One day it was understood that there was no longer any point in dragging along from one move to the next a pile that had once contained a yurt. So the remains of the pile were broken up. Anything left of value was claimed, while the rest was burned on a fire. This is how Grandma became homeless. And if she had stayed with her sister any longer, she probably would have become destitute as well. Fortunately, things turned out differently.

People called Grandma Dongur Hootschun, which means “old woman with a shaved head.” The name was accurate. She was the first of only two women with a completely shaved head that I have ever seen among our people.

By the way, the other woman, who lived in the Altai Mountains half a lifetime later, was also called Dongur Hootschun. And the nickname, as is often the case, had replaced Grandma’s real name long ago. No one will ever know what she was called when she still had the long black hair that she kept in two braids. I myself called her Dongor Enem—my grandma with the shaved head. When other children tried to follow my example, I quickly told them off: “Why Enem? She’s not your grandma, is she?”

In those days, the children in the Altai Mountains used to live in peace with one another. So the child I had just told off would likely respond: “Oh well, it’s Eneng then—your grandma.”

Father and Mother and the other grown-ups in the ail put my name in front of Grandma’s and used the ending that indicates belonging, or rather possession. I liked that, for she was indeed my grandma. And this is how that came about: Since moving in with her sister, Grandma had taken care of the lighter chores in the yurt and the hürde because, having long passed seventy, she no longer had the strength for more. She rarely saw anybody, and even more rarely went—or rather, given her age—rode anywhere. She only went out when she wanted to get her head shaved, rather than get her hair cut, since the former trade was plied by men only.

So it happened that one day Grandma rode off again to find someone who would shave her head. On her way she passed our ail and our yurt. This is easily told now when in truth it was a bad story, albeit one with a good ending. Grandma’s horse had shied at dogs and already raced past four or five ails. The dogs—there were three of them at first—stayed hard on the horse’s and its rider’s heels. Ever more dogs joined in, and in the end they made up a pack of more than a dozen. Our cousin Molum, who happened to ride past, saved her: He chased the fleeing horse until he caught up and eventually got hold of its reins.