Chocolate surrogate.

(A Literary Treatise on Naftalan Oil, Social Illusions, and the Hygiene of the Comment Section)

If a metaphor goes unexplained,
the comments section immediately appoints itself chief investigator.

Inspired by a widely discussed online story: a public official posted a photograph from a Naftalan oil bath in Azerbaijan with the caption: “Bathing in chocolate. I can afford it.” The Internet immediately convened its own Committee of Imaginative Investigation.

As told by my daughter, Sholi, director of a Naftalan health resort, in whose caring hands many such substitute “Chocolates” undergo treatment. Naftalan heals not only joints, but public misconceptions as well.

I
There is oil that powers engines.

And there is oil that powers people.

Naftalan oil.

Black and dense as a November night in Baku,

smelling of the Jurassic era

and strongly of history itself.

It is neither gasoline,

nor internal-combustion engines,

nor futures contracts on the New York Mercantile Exchange.

It is the Earth’s liquid balm,

created so that joints,

creaking like doors in a Soviet housing office,

may suddenly remember

that creaking is optional.

The procedure is not merely legend:
For decades it has been used in health resorts for skin and musculoskeletal conditions, prescribed strictly when physicians deem it appropriate.

Skin that remembers every foolishness of youth—finds a way to forgive.

True, it smells as though a tractor kissed you,

or as though you spent the afternoon inside a gas station during a heat wave.

But that, my dear, is the aroma of good health.

In Naftalan, they don’t drill for oil.

They don’t burn it.

They soak in it.

That distinction alone

has yet to find its proper place

in humanity’s strategic planning documents.

Our guest submerged herself to the full depth of her bureaucratic authority.

Not into luxury.

Not into a private oil well registered in her name.

Into a medical treatment prescribed by a doctor.

Oil touched her shoulders.

Oil touched her exhaustion.

Oil quietly whispered:

“Relax. This isn't a meeting.”

She settled in up to her ears, black and gleaming,

looking rather like a pastry dropped into a puddle of machine grease,

or an olive that had exceeded all reasonable dimensions.

She looked content.

Like an oil tycoon already enjoying retirement.

And then she made her fatal mistake:

she took a selfie and released into the internet

a sentence as light as marshmallow fluff:

“Bathing in chocolate. I can afford it…”

II
And instantly, the universe reared up on its hind legs.

Cyberspace detonated.

The Internet did what it does best: it read the caption literally.

The Internet always reads the caption first,

then the biography,

and only afterward forms an investigative commission.

— “Chocolate? In a bathtub?!” the commentators cried.

— “A mid-level official enjoying an oligarch-sized cocoa pool?!”

— “Paid for by taxpayers?!”

— “While ordinary people count coins, she’s melting Lindt and Milky Way bars by the ton?!”

— “Where is the cocoa expenditure report? Where is basic modesty?!”

— “Check her declarations! She probably owns the entire Red October candy factory!”

The principal “danger” of Naftalan oil became obvious at once:

it looks like unattainable luxury.

Black.

Dense.

Expensive-looking.

You’re soaking in Azerbaijani gold that happens to soothe lower-back inflammation,

yet from a distance it appears you’ve stolen a tanker truck of Azeri Light priced at $130 per barrel.

People were mentally counting calories in her bathtub.

She nearly faced prosecution under the imaginary statute of “Unreported Confectionery Fat.”

Because in a world where everyone dreams of justice,

nothing is more dangerous than distributing privilege according to photographs.

III
Eventually, she was forced to bring society back from poetry into prose—

into the straightforward price list of an Azerbaijani health resort.

Appearing live on air in a bathrobe, scrubbed back to her original human edition

and mildly traumatized by a washcloth, she declared:

“Citizens! Have mercy!

This is not Belgian Lindt!

This is not melted truffle!

This is not an investment fund!

This is Naftalan! A miracle of Azerbaijan!

No one drowns in luxury here.

One merely treats one’s joints and permanently stains one’s swimsuit!

Chocolate? Are you serious? You’d stick together!

You should see me spending three hours scrubbing this off with a washcloth!”

And then a great miracle occurred.

The outrage evaporated like a drop of water on a sun-scorched rock.

A remarkable social reversal took place:

We envy chocolate.

We do not envy therapeutic oil.

Nobody has ever looked at a person marinating in medicinal petroleum and thought: “Now that’s the life.”

“Oh... Naftalan? Why didn't you say so? That’s for lower-back pain. Poor woman. Get well soon, dear.”

Naftalan performed its greatest miracle:

in a single moment, it washed away the sins of presumed luxury,

transforming an oligarch’s whim into an ordinary spa treatment.

Two things saved the guest in the light of truth: clarification and geography.

Naftalan heals joints. Explanations heal comment sections.

Oil reduces inflammation in knees. Truth reduces inflammation in society.

IV
(Medical note: the treatment has general balneological contraindications, ranging from uncontrolled hypertension to heart failure. Naftalan is a resort therapy, not a substitute for medical care).

And now, a few words about the real everyday dangers of Naftalan.

Three people are needed to help you out of the bath because you become impossibly slippery as an eel.

A white hotel bedsheet will never forgive you—it learns more about you than your relatives ever will.

Black underwear after Naftalan remains black forever. It can be included in your will.

Your loved ones will inevitably say: “Sleep on the balcony. You’re medicinal.”

Yet the greatest danger lies elsewhere: in the way we view one another through screens.

The most accessible treatment on the Internet is bathing in one’s own moral superiority.

No bathtub required. No sanatorium required.

Simply type beneath somebody else’s photograph: “Frankly, if I were you, I’d be ashamed.”

Then go to sleep convinced you’ve improved the nation.

If you happen to be lying in a black bath, write honestly:

“Receiving Naftalan treatment. Do not disturb: deep musculoskeletal reboot in progress.”

Laws of Petroleum Anthropology:

Not every black liquid is black luxury.

Someone else’s bathtub does not become deeper merely because you peer into it with condemnation.

Facts arrive on foot. Conclusions travel by jet propulsion.

Archimedes’ Principle for Naftalan: A body immersed in a Naftalan bath experiences an upward force equal to the volume of social prejudice displaced, plus the total quantity of outrage spilled into the comments section.

Black liquid does not always signify wealth. Sometimes it is merely a tired person who would like to move again without pain.

V
Naftalan oil is the memory of the earth gathered into a single bath.

Its weight is not punishment. It is a promise:

“I am holding you. You will not fall through.”

A person enters. The world grows quieter.

Deadlines disappear. The need to be strong immediately fades away.

Only a warm and heavy silence remains, and within that silence, pain loses its voice.

The earth never asks whether you’ve earned rest. It simply offers it.

And within that embrace, there is neither rank nor status—

only a body finally allowed to exhale.

Behind the beautiful photograph, there was no privilege.

Only ordinary human exhaustion and the desire to feel whole again.

Then, emerging from the quiet embrace of the earth, you pick up the washcloth once more

and scrub away the ancient oil,

returning to the world—clean, restored, and able to tie your shoelaces without tears.

Naftalan heals joints.

Humor heals circumstances.

Truth heals comment sections.

And every good metaphor ought to come equipped with a first-aid kit.

So let us raise our tea—

to Sholi, who protects both the peace and the healing work of the resort.

And to the official,

who may now sleep peacefully:

face to the wall,

lower back fully functioning,

and no tax inquiries pending.

Without chocolate—lest anyone suspect confectionery extravagance.

Just simple tea, around a common table.

And let us not forget: Naftalan oil does not require hashtags. It is black enough without them.

(And leave the chocolate for cake. At least cake has never required clarification from a press office).

Alın Ak / KaJe MeG

As told by Sholi • Baku — Naftalan — On Air • Master Core Version 2.1 • 2026