My uncle worked at nights. I hadn't seen him at the desk writing. But when I woke up at nights, I saw him strolling up and down a room; I heard the voice coming from his room. Sometimes I heard him playing the kamancha: he could play the kamancha, and well enough.

Sometimes we organized concerts at home. Anvar played the clarinet, uncle - the kamancha, Midhat -the tar. From time to time, Khan Shushinski visited us.

My uncle was a very considerate and careful man. I remember an incident even today: the wind broke the electric power line in the street, and I received an electric shock...My uncle wasn't told about it; that time he was in Borjomi on his holidays. I didn't know how, but he heard about it. It developed that a newspaper had published about that incident in its event chronicle, and as soon as my uncle read about it, he came back at once. How he scolded us if you could imagine!..

His lovely word was 'you know'. When he inhibited us from doing something, he used to say: 'You know, it is impossible!' And we liked to repeat that phrase. And we got so used to it so much that once someone while speaking Russian used that phrase in Azerbaijani. And my uncle got very angry then; he couldn't stomach a mixed speech: he requested us to speak either perfect Russian or perfect Azerbaijani.

In those times, the editorial office of 'Molla Nasreddin' journal was at my uncle's house. We - the children were helping to pack the journal; we were gluing the packages of the new issued journal. We were proud of doing it; we boasted of addresses that we had put on the packages: Iran, Tiflis, Kazan. My uncle was in earnest about our work; who demonstrated particular zeal, he valued him more and sometimes gave a small amount of money.

I remember once we travelled to Zagatala with my uncle. It was a long way to drive; it seemed as if the road were endless. At last we arrived. I didn't know the reason, but we didn't go to a hotel, we stayed at a house for the night. I was so tired I remembered only the road...

Some years later when I read Mirza Jalil's story, "A pair of pillow", I remembered our travel to Zagatala...

The story starts with a sentence: "On August 23, I was informed that exams at Zagatala pedagogical college were to start soon. Therefore on August 24, I took my daughter and came to Yevlakh station." Later I read about how the lady of the house had put my uncle, very old man then, and his daughter down for spouse, and made a bed with two pillows.

It was a tradition of that time!

That girl was I...

Aunt Pakiza talked too much about herself and about the great writer. While listening to her I thought: in life moments, in an ordinary incident there is too much sense, and not only names, dates and main historical events should be remembered; the past consists of convincing, alive details as well.

History is revived, kept in souls only in this way...