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.

Everybody listened to the conversation, including the children, who were throwing gashyk and wished for so many horses to be revealed—and who saw that so many horses were revealed—and they loved it. It felt so good to play. Yet the children never lost track of the conversation even though they would not butt in unless they were asked a question. Everybody took part in everything. Sometimes there was a longer pause, but nobody ever rushed to break it. Rather, we would let it last and muse upon it. This way everybody seemed to be getting prepared for the night’s rest.