The child dismounted, prepared for the worst. The worst were a few slaps on the bottom or somewhere on the shoulders. But nothing like that happened. Instead, she was served porridge. The porridge had sat in a wooden bowl for a while, tasted of creamy yak milk, and contained finger-thick lumps which fell apart all on their own and melted as soon as the tongue pressed them against the roof of the mouth. I had eaten porridge quite a few times myself and cream as well, with yellow butter, and once even with ground sugar. But the porridge Grandma had that day was very special, was even better. Every time I listened, the story made my mouth water. And I felt sorry for not coming earlier into this world while the old woman who was not evil and who prepared such wonderful porridge was still around. If I had, I would have gone to her yurt instead of Grandma, or better still, together with her.

One day Mother, who was also listening to the story, gave us pause to think: “But Daaj! In spite of it all, the Dökterbej Mother must have been a witch. People all over talk about her, and each story is scarier than the one before!”

Grandma slowly lifted her head, which she had kept bowed as she always did after finishing a story. And with her mild eyes aimed at Mother, she said in a voice that was a bit deep for a woman’s and sounded gentle, yet firm: “Have you met her?”

Mother had not met her.

“That’s it,” Grandma continued gravely, “you have never met her, but I have. And the woman I met was not a witch but a human being. An old woman, as my mother was and yours is, as I am now and you will be.” Mother said nothing in return, and she never again interfered with the story, no matter how often it was told.

Most beautiful were the winter evenings. The stove would drone or hum, and the sound would travel and make the kettle resonate while the meat bubbled inside, and the smell would flow from the kettle and would, moment by moment, grow denser until it seemed to send out its tendrils and blend and become one with everything we could see in the flickering light. In these moments I believed I could sense life itself. The sensation was as corporeal and palpable as if I stood in a river and felt the prickling, cooling water on my skin. Grandma crouched in front of the stove door. Father worked on the remains of a yak hide, and we could hear him pant as he always did when he had to work hard. Mother busied herself with a piece of clothing. And the children were playing, throwing gashyk. One moment Grandma would appear in the light, only to disappear in the dark in the next. The düüleesh flared up quickly but burned down just as quickly, and more had to be added to the fire all the time. We were all gathered around the oil lamp, and the conversation was quiet, harmonious, unhurried. We took turns speaking. Mother and Father usually reported what had happened during the day. Grandma added explanations and time and again developed them into stories. Nobody interrupted her, nobody interrupted anybody, everybody got rid of what was on his or her mind. And nobody interrupted what they were busy doing, either.