There aren't many cities in Mongolia, a land known for being one of the least densely populated countries on Earth. Its villages stand as symbols of isolation, scattered across a landscape of thrilling canyons, picturesque valleys, and enchanting open wilderness. When these villages were established, possibly centuries ago when the Great Khan's influence roamed the world, they chose the most captivating spots—be it a mountain spring or the Hatuzal river. Each village nestles along the verdant meadows of the desert, where the horizon is adorned with the elegant white, green, or golden-green crests of hills, cloaked in cloud covers. And at the base of these slopes, countless yaks, horses, sheep, and donkeys graze. Mongolia boasts a sheep population several times larger than its human inhabitants, and the number of horses is roughly equivalent. These creatures are the epitome of wealth and vitality for the Mongolians, embodying their very essence.

While the villages may exhibit a certain structural similarity, they each stand on divergent paths, separated by vast distances. Explaining this to an outsider proves a daunting task, for there lies immense space between each human settlement. Every village is akin to a New York or a Paris, with each "Parisian" familiar with the other, despite the mystery shrouding the origins of their births, generations back. The miles upon miles of grassy horizons stretch across undulating lands that resemble a paper desert cradling a child. And within every village, whether big or small, there's a common sight—a knee-deep canal coursing with water. The water, sourced from mountain springs, possesses an icy chill that numbs upon touch.

One day, a figure named Tan emerged in Sagan-Gol, a village nestled within a golden valley amidst the lofty Altai Mountains of Western Mongolia. An individual identifying himself by this moniker due to the distorted pronunciation of his name abroad, Tan's diary found its way into my possession. What follows is a mere excerpt from Tan's diary, a small window into his world.

-Anik

.....................

As we returned to Sagan-Gol, the sun hung low in the afternoon sky. From my vantage point atop a hill adjacent to the village, I observed Amir tending to the herds of sheep and horses, his attention divided amongst his sisters. Amir's eldest sister was of my age. In the Kazakh people, a fusion of Asian and Caucasian features is common, but in their women, the influence of the Caucasus seems particularly pronounced. However, it's nearly impossible not to perceive Miss Eileen as a true European. Amir raised his hand and waved at me, a radiant smile lighting up his face. The boys had kept me so engaged that I hadn't had a chance to converse with anyone in their household. I motioned to them and headed towards Mrs. Eicher's kitchen. A hush had settled over the village. Everyone would congregate after Maghrib.

Stepping into the kitchen, I met Mrs. Eicher's gaze. Her eyes appeared wide and awake, as if they ceaselessly absorbed every detail of their surroundings. At the sight of me, she likely remarked, "It's still too early to open the kitchen, lad. You've arrived ahead of schedule." But such matters didn't concern me. "I believe you understand Mongolian, Miss Aisha," I addressed her, consciously adopting a Western accent, employing all the Mongolian I knew. "I'm Tan. I've journeyed here from a distant land." The elderly woman regarded me with a shrewd expression, and I was quite certain she grasped my words. She continued with her work for a few more moments before commencing a conversation in Mongolian.

"You look Indian."

"Technically, you're not entirely wrong. However, my homeland isn't in modern India; it's situated next to a delta. Bangladesh. I've set out to explore the world, Grandma!" I concluded, locking eyes with her.

"Well, I stand corrected," Mrs. Aisha chuckled. It seemed that way at first, though after a while, I noticed that she didn't lack teeth—far from it. Her molars were intact even at her age. In the next moment, she handed me a bowl of besan and inquired, "Would you mind helping me, grandson? Can you cook besan?"

"Certainly, Grandma," I replied with a smile. I could already sense the type of person she was! I fetched water from the pristine pot and poured it into the besan mixture.

"I know," my newfound grandmother said, cutting horse meat with her right hand. "So, did your parents willingly let you embark on this adventure? You're quite a young lad," she remarked with a slight frown.

"No, Grandma. I ran away," I said matter-of-factly. "I'd love to hear Mongolia's tales from you."

Aisha Dadi couldn't suppress her laughter. Satisfied with my efforts, she inquired whether I had rented a jeep to navigate these remote parts and how I had reached the village that day.

"No, Grandma! I have my own set of wheels—I traverse the world on them!" I grinned, addressing Mrs. Eicher's inquisitive eyes.

"Do you mean bicycles, dear?"

"Indeed, Grandma."

"Sugar me! How much I've seen! Bicycles are precious but pricey. You're not playing a trick on me, are you?"

I merely smiled in response. In time, she recognized that I spoke the truth—there was no falsehood in my words. This is a trait that one can't learn from any source other than life experience. That's why I hold seniority in the highest regard, a quality ingrained in me for life.

"Tell me, where were you born, my dear? Cooped up in this remote expanse, one must surely feel stifled."

"Let's not discuss the old man!" I teased, mimicking her cheery tone. Her demeanor couldn't resist my lively spirit. But Aisha Dadi kept mum about her place of birth.

I was born much further west, in a small village on the shores of the Caspian Sea named Kizan. My father, much like you, had a wandering spirit. He loved to roam the lands. My mother adored him for it! The year 1958 marked the era of mass emigration from the Soviet West, during Nikita Khrushchev's rule. And my father seized the opportunity. Drawn by the allure of the eastern open desert, he embarked on a journey to Mongolia, vowing never to return to the West. Oh, the places we've been since then! We herded sheep, raised horses, tilled the land—there was no looking back. Yet, now I find myself weary of this place, passing the torch to others for this wilderness life. Oh, the memories that flood my thoughts... The old woman's voice trembled as she neared the end of her tale.

"You're absolutely right, Grandma! You hit the nail on the head!" My words nearly burst out in a shout. "Oh, how I wish I..."

"You're doing the same now," she reminded me.

A hearty laughter escaped me! Aisha Dadi was spot-on. I was indeed living out my dreams—the unending journey of destinations!

After a brief departure from Aisha Dadi, I returned following the Maghrib prayer to assist her in the kitchen. Though I'd never worked as a waiter before, I managed decently. Orders were called from all directions, people exchanged surprised glances, laughter filled the air as they observed a foreigner serving them. A particularly amusing incident occurred when Amirkhan Omarov himself sauntered in, searching for me, and entered Aisha Dadi's kitchen. He eagerly requested a plate of Manti, scanning the room as if seeking someone. As the plate was handed to him, his eyes nearly popped out of his head!

"Brother Tan, what have you done?"

Greetings, Amirkhan Omarov! Here's your order," I thought, treating him as a younger brother from the village, someone whose name I was acquainted with. Taking the plate with care, I walked away without a word, tending to another table. I glanced back and saw him sitting there, fuming, as he dove into his meal to release his frustration. An hour and a half later, as the commotion subsided and the guests trickled out, only Amir Khan remained. I still couldn't fathom why Tan Bhai had orchestrated this. After the first time, he didn't place any more orders for food.

Glancing towards that corner from the kitchen, I whispered to Aisha Dadi, "My friend is eagerly awaiting his meal. We want to hear your youthful tales—that's my fee for the day." With a warm smile, she presented an enormous bowl of her finest kebabs and a generous serving of Kurdak, deep-fried beef generously seasoned with dried spices and onions. The aroma was mouthwatering, instantly whetting the appetite! Delicately, I carried the dishes, one by one, to the table where Amir sat. Laughter reached his ears.

"I knew it! I knew it would be like this, so I stayed put!" The Kazakh teenager's grin was mischievous.

"Excellent!" I slapped his shoulder heartily. "You've promised us Aisha Dadi's stories—how could I leave without hearing those? Isn't that right, Grandma?"

"When did she become your grandmother?" he teased.

"Earlier today," I replied with a grin.

Aisha, my newfound grandmother of just a few hours, smiled fondly. Nestling beside a cozy fire pit, sheltered by a large stone boulder from the biting cold wind, I eagerly listened to the captivating tales of the Mongolian nomads. Dadi recounted her experiences with such emotion that even Amir was captivated. How many stories she spun for us until late into the night!

"The Mongolian railway is under construction," she began. "When my father used to fish by the shores of the Caspian Sea, he had the fortunate opportunity to work on the extended section of the Trans-Siberian. It was a means to earn money when he first set foot in this country. I recall how our carriage snaked along the railway tracks like a serpent in motion. Our small family of three was scarcely settled for more than a month at a time. By 1961, when the railway was finally complete, my father abandoned all uncertainty and invested in five hundred sheep and three hundred goats. He established himself in an unknown valley amidst the Khenti Mountains of northeastern Mongolia. Yet, our residence changed within six months. Frustrated by the intense cold, my father decided that ranching was better suited to the warmer lands of the south! It was in the Gobi Desert that my family welcomed its youngest member, my only brother. Sadly, our mother passed away just a year later due to an illness. Thus began my brother's life, marked by struggle alongside our father."

One day, Aisha Dadi's father made a decision. He resolved that it wasn't right for his children to grow up without a mother's care. Considering their welfare, he embarked on a journey, visiting a nomadic village. There, they traded their flock of sheep and goats for horses and yaks—creatures hardier and more suitable for traveling. The village welcomed them with open arms, unconcerned about Kazakh identity or religion. In due course, the Jabishek family's home moved from place to place within the village, spanning various regions. The village's wealth lay in its thousands of sheep, goats, horses, and yaks. Over time, Aisha adjusted well to her new environment. Her days were spent learning sewing, cooking, and even singing from the village's women. But the quiet grandmother playfully remarked that these were just words—most of her time was occupied with bonding and mischief alongside her friends.

No child was granted a pony until the age of twelve. Aisha Dadi was merely eleven then—why the exception? Occasionally, she and her dearest friend, Alta, would embark on walking expeditions along the village's riverbanks or trek through distant hills. The memory of Alta stirred grandmother's heart as she spoke, her eyes gleaming with fond recollections. As soon as they were old enough to own a pony, they would journey to visit friends in the nearby area. Groups of girls, just taught how to write by the village elders, exchanged letters with newfound friends. Interestingly, the letter-writer and the messenger happened to be the same person—their small village didn't boast the luxury of a postman! The popularity of this venture in Kishoremahal was evident; Aisha and Alta often had to conceal their letter exchanges to evade unwanted attention. At one point, their covert operation became so renowned that they had to go into hiding, giggling at the thought.

However, a cloud of melancholy descended as Aisha Dadi spoke about Alta. The somber tone in her voice indicated a shift in their story. Alta's heart had suddenly been captured by a young rancher from Salenjpar. He openly admitted it, without a hint of shame. Selenge, the nomadic village, hosted the couple during one of its transient spring visits. And so, Aisha-Alta's companionship came to an end like a chapter in a century-old tome. Aisha Dadi experienced waves of jealousy, seeing Alta grow so close to a stranger. She forgot her cherished friend, consumed by her own insecurities. Yet, instead of resolving the tension, grandmother orchestrated their marriage, swiftly obtaining Alta's father's consent. Unable to keep his daughter any longer, Alta's father arranged her departure to the south before summer's arrival. The village's norm of casual marriage ceremonies accommodated Aisha and Alta's arrangement.

For the first time in her life, Aisha Dadi felt profoundly alone. Without a proper farewell to her dearest friend, she joined a caravan heading south. Fate had an ironic twist—Aisha encountered Alta just eight days later. Yet, Alta's voice was no more. The reason behind her dear friend's silence remained a mystery. At this juncture, a realization struck me with intensity. Various fragments of information that had been floating in my mind coalesced into a coherent picture.

"Grandma, was your friend's name Altentsetseg?" I murmured, my voice low.

"How did you know?" Grandma smiled knowingly.

"Did you ever meet Otgonbayar, Alta Dadi's husband?"

"How do you know his name?" Grandma appeared taken aback.

"Did you ever meet him again?"

"I never saw him again, but I heard about him."

Bayer's grandfather still lives on that ranch. He never married, and he chose to remain in Selengpar village, departing from his family. He grew successful, achieving greatness in some way. The ranch, though sizable, remains impoverished. Do you know the ranch's name? It's Altentsetseg. Grandfather holds deep affection for grandmother, still cherishing memories of her. He spent years alone until four years ago when a foreign girl became lost on his ranch. Now, they are companions—two souls intertwined. Lastly, I worked as a foreman there this spring.

Aisha Dadi fell silent for a moment, perhaps contemplating the past. "I knew Mongolia was vast. But, so small, too," she uttered with a smile.

"The world is indeed small, Grandma! We, humans, make it seem larger than it is," I said, letting my thoughts flow freely. "Where did you lay Alta Dadi to rest? Could you tell me? You can't imagine how much joy it would bring to Grandfather, if you know, Grandma!"

"I can do that. But you surprise me. I've heard many negative things about Otgonbayer. Are you absolutely certain we're talking about the same person?"

"Absolutely certain," I replied, lowering my head. "But what are you saying?"

"While it's all rumors, Tan, believe me, the things I've heard can't be far off."

"Will you also listen to my story?" Batsaikhan's face flashed in my mind, his intense hatred for Grandfather remained unspoken.

"Do you know anything about the Brotherhood of the North?"

"I don't know anything."

"Hmm..." Grandma contemplated, then smiled at Amir. "Your father will come and give him a good thrashing! Why aren't you asleep yet?"

"Alright, alright, I'm off to bed, with or without Tan brother!...Tan brother, don't leave me out, I want to hear the story too!" Amir, the Kazakh boy, yawned widely. Grandma and I exchanged a knowing laugh. Amir, after hearing enough tales, couldn't stay awake any longer. He urged me to return soon before retiring to his own room.

The surroundings were enveloped in stillness. The fire crackled, its warmth contrasting with the frigid Mongolian air that seemed to explode like a bomb in my ears. I pulled the Atosato coat a little tighter around me, feeling its warmth embrace me. Sleep had abandoned Aisha Dadi's eyes. No one in the village stayed awake past eight in the evening. Yet, grandmother had promised.

Winters near the Russian border were unforgiving. The region around Lake Khuvshgul, along with a few adjacent villages and the highlands west of the lake, lay barren except for the reindeer tribe. But there was something else, something hidden from plain sight—a stronghold of the Brotherhood. A worldwide organization with seemingly boundless influence, they had their hands in anything remotely related to money. Their empire extended from Europe to both Eastern and Western parts of the globe. They held sway where money flowed. They funded causes, commanded respect, and played a role in ensuring people's safety. They engaged in activities ranging from trafficking women's bodies, weapons, drugs, to money laundering, human trafficking, housing, alcohol, and transportation. There was no money-making venture that remained untouched by their influence. Surprisingly, they were respected by common folk, for only a handful knew of their true identity. And those who did, either continued to exist in the world or ceased to exist at all. Both were valid options.

"Mafia," I whispered, the word severed by the cold air.

"Russian mafia," Aisha Dadi corrected me slightly. "Their realm stretches along the northern border of Mongolia."

"Are you going to tell me now, Bayar Dadu?" My voice was hoarse.

Aisha Dadi smiled. "You're quite fond of Dadu, aren't you, Tan?"

"That's how our relationship was, Grandmother."

"And that's what matters, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. But you can tell me anything, Grandma. I won't be upset."

"You don't need to worry about that, Tan. Just listen to what I'm about to say. Whatever they gained from their business with the neighboring ranches, their ultimate weapon was Bayer. Maybe one winter, all the neighbor's horses would die, and come spring, Bayer would share his horses with them. But that year, some unknown force would sweep across the neighbor's fields, destroying their crops. And wherever Bayer's horse teams went, they returned with prosperity. Those suffering from their own mishaps would turn to Bayer for a loan, rather than engage in another deal. Bayer would oblige. But this cycle was never-ending. All the ranchers in the vicinity would suffer losses, yet they wouldn't want to resort to swarbas either. At some point in the cycle, their luck would turn. Good days would come, followed by adversity once more. How many ranchers could Bayer help? He had to step back. So Bayer would assist them when they, in turn, aided him—by providing labor for his 'business,' or by charging interest. He singlehandedly drove the local economy."

Aisha Dadi fell silent for a moment. He clenched his teeth briefly, then gazed at me, lost in thought. But you've planted a new thought in my mind. He established a ranch in their kingdom. And what about his family? Did they all leave him? I don't buy that. Do you think Bayer could've avoided trouble? I believe he was coerced. Alta's people shouldn't be overlooked for identification, even though that was years, years later. Who knows, perhaps the story of his solitude is even more tragic—an idea I'll share with you! Life isn't linear; what you see isn't always what remains unseen. Perhaps that's the essence of it all. Remember that, Tan.

"Of course, Grandma! I firmly believe Bayer Dadu couldn't have committed such a heinous act."

"That's your perspective on the world, Tan. Always maintain that outlook. Shun negativity for as long as you can, unless circumstances compel you otherwise. When the realm of optimistic minds diminishes, darkness gains ground. I'll always adhere to this belief, Tan."

"I'll do that, Grandma." A sigh escaped my nostrils, lengthy and contemplative.

Aisha Dadi gazed at me and smiled. Then, in a voice reminiscent of my grandmother's, he said, "Would you like more to eat?"

"I will eat, but not today. I'm quite sleepy now."

"Don't leave Grandma's house tonight."

"Alichacha will be waiting for me."

"Exactly! Alright then, go. Come back tomorrow. Don't worry, I won't keep you up late tomorrow..."

"Don't say that! I'll see if you can chase me out of the kitchen."

"Deal!" The old woman's smile was comforting.

The next day, I assisted Aisha Dadi. We engaged in conversation, although I had to initiate it this time. No one had ever inquired as my grandmother had after hearing my story. She asked, "Do you ever wish to get married and have a family, Tan?"

"Very much, Grandma. Believe me, even though I don't have a wife, my heart is full of love for her. But no one knows. I pretend to be indifferent and stay quiet."

"Who would marry you? You're too keen on flying."

"Someone very special, Grandma! And even then, for her to be my wife, she has to be exceptionally special. But you know what? I'll recognize her as soon as I see her—the princess destined to be my queen."

"Bold words," Aisha Dadi looked at me wide-eyed. "How could a nomad like you have such a romantic heart?"

"What can I say, grandmother! How much I long to transform from a prince into a king when I say it! But the thing in this case is that I find more excitement in something else. That's what I'm doing right now. Sitting in the open wilderness of Mongolia, talking to you—it's a place I had never laid eyes on just two days ago, yet it feels like home now. I don't have a younger brother, but it's as if I've known Amirkhan Omarov since his birth, as if my grandmother appeared out of thin air and became you."

"Hmm, your heart isn't just filled with love! You're... well... crazy!"

"Poco Loco!" I grinned.

"What's that?"

"Oh, Grandma, that's Spanish!... Well, Grandma, have I ever told you about Margarita Alvarez?"

"No! Who is she?"

"The most intelligent, beautiful, soft-hearted, brave, and good girl in the world."

"Oh!" My grandmother shot me a narrow-eyed look.

In the midst of our shared chuckles, I managed to rein in my runaway heart. Margarita Alvarez was, in truth, a character from a novel I had come across as a child. I still held a soft spot for her. The sadness was that I cherished her so deeply, yet this love couldn't be conveyed to her—not at all! Do you know why? Because she resided in a world I couldn't penetrate. What a helpless sensation that is, isn't it, grandma?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two years old."

"Do you know how old I am? Seventy-two. What are you hiding from me? But I won't press you. I understand your mindset. Listen, sometimes weighing the unbearable costs can motivate us to make every necessary effort to lessen those costs. Just follow your heart's deepest desires, nothing else! Okay? Because more often than not, a person's heart speaks the truth."

"Okay, grandma!"

Aisha Dadi was like that—a wise figure. The Witch Lady of Mongolia had grown surprisingly familiar to me.

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