How a 17 hour train journey through Uzbekistan turned out to be a beautiful reminder of humanity
One of the most fascinating aspects of travel is to observe cultural flows — how music, art and food transcend national boundaries. I had booked myself a second class ticket on a 17 hour journey across two ends of Uzbekistan — From Urgench to Tashkent. I entered the coach to curious eyes and big grins, which certainly made me feel welcome. It took me just about a minute to realize that no one in my coach speaks English, which was not surprising considering that I was travelling the equivalent of ‘cattle class’ in Uzbekistan.
While people helped me find my berth, as I reached, I realized I am going to have 3 old women as my travel companions. They welcomed me with the traditional head nod, and I acknowledged their greeting by nodding myself along with putting a hand on my heart . They then launched into a conversation with me in Uzbek, something about swapping the seats. I stood there clueless, as used my top drawer Uzbek of ‘Nyet Ruski’ indicating I don’t speak any Russian, and by extension Uzbek.
They blankly stared at me for a few seconds, and then asked me something again. From my misadventures of traveling the world where I don’t know the language, I realize that the first tag of identity is always your home country and hence most people want to know where you are from. I said India and, further explained using the more colloquial term for India in the Central Asian region - Hindustan.
Suddenly, the awkwardness vanished and the silence in the air broke. I now had 3 hyper old ladies singing ‘Awara hoon’ because now they knew I am a Hindustani. I sang along with them, and thankfully, neither of us knew the lyrics beyond ‘Awara hoon’. For the uninitiated (and to jog your memory)
We may be people whose lives couldn’t be more different, but in that moment we had the cultural binder of cinema, which had bridged the language barrier. It rang of the shared era where India and the Soviet Union enjoyed the heights of socialism, and their most prodigious import from India was the cinema of Raj Kapoor. To the man whose films I reluctantly watched on Doordarshan as a kid over two decades ago, Sir, Aap Mahaan hain!
With a thoroughly amused expression, I climbed up to my berth and took a nap.
As temperatures across Kyzylkum desert began to fall, the hot afternoon gave way to a cooler evening, we finally suspended our siestas. As I freshened up and came back to our bay, I saw boiled eggs, salted meat and non waiting for me. When I tried to refuse I got the Uzbeki grandmotherly equivalent of ‘Chup chap khao’. I was then offered tea, which I refused owing to not having a cup (Not having your own tea cup on a Uzbek train journey squarely falls under the category of Dumbass — guilty as charged), I was promptly offered one of theirs. I shared my own meager bread with them.
All in all, I was fed 3 boiled eggs, lots of non (like an Indian naan but hardy and with a longer shelf life), meat and 4 cups of tea. This was supposed to be a snack.
As one travels Central Asia, one truly understands the special status of non. Here, if non is dropped on the floor, it must be placed in a place high up, like a window ledge, for beggars or birds. It is always torn by hand, never ever cut with a knife and it is never placed patterned-side down. At weddings, the bride and groom both take a bite of a non at the ceremony and then finish it the next day as part of their first meal as man and wife. Family traditions also dictate that if a soldier goes off to war, he takes a bite of non as he departs and his family will hang the bread up and only take it down once he returns.
For non family occasions, breaking bread with someone indicates you have been accepted into their circle of people. This goes back to the nomadic days of the Central Asian people — where many a weary traveler would seek shelter for a night with the nomads, and the nomads in turn offered their hospitality to the traveler, expecting nothing in return.
Centuries later, I am the traveler and these adorable women are the former nomads. What hasn’t perhaps changed is the hospitality of the Uzbeks. They broke bread with me, accepted me and treated me as they would treat their own. Thousands of miles away from home, in a second class compartment of an Uzbek train, among people who probably aren’t financially well off, humanity is alive and kicking. It really is true — those who have the least, give the most. There are many joys which travel may give, but few are as pure as the warmth of a complete stranger. As a race, we must not forget that.
Part 2 is up now! This post is a part of the larger series of posts under ‘Tales from the Silk Road’. Follow me for my stories on travel in Central Asia.
