During the Soviet era, I had a friend named Zhenya, who fell out of the standard at the time. Therefore, he had all sorts of nicknames, of which I remembered three: Grandfather, Yoga and a colleague. He was then a relatively young man, but wearing a large, half-gray beard like Tolstoy’s. And in general, it resembled Leo Nikolaevich with a strong fold, a nose of potatoes and thick hanging eyebrows. He also possessed the gift, characteristic for most of the very old people, to talk to everyone on an equal footing, without offending anyone or offending himself. Probably because of the combination of these qualities and attached to him the nickname "Dad".

My wife and I had a common interest in Eastern philosophy. But I did not advance further than the dry theory, and Zhenya practiced the Tibetan Yoga of Inner Fire or Tummo. Externally, this was expressed in the fact that he was walking all year round in old twisted Wrangler jeans, a T-shirt or a lightweight canvas jacket and never wore shoes. Sometimes, you go around the city in the winter and see: Zhenya stands immersed in himself in a row for cabbage cakes, and around his pink feet, snow is slowly melting. The line usually noticed this deviation from the norm when there were three people behind him, and was always excited. People quietly pushed each other and pointed their fingers at the Bride. People simply fell into a stupor, not believing their eyes. Particularly impressive ladies could not withstand and left, unable to watch such self-harassment. Serious men asked to call the police. And necessarily in the line was a literate who loudly and meaningfully pronounced the word "Yog!" At the same time, everyone calmed down and began to discuss what the Indian yogis can and can’t do. And Zhenya was already away, chewing the cake melancholy. Therefore, it was known to the citizens precisely under the name “Yog”. From those distant years I have only one black-and-white wedding photo. You can see it at http://abrp722.livejournal.com/ in my home.

I myself then worked as a patent practitioner at an academic institute, where even in times of dry law, state alcohol was poured, if not by a river, then by a full-water stream. But patents, as it is easy to guess, no one was invited to this celebration. Therefore, in case of urgent need, I flocked through the dirty congested courtyard into experimental production to the site where liquid helium is made. Alcohol was always there, and the head of the site, named Tola and named Barin, was my friend. On another such visit, I open the door and see Jenny. Well, I think our regiment arrived! I ask :
- How long have you been here?
So long ago, almost a month ago.
“Listen,” I say, “I changed the Dhammapada in the House of Books. If you are interested, come to the new building on the second floor, ask where the patents are. Let me see!
And I step straight to the "chamber" of Tallinn, from the window of which he is currently observing the order on the site.

Tola opens the safe, pouches an elite rectangle into my hammer and is interested:
How do you know your colleague?
I am married? by the books. Why a colleague? He is a grandfather or yoga, well, maybe a beard.
- Remember, - begins Tola, and his eyes suddenly become sad, - two weeks ago there was the vice-president of the Academy of Sciences. The director, as appropriate, led him through the institute. The urine hit them in the head to enter my area. Sannych opens the door, leaves the guest forward, and the switches throw from behind. And right in front of the door, in a scattered sold chair, Zhenya sits barefoot and smokes whitewash. Well, the academics got a little hurried, stopped. And Zhenya encouraged them, “Don’t do it,” he says, “Come in, colleagues!”