Чайхана

It smells of green tea, road dust, and sweet smoke that lazily curls under the ceiling. Time does not pass here - it is scattered across pillows, drinking from bowls and listening to music that plays not for the stage, but to allow the soul to relax a little. All around is laughter, tired eyes, and that rare peace when everything is simple: someone pours tea, someone sings along, someone is silent, but together.

And it seems as if the whole East fits into this circle - with the moon, without which the sky is not the sky, and with the teahouse, without which life is not life. Everything else is vanity. And here - warm steam above the bowl, the ringing of strings, and the eternal “pour.”