commotion began again. The guys ran around with buckets, no longer understanding where and why. Mustafa and Rashid stopped at the cherished splashing central tank, dreamily looking at its top. There were about three minutes left. The water bubbled and made noise teasingly. Both pressed their lips together in annoyance, realizing that they would never see victory over the elements. But now, the gray paint turned black in streams. Drops splashed across the sand, and then water gushed out. The guys shouted in victory, beating each other's hands, and immediately began to substitute buckets to demonstrate their trophy. Exhausted residents passing by smiled.

***

      The day of departure has arrived. Mounted on camels, the young people, ready for anything, waited for their great campaign to begin. Young, naive, understanding nothing. Completely hidden from the sun, Mustafa felt like a true representative of his country. Farukh approached his camel. There was, of course, melancholy in his eyes:       "Well, good luck, son." He patted the animal carefully, asking him for a favor as well. - May your path be easy.       "Thank you, father." Mustafa smiled boldly, leaning towards him. The eyes glowed with frightening selflessness.       "Take care of yourself, I beg you." The father spoke anxiously, placing his hand on his heart.       "Everything will be great, father." He confidentially squeezed Farukh’s hand, as if not hearing him.       "Just promise me that you will come back!" The father begged in despair. However, Mustafa remained as self-confident:       "I'll be back. Whatever it costs me."       Realizing his weakness, Farukh walked away, without taking his eyes off his son. Mustafa looked forward eagerly. He had no intention of backing down from his goal. This worried Farukh: such an attitude would not allow him to give up his goal. Even if you have to sacrifice your life.       Farukh was leaving the caravan. My heart didn't stop. The great walk across the three seas began.