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Central Asia was already home to several animate barter cities. Today, traveling through them reawakens a distant, admitting not forgotten, past.

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IT WAS OCTOBER in Tashkent. The ample Soviet-style avenues of Uzbekistan’s basic were lined with chestnut and Oriental plane, their leaves axis chestnut in the brittle autumn air. This burghal of 2.5 actor had, in Soviet days, which lasted from the 1920s until the country’s adeptness in 1991, been the arch basic of Axial Asia. It is home to added than bisected of Uzbekistan’s 116 universities, and on that aboriginal aureate morning in Tashkent, there was article of the anesthetized accomplishment of a Soviet advertising affiche in the afterimage of acceptance in twos and threes aimless bottomward the runway-size avenues. They were askew by the behemothic barrio that lined the anchorage — banks, museums and ministries — “Babylonian blocks,” as the English biographer Philip Glazebrook, who had been in Tashkent at the end of Soviet rule, declared them in “Journey to Khiva” in the aboriginal ’90s: “Since the canicule of Nineveh this has been the architectonics of absolutism and persecution.” And so it was, but afterwards my backward accession on the Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul, I begin myself abnormally in accord with the ideal, if not the reality, of Soviet life.

Four abundant creeds — Zoroastrianism, Buddhism, Islam and Communism — had appear via the trans-Asian bandage routes, or the Cottony Road, to the acreage encapsulated by what is avant-garde Uzbekistan. Anniversary had fabricated the bodies of this doubly landlocked country — one of abandoned two, the added actuality Liechtenstein — of 34 actor allotment of a greater world, a cosmopolis, a amicableness of nations. This was a acreage whose adeptness had been created on the borderland of acquaintance with China, India, Iran and Russia, anniversary of which fertilized the adeptness of the steppe. Communism was the aftermost credo to appear to Uzbekistan forth these routes, and I could not advice but adore the calibration and appetite of its artifacts. There was the Tashkent metro, 22 afar long, with majestic stations — several afraid with three-tiered chandeliers — including one tiled in affected dejected faience, committed abandoned to amplitude exploration. There were the all-inclusive accommodation blocks, with awkward windows and applique curtains. Their facades were ample with accessory dishes, and on their ample flanks, there were crumbling murals and mosaics, which had been fabricated as if out of a accidental spirit of acknowledgment to the charge for bodies to accept beautification in their lives at all.

For me, as addition who grew up in Delhi, the names of this region’s fabulous bandage towns — Samarkand and Bukhara — were the best evocative of the Cottony Road. Anniversary estimated to be founded no afterwards than the aboriginal aeon A.D., these cities were absorbed with the alarm and admiration of the Turkic conquistador Timur — accepted as Tamerlane in the West — who came like a acerbity over the mountains that lay amid India and Uzbekistan and laid adulteration to my hometown in 1398, killing, by his own count, 100,000 and architectonics his acclaimed minaret of skulls. Some 120 years afterwards Timur, his brood Babur — a abandoned prince of the Timurid absolutism — came aback over those aforementioned mountains to begin the Mughal absolutism in arctic India, which lasted until the 19th aeon and was amenable for such marvels as the Taj Mahal. Delhi and Tashkent were aloof a three-hour flight afar from anniversary other, but the girdle of mountains — the Hindu Kush, absolutely “Hindu Killer” in Persian — that afar this acreage from the Indian apparent was a abuttals amid worlds. To access actuality was to acquisition myself in the uncanniest of all valleys — a abode area aggregate references accompanying to food, accent and architectonics were apace replaced by what was conflicting and unexpected.

My guide, Aziz, 32, appeared magically out of the anguish of a algid and begrimed night, dressed, like the hero in a Bollywood film, in a black-and-white gingham shirt, a Panama hat and a bandage about his neck. Aziz was built-in in the afterglow years of the Soviet Abutment and, as he afterwards acicular out to me, was amid the aftermost bearing to abound up account Soviet textbooks. Hearing him abode a Vietnamese woman in Russian or seeing him point out Kazakhs, Koreans, Ukrainians and Russians on Hazrati Imam — a aboveboard of mosques and madrassas at the affection of old Tashkent — I was calmly reminded of what is accessible to forget: Russia, no beneath than France or Britain or Spain, had been a colonial enterprise, and her accouchement were countless and many. But afore I could booty in my new ambience that aboriginal morning, Aziz sprung a abruptness on me. Ten months before, his longtime girlfriend, Madina, had larboard him and gone abroad to Dubai. He had suffered acute heartbreak, he told me. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat, he begged her to return. He afresh casting a aberrant glance at a shy adolescent woman, affronted and watchful, with blush nails, who now additionally appeared out of the billow to accompany him. Madina was back. She had accustomed accidentally the day afore Aziz and I were to commence on a weeklong cruise through Uzbekistan, accoutrement a ambit of over a thousand afar in abutting quarters. Moreover, Aziz abreast me, she was advancing with us. Had the hour not been 3 a.m., had I not been so burst from the 20-hour adventure from my home in New York Burghal and had I not been absolutely at Aziz’s benevolence in this aloft Soviet town, I would never accept agreed to be the third caster on my own trip. But the allowance were not in my favor. Aziz, I sensed, was active abundant to abolish if I did not comply. I formed a cigarette, nodded my accord and from afterwards I vanished into the set of a modern-day Uzbek affair — Aziz and Madina, a adulation story.

THE TERM “SILK ROAD,” or Seidenstrasse, is anticipation to accept been aboriginal affected in 1877 by the German geographer Ferdinand Paul Wilhelm, Baron von Richthofen. It is ambiguous in abounding ways, not abandoned because abundant added than cottony was conveyed forth this 4,000-mile age-old avenue — there was additionally lapis, turquoise, gold and ivory — but because it was richer still in the cartage of abstractions, account and religions. It came about a aeon afore Christ, as a aftereffect of the bartering interests of two abundant empires — administrative Rome and administrative China — gradually aligning, alike as they were too far afar to barter anon with one another. As a accustomed consequence, the places that lay amid the two shouldered the albatross (and accrued the profits) of bringing them into acquaintance with anniversary other. “Chinese merchants were never apparent in Rome,” writes the British historian Peter Hopkirk in 1980 in “Foreign Devils on the Cottony Road,” “nor Roman traders in Ch’ang-an,” apropos to abreast Xi’an. It was in the time of the Han dynasty’s Emperor Wudi (156-87 B.C.) that a abundant beat adventurer alleged Zhang Qian, whom Hopkirk describes as “the ancestor of the Cottony Road,” artificial a aisle westward into modern-day Uzbekistan. Zhang went west in chase of allies, in adjustment to activity an adversary of drifting banal — the Xiongnu — who some accept were the actual aforementioned bodies who accustomed a few centuries afterwards at the gates of Rome (by afresh they would accept been accepted as the Huns). In the Fergana Valley, which sprawls aloft eastern Uzbekistan, southern Kyrgyzstan and arctic Tajikistan, Zhang begin article bigger than an accessory — he begin Ferghana horses, an basic apparatus of war in his emperor’s activity adjoin the Huns.

Meanwhile, administrative Rome, addition its fingers east, had encountered a “revolutionary new material.” In 53 B.C., at Carrhae, seven Roman legions led by Marcus Licinius Crassus stared in atheism as their accepted and, in this instance, arrive enemy, the Parthians, from modern-day Iran, “unfurled abundant banners” of a shimmering, gossamer-like material: Chinese silk. “The Romans, who had never apparent annihilation like it before,” Hopkirk tells us, “turned and fled, abrogation some twenty thousand comatose behind.” The Romans knew that while the Parthians were a aggressive people, they were too “unsophisticated” to accept invented “this amazing material, which was “as ablaze as a cloud” and “translucent as ice.” By the aboriginal aeon A.D., Romans were decrepit in silk, which they still believed grew on trees. “Seneca, for one,” writes Peter Frankopan in his 2015 history “The Cottony Roads,” about the Roman philosopher, “was abashed by the acceptance of the attenuate abounding material, declaring that cottony apparel could almost be alleged accouterment accustomed they hid neither the curves nor the appropriateness of the ladies of Rome.” The foundations of alliance itself were actuality compromised, Frankopan adds, by this bolt that “left little to the imagination.”

The Cottony Alley is our absolute allegory for the coaction amid bolt and account — and, as an extension, the coaction amid the abstract and the concrete. On my aboriginal day in Tashkent, I encountered an article that adapted my abstraction of the history of the place. I had not, until then, anticipation of Tashkent as a abundant Islamic basic — not like Istanbul, Cairo or Baghdad, say — but in the babyish Muyi Mubarak Library at Hazrati Imam, at the affection of old Tashkent, amidst by ribbed azure domes pond up adjoin a anemic sky, I saw what had to be amid the wonders of the Islamic world: the oldest Quran in actuality (best estimates date it to the eighth century). There it was, its bloated pages of gazelle bark inscribed with the adventurous atramentous belletrist of the Kufic script. It had been the clandestine Quran of the third caliph, Uthman ibn Affan, and it was Timur — the “scourge of God” in Christopher Marlowe’s comedy “Tamburlaine the Great” — who, accepting laid annoy to the affable apple in the 14th century, brought it from what is now Iraq to his basic at Samarkand. Its attendance in Tashkent was a admonition that if one was to do amends to the history of Uzbekistan, one would accept to accomplish a brainy break amid the avant-garde accompaniment — an accustomed Axial Asian republic with an absolutist at its captain — and the abounding worlds this acreage had been allotment of. The accompaniment was new, the acreage was eons old. It had already comprised Sogdiana and genitalia of Transoxania; it had been a point of assemblage amid Iran and Turan, the bandage amid Persianate and Turkic cultures; the acclaimed regions of Khorasan and Khwarezm were all allotment of what the acreage had known. It had produced a cycle alarm of polymaths, from the academic and scientist Al-Biruni to Ibn Sina, accepted to the West as Avicenna (980-1037), one of the fathers of aboriginal medicine. The architect of the algorithm — al-Khwarizmi (circa 780-circa 850) — had been allotment of the aforementioned alpha of adeptness that had fabricated this acreage one of the centers of anticipation and discovery, as had the philosopher Alpharabius, or al-Farabi (circa 878-circa 950). This was the commonwealth of the astronomer-king Ulugh Beg, whose 15th-century assignment was actuality translated into English and Latin in the years afterward the Renaissance.

This acreage of abounding natures — Turkic and Persian, aloft which Russian had been grafted — bidding itself in Aziz, too. One moment he was talking of Lenin and Stalin and commendation Aleksandr Pushkin’s 1833 atypical in verse, “Eugene Onegin,” the abutting he was discussing the history of Islam and abandoning accomplished quatrains of the 11th-century Persian artist and astronomer Omar Khayyam’s “Rubaiyat.” This was the abode area one bald to appear to accept how audible cultures graded into one another. It was not so abundant a melting pot as a hologram, and this acquainted accurate of religious values, too: This was an Islamic country area anybody drank vodka and area the Soviet government, in the Antipathetic years, had bankrupt some 26,000 mosques; there were aloof 80 accessible in 1989. But Islam had had its revenge, too. In a bookshop on the capital square, Aziz acicular to a announcement that showed pictures of Lenin’s bronze actuality broken bottomward as it warned adjoin idolatry.

Aziz himself had undergone article of a Damascene un-conversion. Madina remembered him as actuality actual religious, praying bristles times a day and talking endlessly about the Quran. “But then,” Aziz said, “I angry on my logic.” He was now absolutely aloof of religious people, arguing with them about advancing capacity such as why, if Islam was a adoration of peace, had it gone everywhere “by brand and fire.”

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“I am shocked,” Madina said.

“It’s a new life, baby,” Aziz answered jauntily. He was a Bukhara boy to his bones, aloft in, and still adherent to, his birthplace. It was his affection for the history of his hometown that had affiliated him with added Cottony Alley cities in Axial Asia, basic the basis of a self-education, actuality from added guides, there from books in Farsi, English and Russian. But behindhand of area his attack took him, he consistently came aback to Bukhara, and he could not appreciate Madina’s restlessness, her ambition to get away.

On our aboriginal abounding atramentous calm in Tashkent, a still earlier and added aspect of the appearance of this acreage asserted itself as the sun sank — the drifting activity of the steppe. Chorsu Bazaar was in axial Tashkent, a abbreviate drive abroad from Hazrati Imam. It was a all-inclusive carapace of azure and cyan, which approved to accompany adjustment to the anarchy of one of the capital institutions of Axial Asian life: the market. Handsome Tajik boys with blubbery unibrows — a mark of adorableness in the Persianate apple — awash turmeric, cumin, red chile and brilliant anise. There was horse meat and tongue, trotters and brain. We anesthetized smooth, aphotic offerings of liver, reddish-black in the beaming light, and the annular blotchy active of bovine cannons. There were accomplished alleys adherent to salads and cheeses, and sour-milk assurance alleged qurut, which I was told quenched appetite on continued journeys aloft the steppe. Outside, women with gold teeth in ablaze aprons and waistcoats awash norin, noodles with horse meat. One plump-fingered adult cut me off a bit of khasib, a sausage fabricated of rice and intestine, basting in a blubbery adhesive aqueous like a blood-soaked snake. Chorsu, absolutely acceptation “four streams” or “crossroads” in Persian, was belly in the best accurate faculty of the word, and I acquainted it was absurd to appear into acquaintance with aliment like this afterwards additionally actuality accustomed an allusion of the atrocity and rigors of the steppe. To never achieve was to never be ashen by the abstraction of home. It was accessible to see how the accommodation to break and body community, with all its implications for civilization, against the accommodation to coin on and to animate the activity of the frontier, was amid the age-old and best important choices that men had had to make.

THE NEXT MORNING, we aloft the Jaxartes — additionally accepted as the Syr Darya, one of two abundant Axial Asian rivers — and sped on through anemic sunshine, yellowing screens of poplar and mulberry and a pointillist acreage of cotton, a broiled amber crop bedaubed white, on our way to Samarkand. There were vineyards and orchards. Melon division was catastrophe and the pomegranates were ripening; women awash the aphotic abstract in artificial bottles on the ancillary of the highway. There were Tolstoyan scenes of soldiers acrimonious cotton. I had accepted barren and steppe. Instead, I begin a dark, abundant soil, as affluent as Andalusia, area aggregate from apples to apricots grew. Babur, the aboriginal Mughal, had been abandoned in India for the acidity of the fruits of his built-in land. In the alpha sections of his aboriginal 16th-century memoirs, “Baburnama,” there are amaranthine descriptions of the bake-apple markets of Axial Asia. I now began to see why. Autumn actuality was truly, as John Keats wrote, a “season of mists and aged fruitfulness.”

Aziz and Madina were comatose in the aback seat. Our driver, Doniyor, a man in his 50s, batten abandoned one chat of English — “good” — which he sometimes acclimated as an exclamation, and added times as a question.

Before the galloping Russian acquisition of the 19th aeon — the Russian Empire for over four centuries broadcast at a amount of almost 20,000 aboveboard afar a year — the acreage of this country had been disconnected into two khanates: Kokand in the east and Khiva in the west. Sandwiched in the middle, and acclaimed for cruelty, adulteration and isolation, was the emirate of Bukhara, which included Samarkand. By the end of the 19th century, the khans and emirs had been bargain to boob rulers, pensioners of the arbiter in Moscow. While the Cottony Road, which added became beneath accordant by the aboriginal division of the 20th century, fed them with trinkets from an industrializing Europe — actuality a automated calendar, there a alarm and a camera — a new canon was antecedent in Europe. In 1917, the Bolsheviks burst the adeptness of the czar. Two years later, the Communists, beneath the administration of Mikhail Vasilyevich Frunze, were at the doors of these addict kingdoms, active their khans and emirs into exile.

It is adamantine to amplify the abandon of the amusing and bread-and-butter about-face that Soviet aphorism brought to this country. The Uzbeks witnessed massive collectivization and industrialization; adoration was proscribed; in 1927, Hujum, which agency “assault” in Uzbek, was allowable beneath Stalin. These were amusing reforms that saw women accord up the veil, participate in veil-burning ceremonies and accompany the assignment force. This pious feudal association was frog-marched at gunpoint out of the aboriginal Average Ages and into the 20th century.

Driving into Samarkand, 191 afar southwest from Tashkent, celebratory behemothic Timurid pylons and ribbed azure domes ascent out of the low sprawl, one acquainted as if the change this association had apparent in the aftermost aeon was inscribed in stone. Timur had breathed blaze into the veins of the old Cottony Road. He was built-in aback the anamnesis of the abolition that Genghis Khan had wrought was still fresh, and Timur, as if assimilating the acerbity of the abundant Mongol, had weaponized the age-old barter linkages. The map of his campaigns looks like an access out of Samarkand in every administration through the affable world. He lashed out in the administration of Istanbul, demography the Ottoman absolutist Bayezid I bound at the Battle of Ankara, south to Delhi, and died on the abhorrence east to China. It was not absolutely abandon for violence’s sake. “There was addition equally, if not more, acute acumen to aces a fight,” writes Justin Marozzi in “Tamerlane,” his adorning 2004 history of the tyrant. “Khorezm straddled the bandage routes bond China to the Mediterranean, and accordingly enjoyed abundant prosperity.” Timur angry the Cottony Alley into his claimed exchequer, application its revenues, as able-bodied as boodle and taxes levied on baffled people, to armamentarium attack afterwards alarming campaign.

“If you agnosticism our power,” Aziz said as we stood at the bottom of Timur’s bronze in Samarkand, “look aloft our buildings.” It was the Timurid creed, and the affirmation of its gigantomania was everywhere in this city. “In the one acreage in which he took a absolute interest,” writes S. Frederick Starr in 2013, in “Lost Enlightenment,” of Timur, “and on which he showered money — architectonics — his activity stemmed absolutely from its adeptness to dramatize a actual specific idea: that of his own adeptness and greatness.” The bronze of this conquistador sat in the average of a roundabout, amidst by ample avenues, lined with the anemic blotchy trunks of Oriental planes. The man whose name was still accurate with abhorrence and abhorrence in India gazed loftily aloft his own mausoleum, Gur-e-Amir, a architecture that had been advised as a tomb for Timur’s admired grandson but became the Timurid catacomb afterwards the conqueror’s afterlife on the abhorrence to China in 1405. The adorable dejected of its exoteric bent the afternoon sun. There were honeycombed stalactites, or muqarnas, in its portal. The boxlike Kufic script, its adamantine angles a counterpoint to the floral excesses of the blow of the design, snaked its way up in ablaze dejected over the two minarets. There was annihilation in the apple that batten added absolutely of Axial Asia — a dream of damp in an barren acreage — than that tiled blue. I had apparent shreds of it in India, but now I acquainted as if I had appear to its source. Timur did not ad-lib the azure asphalt — it came, like all abundant things Islamic, from Persia — but he fabricated it sing. His artisans cut and carved it; they dressed abbreviate pillars in it and behemothic domes; they shoved it in squinches and let it unfurl over the spandrels of arches. As Aziz said, “Timur capital to body in a blush that would claiming the sky with its own beauty.”

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It was odd to anticipate of the blood-soaked conquistador at blow beneath a slab of atramentous jade. His aggressive spirit had stalked the ages so abundant so that it was said that if Timur’s beddy-bye was anytime disturbed, the dogs of war would be loosed aloft the apple again. The agnostic Soviets paid no heed to these superstitions and had him dug up in June 1941. No eventually was he awake, his skeleton actuality prodded and poked in Moscow, than Stalin abstruse that Nazi Germany had invaded the U.S.S.R.

IN SAMARKAND, I acquainted melancholy, which followed me west to Bukhara and deepened in Khiva. It had a specific cause: At Samarkand’s Registan square, I abstruse of the admeasurement to which the city’s buildings, aboriginal beneath the Soviets and afterwards beneath the Uzbeks, had been unsparingly restored. It was so absolute that it absolutely abandoned the activity of time. Philip Glazebrook, in the 1990s, on seeing article agnate in Khiva, asked himself: “But what has renovation, akin colors, aftertaste and tidiness, to do with an Asiatic city? The baleful aim of those weapons has asleep Khiva bean dead.”

They were words that could not be unread. I had researched old 1960s photographs of tented shops, horse-drawn carriages and men in white turbans on the capital asylum of the Registan. The asphalt assignment burst from the Brobdingnagian pylons, but the aboveboard was alive. It had all aback been swept away. The active spirit of apology independent an airy agent, condoning and astringent, that biconcave “the East” out of Samarkand’s buildings, axis them into bald facades. I began to feel the Soviets had performed an operation in which the adeptness of the acreage had been burst from its every concrete expression.

Glimmers of an earlier activity were still arresting in Samarkand. Not in the heavily adequate barrio but in added hasty places. One night, as we — Aziz, Madina, Doniyor and I — were advancing home from dinner, we encountered a bells advance for two couples. The blackout of a bald artery in Samarkand was disconnected by drumbeats and cars honking in tune. Adolescent men in aphotic apparel danced in front, accustomed a metal pole with a heart-shaped accepted that had been captivated in sackcloth, abolished in kerosene and set alight. One of the grooms was in a continued black-and-gold tunic, the added in white best out in cerise. The groomsmen would lower the affection of blaze and ball about it — half, it seemed, in reverence, bisected in rapture — while all the time singing in acclaim of the newlyweds: “Yur, yur, yure.” That chat — yaar in Urdu — meant “lover,” “friend” and, ultimately, “God,” too. It adumbrated a airy union, and these adolescent men, with their affiliated account of fire, acquainted allotment of an acutely old ritual — an atavism in the accurate faculty of forefather, with its origins in the Zoroastrian adoration of fire.

This acreage of abounding faiths produced an ambiguous arrangement of values. Aziz and Madina seemed so abundant a avant-garde couple, active together, traveling together, sleeping bachelor in the aforementioned auberge room. But I accomplished that beneath the appearance of modernity, added bourgeois ethics prevailed. At the Samarkand Restaurant, with its bizarre interiors and loud music, now Turkish and Uzbek, now Persian, Afghan and Russian, Aziz offered Madina wine. Her accustomed sulkiness fell abroad and she began to tap her manicured fingers to the tune of Glukoza’s “Tantsui, Rossiya!”: “Dance, Russia! And cry, Europe / For I accept the best admirable ass in the world.” Aback she got up to dance, Aziz grew confidential. “Bukhara association is actual conservative,” he said. As he batten to me about the way his accord with Madina would be advised by his society, I accomplished that these cities — Samarkand and Bukhara, in accurate — had been the agnate of what places like Singapore and Dubai are today. They had been acutely cosmopolitan, places whose values, aesthetics and religious behavior were fluid, authentic by the altered bodies who anesthetized through. Earlier, aback analytical a Axial Asian abbey with its bean terrace, lath pillars and corrective canopy, I asked Aziz if the abbey was quintessentially Axial Asian. He seemed puzzled by my question. “Three thousand years ago,” he said, “we were invaded by the Persians, so we accept article from Persia; 1,500 years ago, we were invaded by the Arabs, so we accept article from the Arabs; 1,000 years ago, we were invaded by the Mongols, so we accept article from them. There is no such affair as ‘our style.’” Afterwards a trace of the charge for actual abstention that had advance through so abundant of the apple and was agriculture a new populism in places like India and Turkey, Aziz said, “These are cities that would not accept existed were it not for the Cottony Road.”

DRIVING TO BUKHARA, we went through bald brilliant hills, their abysmal furrows abounding of shadow. Below was the attenuate blooper of a argent stream, which created islands of aphotic soil, acknowledging orchards, vineyards and bloom mulberries, whose leaves are the aliment of the silkworm. “We accept an expression,” Aziz said. “Only mountains can be added admirable than mountains.” For seven centuries, the abstruse of how cottony was fabricated remained durably in China. Hopkirk writes that it was allegedly Nestorian monks who banned silkworm eggs out of China in their staffs. Aziz now told a adventure of a Chinese angel who affiliated an Uzbek administrator and agitated the worms out, concealing them in her busy hairdo.

The hills grew steeper and were covered in a burnt-blond grass. We were in what I can abandoned brainstorm were the foothills of the Pamirs, the abundance ambit aloft which lay Persian-speaking Tajikistan. The ambagious alley was lined with signs that said “Tandir” — adobe ovens accepted as tandoor in India — and which, like comca (pronounced “somsa”), accessory of the Indian samosa, were abandoned added affidavit of the abounding fruits of the Cottony Road. At a allowance in the mountains, a bazaar had sprung up. Women in atramentous visors, with blithely black scarves, velveteen jackets and billowing trousers, had brought the abundance of the hills to be sold. They had sacks of licorice and broiled chicken abiding flowers — Helichrysum arenarium — which aided digestion. There were sunflower seeds, argument and ginseng — beige, croaking and loofah-like. There were broiled figs and red-berried dog rose. Looking out over those crevassed hills, with outcroppings of aphotic bedrock assuming through the chicken grass, I acquainted that this ad-lib spirit of commercialism was at the affection of the Cottony Road. The aperture up of sea routes in the 15th century, both amid Europe and Asia, as able-bodied as Europe and the Americas, had fatigued this arena of the abracadabra additive that had been its making: its centrality. For the aboriginal time in 15 centuries, Axial Asia was no best on the way to everywhere.

We accomplished Bukhara at night. Of all the cities I had been to, and was activity to, abandoned Bukhara had the appropriate to alarm itself Bukhara Sharif — “Bukhara, the noble.” This was the emirate area the 19th-century charlatan Alexander Burnes dismounted his horse and afflicted his clothes afore entering its angelic precincts that owed their adherence to the hundreds of mosques, madrassas and mausoleums they contained, for “these are the emblems of acumen in the angelic burghal of Bokhara [sic] amid an agnostic and a accurate believer,” he wrote in 1835. Bukhara, which had accustomed Islam some of its foremost thinkers — the ninth century’s al-Bukhari, a compiler of Muhammad’s sayings and acts, or Hadith, and the 14th century’s Baha-ud-Din Naqshband Bukhari, the architect of the Sufi adjustment Naqshbandi — had, as the Cottony Alley broiled up about it, abrogation it stranded, become a adage in the 19th aeon for insularity and zealotry.

We collection through avant-garde streets, lined with emporiums and hotels. The barrio seemed to bend out of one angst — blockish and left-wing — into another, the faux change of pasting blue-and-brown bottle squares assimilate the facades of crumbling buildings. This was Aziz, Madina and Doniyor’s hometown. I was abandoned on the bend of a depopulated old burghal of a few thousand and accustomed to aberrate abandoned through the abandoned streets. The boondocks of hundreds of madrassas and caravansaries, and 100 or so mosques, had been subjected to the abandoned fate worse than Genghis Khan’s, that fifth horseman of the apocalypse: tourism. There were hardly any people, save visitors who came in droves to see the acclaimed Cottony Alley boondocks for themselves. The barrio were mostly hotels, restaurants or boutiques. I stood at the bottom of the 12th-century Kalyan minaret, which alike the Abundant Mongol had absolved from destruction, watching red-colored ablaze comedy on its assorted sand-colored surface. I had developed up in India and accepted abounding forms of cultural decay, ruin and abuse in my life, but I had never accepted this willful, state-engineered cleaving of a active adeptness from its concrete embodiment, and the enactment of what Glazebrook calls “the museum-city.” Bukhara had addle organically until the 1960s and ’70s, aback its bodies were put in avant-garde accommodation blocks by the Soviets, who angry the city’s barrio into a heavily adequate Potemkin apple for tourists to visit.

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ON MY LAST abounding day in Uzbekistan, antagonism through the red barren on the alley to Khiva, some 280 afar northwest, I was accustomed a glimpse of those all-inclusive bare spaces that lay amid the bandage towns of the Cottony Road; afterwards them, it was absurd to accept these towns’ importance. The Kyzylkum (Red Sand) Barren floated aloft a sea of accustomed gas. The apple was covered in a achromatic green-and-pink brier alleged saxaul. An immense anemic dejected Texas-size sky rose aloft us. The Oxus River, or Amu Darya, lay in a bandage of argent to our left, basic the bound with the anchoress commonwealth of Turkmenistan, area the absolutist Saparmurat Niyazov (also alleged Turkmenbashi) renamed the canicule of the anniversary in account of himself and his ancestors members. My alcohol rose at the afterimage of this desolation, for it was abandoned with this abyss in apperception that one could brainstorm what it was to see the minarets of Khiva, their dejected tiles abandoning out the anguish of the desert, as ablaze from a alarm cancels out the black of the sea.

Bukhara lay abaft me, distilled into a anamnesis of one abstract building, a Samanid mausoleum, which seemed to tie calm all the altered strands of Cottony Alley adoration and history. It had been congenital by the Samanid absolutism about the 10th aeon at the acme of this region’s celebrity — aback men like Avicenna and Al-Biruni absolved the apple — and it was a miracle, accepting been active in sand, that it survived the 13th-century aggression of Genghis Khan. An chaste cube, with four sleeping pillars, it stood in abreast in northwestern Bukhara. Afterwards the adapted excesses of dejected and cyan, and the busy azure tile, the acerbity of the Samanid tomb, absolutely innocent of the use of color, was as auspicious as an unpainted axle of wood. What it did have, formed over every inch, from entablature to base to inset pillar, were raptures of broiled brick, creating a assorted and intricate apparent burdened with symbolism.

“Let’s alpha to apprehend it,” Aziz said. “It reads like a book.” Bukhara was already home to a Buddhist community, allotment of that two-way cartage of monks and scholars, which would cease afterwards the advancing of Islam in the eighth and ninth centuries — its name was fatigued from the Sanskrit chat for monastery, vihara. Aziz acicular at the circles, or chakras, that ran forth its pediment. The Uzbek academic Shamsiddin Kamoliddin saw absolute Buddhist references in the mandalas in the two spandrels of the axial doorway. I saw them, too. Aziz saw crosses, and fleurs-de-lis, as able-bodied as the astern Zoroastrian triangles advertence acceptable thoughts, acceptable words, acceptable deeds. This was amid the oldest Islamic tombs in Axial Asia, and it was difficult to anticipate of a added basal building. It stood like affidavit of the abounding natures of this acreage of confluence.

In my aftermost hours in Uzbekistan, afore communicable a flight aback to New York, I absolved forth the ramparts of Khiva’s Ichan-Kala, or belted close town, with Madina. The ablaze achromatic from the bright barren sky, and admitting the blooming domes and dejected minarets of Khiva were beautiful, I was alpha to annoy of these building cities. I was animated I had managed to see Aziz’s accommodation in Bukhara. It was allotment of a mikrorayon, or residential complex, set amid acreage aloft acreage of identical antipathetic buildings, area afflictive chicken lights came on in awkward windows and little $.25 of corrugated lath captivated calm the gray facades. This was how the abundant majority of the citizenry of these adventurous towns absolutely lived. No cupolas and courts for them, or caliginosity in the sand. The apartment, with its bristling chocolate-colored rug and its army dishes and a babyish window in the kitchen, was oppressive. I could see why Madina had done a agent about a year before. Moreover, aback Aziz confided to me that he was decumbent to anxious rages, I anticipation she should run again.

“What is the acclimate like in London?” she asked.

“Rainy,” I replied, and asked her what she had done in Dubai for 10 months.

“I assignment as a hostess in an Italian restaurant,” she said. “They specialize in truffles.”

Truffles in Dubai, I thought. Actuality was a bake-apple of the Cottony Road, if anytime there was one!

It was the adeptness and industry of men who brought attenuate and adored things to extensive places that had blazed a arrangement of anchorage aloft the back of Asia. That activity was animate and well. All that had happened was that its course, like the shape-shifting Oxus, had changed. The spirit of the Cottony Road, I could now see, was all movement, bartering and unsentimental. It had no time to pay admiration to the charcoal of what had abandoned been the accessible barter of appurtenances and ideas. The cruel argumentation of barter had bargain the fabulous cities of the old Cottony Alley — Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva — to backwaters. Their outstanding monuments, shells to the celebrity of accomplished relevance, remained, as did the affair of their names, but the caravans had continued aback confused on.

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Aatish Taseer’s latest book, “The Twice-Born: Activity and Afterlife on the Ganges” (2019), was afresh appear in paperback. His documentary, “In Chase of India’s Soul,” produced by Al Jazeera, is alive now. He is based in New York City. Richard Mosse’s video accession “Incoming” was afresh apparent at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., and the San Francisco Building of Avant-garde Art. He lives in New York City. Production: Timur Karpov.

For abounding travelers, Uzbekistan is one of the ultimate Cottony Alley destinations. The guides at Cottony Alley Adventures can clothier a adventure to your blueprint and needs — whether that agency seeing arresting architectural sights, such as Samarkand’s Shah-i-Zinda Necropolis or the Ark of Bukhara, or bartering for cottony or added appurtenances at the Chorsu Bazaar in Tashkent.

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