Fazliddin Muhammadiev
Journey to the Other World, or the Tale of the Great Hajj
On the turboprop air giant, we are heading on a pilgrimage.
We are eighteen people. Seventeen clerics - mullahs, imams, mudarrises, khatibs, mutavallis, and the eighteenth - I, your obedient servant, a general practitioner, as the proverb says, a dead man among the dead.
Every year, on the Eid al-Adha holiday, a group of Muslims from the Soviet Union leaves for Mecca and Medina to cleanse themselves of sins in the homeland of the prophet, gain savab and return in the high rank of aji.
Pilgrims are usually accompanied by a doctor who monitors their health, but this time, like a roofer who covers someone else's roof, but his own is leaking, he fell ill, and the honor of accompanying our prominent Muslims to the land of the prophet fell on me. Our fellow travelers were Chinese circus performers flying on tour to Sudan, many foreigners, among whom were Sudanese, as well as Soviet specialists heading to Cairo.
IL-18 took off from the Sheremetyevsky airfield late at night and soon gained a height of ten thousand meters. Through the portholes, only the black sky, dotted with stars, is visible. Israfil, a mutawalli from Bashkiria, sits next to me.
During the five days that the future hajis spent in Moscow waiting for their flight, Israfil and I became close.
- What's your name, doctor? he asked on the first day.
“Kurban,” I answered.
- Kurban... Kurban... They gave you a good name. In honor of the holiday. Easy to remember. My name is Israfil.
“It’s also a famous name,” I answered courtesy for courtesy. - In honor of the most venerable archangel Israfil, who one fine morning will awaken all the servants of God with a trumpet voice and announce the beginning of the day of judgment.
Mutawalli nodded and smiled.
“It turns out that there are swollen states in the heavenly office,” I thought. “The most venerable archangel has been wandering around idle for millions of years in order to blow his karnai once on the day of the last judgment.”
Powerful motors hum monotonously. The friendly flight attendants, having finished their business, went on vacation. Plafonds are off. The interior is in twilight.
Passengers sleep peacefully in their chairs. The head of our group, together with an interpreter, is in another cabin, which is considered more comfortable. I will say without exaggeration that I have flown IL-18 and TU-104 at least a hundred times, but on domestic airlines the seats were not divided into the best and the worst. Only women with children and the sick were given more comfortable places. And now, even though we are flying on our Soviet plane, the cabins are divided into first and second classes. First class, of course, is more expensive. The hum of engines is less heard there, and its passengers have the right to take heavier suitcases with them than we second-graders. Nothing to do about. The flight is foreign, and this, apparently, is a concession to foreign traditions.
The motors are humming. Passengers recline their seats and sleep. Israfil peers into the darkness of the outboard for some time, but soon falls asleep too. I have a bad nature - I can not sleep in the air, for the life of me. It's good that the planes began to fly fast. Seven or eight years ago, a flight from Dushanbe to Moscow took about two days, including frequent stops here for refueling and crew changes. Arriving in Moscow, your obedient servant, instead of immediately getting down to business, visiting friends for whom his soul yearned, or simply wandering around his favorite streets and squares, curled up in a hotel room to refresh his head, which had become stupefied from insomnia.
Well, now it's for the best. I have been assigned to look after the health of my companions. True, they went through a thorough medical checkup, they were vaccinated against all kinds of epidemics - smallpox, cholera, plague, tropical malaria, which still occasionally flare up abroad, but nevertheless one must be on the alert.
It has long been known that every follower of Muhammad dreams at least once during his earthly life to see sacred places with his own eyes, and the one who, due to illness or exhaustion, expires on the threshold of God's temple, is revered as a servant of God specially marked by Allah and almost not a saint.
What if, I thought in those days when I had not yet met my future companions, one of them fooled the doctors around their fingers and for a great life, not being healthy, passed a medical examination ?! Does it not happen in our practice that we put our highly esteemed seal on sick leave or on a ticket to a sanatorium for people who can turn a stone mountain into sand with one blow of their fist?!
Two rows ahead of me with a whistling and gurgling, echoing the rumble of engines, sleeps, gleaming bald head, the venerable Mullah Nariman. If I were a doctor in the city where this venerable servant of Allah lives, I would not only go to Saudi Arabia, but even on an ordinary tourist trip around my native land, I would not let him in on a cannon shot. Mulla Nariman's heart resembles an overripe tomato - touch it with the tip of your little finger, and ... You don't need to explain what will happen next.
In Moscow, we all lived in a hotel not far from VDNKh, on the right side of Prospekt Mira. On the second day, recognizing each other by beards, turbans and robes and getting to know each other, seven or eight future hajjis gathered in someone's room to talk about the ailments suffered by each of them ...
Taking advantage of this, your obedient servant began to fulfill his duties - according to appearance he determined the state of health of his wards, entered into a notebook first impressions, as well as names, age and brief information about the possible ailments of each of them.
Suddenly, the floor attendant ran in and, choking with excitement, asked:
- Where is the doctor? Your comrade feels bad ... He is there, in the room, poor fellow ...
Mulla Nariman was sprawled on the bed in a semi-conscious state. His weak heart fluttered like the heart of a dove. I ordered the pilgrims who came running after me to open the windows wide open. One of them, younger, while I was examining the patient, ran away and brought a suitcase with my medical attributes. Half an hour after the injection, the soul of Mulla Nariman returned to the body and, rising in bed, he began to make a speech.
“Dear sirs,” the most respected mullah deigned to say. For several seconds he looked at us, wondering if it was possible to talk in the same spirit, and finally deciding that it was possible, he continued: “Lord, for joy I don’t know what to say. No, don't mind, I don't know. My spirit ascended to the seventh heaven at the sight of my companions on this holy journey. The servants of God are innumerable, but such an honor does not fall to the lot of everyone. No, don't mind, not everyone gets it.
I was dumbfounded. Does this person with such a weak heart really intend to make a difficult and tedious journey?!
“Mr. Doctor,” he turned to me, reading the bewilderment on my face, “you must know that I come from a spiritual family, from a family of true Khojas, that is, seventy generations of my ancestors were Khojas. Believe the word, Nariman is strong as a horse and healthy as a bull! No, don't mind like a bull!
I wanted to protest against addressing me with the word "master", but the mullah's manner of expressing himself so dumbfounded me that I forgot about my intention.
On that day, the future pilgrims were briefly told about the United Arab Republic, the Republic of Sudan and Saudi Arabia, where we were on our way, and during the conversation we made it clear that all those who go abroad, including members of the clergy who go on pilgrimage, do not must forget that they are citizens of the Soviet Union and behave worthy of this title.
I saw fit to report on the state of health of Mulla Nariman, expressing my surprise that such a sick man was allowed to undertake such a difficult journey. Kori-aka, the head of our group, supported me, suggesting that, while there was still time, the Moscow doctors examined the most respected mullah and expressed their opinion. But then the mullah, jumping up from his seat and shaking his long arms in the air, and rolling his huge eyes in all directions, ardently announced that he came from an ancient and famous family, that seventy generations of his ancestors were Khojas, and that Mulla Nariman was able to accomplish not only one trip to these countries, but also a hundred times around the world. And whoever wants to interfere with his lofty thoughts and noble intentions, let him not see a single have a good day and in this and in the next world and forever and ever experiences unheard-of torment. No, no, don't mind, he finished his speech, unheard of torment...
… Someone touched my shoulder and interrupted my thoughts.
- Dokhtur-jan, let's smoke.
This fat man, Urok-aka, the khatib of the mosque in the city of M., has been sharing my cigarettes with me for five days now.
Once I bought a couple of cakes in a candy store near work. One for myself, the second for my husband Grisha. But she could not resist, she ate both on the way home. For which she paid. At night, my stomach ached terribly, I began to feel nauseous. “Poisoned,” she thought. “No wonder the cream seemed sour.”
Nothing to do - went to wash the stomach. I drank two liters of water, hugged the toilet for more than an hour, but instead of relief, I felt even worse. “You need to lie down in a warm bath,” the husband advised. They say it helps. My husband is great! It is 100% easy and free with him.
No sooner said than done. I lay down for half an hour in hot water, I feel: it’s not good at all, it’s unbearable. She called Gregory and asked:
“Grish, call an ambulance, or I won’t live to see the morning.”
The husband plopped down on his knees, stroking my hand:
Katyuh, don't die! I can't do without you! And I already have circles before my eyes.
- That's it, - I whisper, - Grishenka ... Forgive me, farewell, I'm waiting for you in the next world!
Really said goodbye. The ambulance managed to deliver me alive to the hospital. And immediately into the operating room. Surgeons, nurses - everyone is running around, fussing. “No, more angels will wait,” I think. Now I'm in good hands...
Before I had time to think it out, I heard the anesthesiologist say: “Doctor, we have problems. Her pulse slows down." I was frightened, I opened my eyes, and for some reason I see the back of the surgeon instead of the face. Looked out from behind her. Dear mother! So here I am, lying on the operating table! Only with a face mask. Meanwhile, the doctor commands: “Don't panic, we will resuscitate. Get your defibrillator ready."
Realizing what they were going to do with me, I wanted to scream: “Don’t!”, but I was sharply pulled down and began to be pulled into some kind of funnel. Oops! — and found herself in total darkness. Then a blur appeared below...
"Hell! - I decided. “Is it there?” I wanted to yell “Help!”, but then for some reason I realized that nothing threatened me, and I felt an unusual lightness. I relaxed, I flew into the light ... Finally, the flight slowed down, and it was as if I was enveloped in warmth. She calmed down, heard someone quietly calling: “Katya ... Katyusha ...” She looked around: a woman was standing, all in white. I took a closer look and how I scream:
- Aunt Lyuda, is that you?!
“I, niece,” the late aunt smiled back. And her face is kind, kind, already glowing. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, “you are an accidental guest here. Your time has not come, now you will go back.
- Back? I asked. And she has tears in her eyes.
- Ofcourse honey. But it's time for my Yegorushka
to pack. — Uncle Egor? Why?
“His time has come. Only there is nothing wrong with that. I know for sure: he will get here, to me. And we will never part with him again.
“You have to,” I yelled. - And today I blurted out to Grishka that I was waiting for him in the next world!
"Hurry up," the aunt smiled. - You and Grisha still have to live and give birth to children. You will have two of them, boys. Now come back and don't look back. Promise?
“I promise…” I replied and suddenly felt a sharp pain.
She opened her eyes. Lying in a hospital bed with a nurse next to me. He speaks:
- Well, Katherine! This OK need to, so people frightened!
- How? she croaked.
— How than? You were clinically dead. Barely pumped out!
- From poisoning?
What kind of poisoning? The appendix burst! Peritonitis has begun.
- Horror! And where is my husband?
- Sleeping in the lobby.
"I'm sorry I'm sleeping," I thought. - I have such news! I’ll tell you this - they won’t believe it! ”
And I didn't believe it. Not about my aunt, not about her predictions. A week later Uncle Yegor died. From a heart attack. Then I had a dream, as if my uncle and aunt were hugging under a flowering apple tree. Why would?
Many do not think that in Heaven we will have to face all our sins. Therefore, they lead an idle, wild life, not thinking especially about their own actions, not trying to change something, and, worst of all, they manage not only their own lives, but also someone else's.It is quite possible that the Orthodox documentary "Message from Heaven" will help many to rethink their lives. Its author is Galina Tsareva, but "Message from Heaven" is only an excerpt from the director's full-length documentary work "Memory of Death".
The main character of this film is a woman who survived clinical death. It is not known what we will have to meet in heaven, but this woman met her aborted child there, and communicated with him. Which proves that death after an abortion is as terrible as death after birth, and a child in the mother's womb is a person who can feel. The film "Message from the Other World" is designed to teach all living people to remember that every deed will have to be answered in heaven, and to tell women that any child is a gift from God, which is not given to everyone. And to accept this gift means to demonstrate your true faith, courage and wisdom, because women are not created to kill, but to give life.
Death is always scary, because it means that the end has come. But what about people who have seen the other side with their own eyes? Clinically, they have been dead for varying amounts of time, whether it be a few seconds or five minutes. They saw the other side. For some it was bliss, for others it was horror.
1. Peaceful silence
Some people tend to experience incredible peace and tranquility during near-death experiences, others experience the worst pain. This story is about a young man who accidentally injured his femoral artery at work. He remembers that the blood flowed and did not stop, and after a while, darkness fell. But this darkness did not frighten the guy, but instead brought calm and peace, because the wound stopped hurting, and everything became fine exactly until the moment he returned to reality. The young man experienced crazy pain that remained with him for a long time, but he remembered the darkness and calmness that reigned in her for the rest of his life.2. Life after death is just emptiness
The black void is what causes people the most anxiety. Many believe that the afterlife includes happiness in heaven, and of course, this is a very rosy assumption. But the afterlife can be boring. What if it's absolute nothing? It is this emptiness that one person tells us about, who was inflicted 32 stab wounds, after which he was left to die. It is undoubtedly a miracle that he survived at all after such a thing. However, before continuing his life, he had to endure three days in a colossal void. It was a complete vacuum in which his consciousness “floated”. There was no pain and fear, there was nothing. This is how he described his experience in a coma. 3. Hell is an endless hall of mirrors
Hell can be imagined different variations: flames, torture, aimless wanderings, cauldrons, demons, and so on. But the man who died on the operating table had a completely different vision. This man had open heart surgery during which it stopped. Of course, the doctors immediately began to resuscitate the patient, but while resuscitation continued, the person experienced something terrible. Later, he said that he had been in a real hell. There was no flame, no devil, no torture, but there was a huge hall with mirrors. He tried to get through them and find a way out, but he couldn't find it. The mirrors were endless. 4. Guardian angel
Accidents happen when you least expect it. The person in question was in a terrible accident. He crashed on a motorcycle and lay on the roadway, bleeding. When the forces almost left him, he saw how a woman dressed in all white approached him, knelt down and began to calm him down. The woman said that everything would be fine and that he did not need to be afraid. In the end, the motorcyclist was saved by doctors. When he woke up in the hospital, he immediately began to ask about this woman, but the ambulance team that arrived at the scene said that there was no woman near him, and ambulance called two men who stopped near the scene of the accident. 5. Wandering around the field
According to the Bible, hell is the place where rivers of sulfur rage, the earth burns with eternal fire and sinners scream. Some people who have actually been dead for a certain amount of time claim to have visited such places. One such person is Angie Fenimore, who claims to have been in her own hell. Fenimore says that first she saw her life flash before her eyes. Then she quickly moved to a more foggy field, where there were a lot of people. One of them told her: “You must be suicidal,” but Angie replied that she did not want to talk to him about this topic. She described this huge field as very gray and dull. It was full of people talking to themselves and just wandering around.
Vladimir Kunin
Journey to the next world
It all started back when God knows...
In those wonderful and forever remained in the history of Russia Soviet times when, as a result of the caring and wise decision of the party and government in our entire vast country - "... from the southern mountains to northern seas... "- the lines for vodka jumped along the length of the famous Moscow mausoleum lines, curling like a gloomy giant anaconda along Red Square - from the entrance to the tomb of the leader of the world proletariat and further, along the Kremlin wall, right up to the middle of the Alexander Garden. And already there, the tail of this falsely mournful provincial reptile was lost in the thicket of the near-Kremlin oak forests and incorruptible police outfits of that time ...
* * *In this landmark year for the whole country, screenwriter Sergei Alexandrovich Martov was sitting forty kilometers from Leningrad, on the shores of the Gulf of Finland, in the village of Repino, among sand and pines, fearless squirrels and careful hedgehogs, at the end of the street with the ancient name - Novaya, in the House of Creativity of the Union of Cinematographers of the USSR.
He sat on the second atage in his permanent room number thirty-two and played with the next amendments to his next script.
In this craft, Sergei Alexandrovich was an experienced person.
By the time of the decision on the forcible introduction of a sober lifestyle into the consciousness of a Soviet person, according to the scripts of Sergei Alexandrovich, a dozen and a half large feature films and about thirty short documentaries had already been made.
All these scripts, as well as two books and one piece (according to his own film script) were composed and written by Martov in Repino, in this House, in his thirty-second issue. He came here every year and sat here nonstop for five months. And even more.
Martov wrote only one script in Bolshevo - the House of Creativity near Moscow. Leningradsko-Repinsky was under repair that year. In Bolshevo, Martov yearned for Repino, and his work there was hard, tedious and clumsy...
The picture in this scenario turned out to be more than mediocre. The commonplace consolation of any playwright that, they say, "in the beginning was the word ..." and this "word" was simply mediocrely read by the stage director, did not save him from insults and humiliations, with which Martov had worked himself up to failure. This he was excellent at doing.
Already after the picture was released on the screen, Martov somehow re-read that script of his near Moscow and realized that the writing was somehow weak.
“I don’t breed in captivity,” Martov thought then. “I won’t stick my nose out of Repino again!” And since then, even for Mosfilm, he wrote scripts only in the Leningrad House of Creativity. in Repino.
In summer, he fed the familiar brave squirrel Frosya, who impudently jumped to his balcony from a closely overhanging tree branch and ate right from his hands, and in winter, to his misfortune, he brought in a gang of impudent and thieving tits. The tits didn't give a damn about the knock typewriter, they were not afraid of a damn thing, they flew into the room through the open window, pecked at everything that was edible, poked and pulled cigarettes, and sometimes pooped on the manuscript, not at all embarrassed by the presence of its author.
Martov was forty-seven. Once he married Yulenka Kosich, a young ballerina from the Maly Opera House. And a few years later, on a film expedition in Altai, where a picture was shot according to his script, he started a crazy affair with a Polish actress and, returning to Leningrad, confessed everything to his wife.
It will be more honest that way,” said Martov then, inwardly admiring his own decency. - Naturally, I leave the apartment to you, but the car ... Do you mind?
Well, what are you talking about! Yulenka sobbed.
It was about the latest model of the forty-three-horsepower "Zaporozhets", which at that time in poor cinematic circles had the status of today's, frankly, not the most expensive "Mercedes".
The divorce proceeded quietly and elegantly, without mutual claims and property disputes, to the undisguised sympathy of the entire staff of the People's Court of the Vyborgsky District of the city of Leningrad.
A couple of weeks later, Yulenka left with the theater on tour to France, and stayed there. Forever and ever.
Martov's burning romance with the Polish actress somehow dried up on its own and gently dissolved in the daily bustle of life. Moreover, immediately after Yulenka's escape, a categorical ban on "competent authorities" on any foreign trips of the ex-husband of the former artist of the Maly Theater Kosich Yu.I. followed. - a respected member of the Union of Cinematographers and the Union of Writers of the USSR, laureate of the State Prize, screenwriter Martov S.A.
Three years later, by the titanic efforts of two creative unions, this ban was lifted from Martov, and Sergei Alexandrovich again began to travel to all sorts of foreign countries, but since then, and in the future, he has never experienced even the slightest desire to somehow change his personal existence. . Unless he changed the "Zaporozhets" to the "Zhiguli" of the third model. And after a couple of years he moved to the "nine". That's all the changes.
From time to time, various young ladies of student size appeared around him, and then the main thing for Martov was to make sure that these girls reached a normal sexually mature - "usable" age, and not a criminally punishable, puppy. For the rapid acceleration of the last two decades of the last century could mislead even a very experienced walker...
* * *So, our first Character of that distant time is presented - forty-seven-year-old, childless, single and quite successful screenwriter Sergei Aleksandrovich Martov.
All by science. Simultaneously with the introduction of the Character of the initial part of this story...
The Time of Action is also indicated. The era of that time: an unforgettable sovereign decree on the dangers of drunkenness, which immediately gave the Soviet people a grandiose jump in well-being due to a sharp increase in the production of fusel moonshine in all regions of our vast country. Now all strata of Soviet society were happily engaged in its manufacture - from the eternally drunk stokers of suburban boiler houses to moderately drinking full members of the Academy of Sciences. Moreover, the academicians made moonshine much better than the stokers did ...
According to the same unshakable canons of plot construction, the place of action of the beginning of this story is named - the former Finnish resort of Kuokkala, since 1939 renamed the Soviet village of Repino. Novaya Street, 2, House of Creativity of the Leningrad Branch of the Union of Cinematographers of the USSR, second floor, at the end of the corridor, room No. 32...
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