Get out of Old Bukhara and take the old city alley again. Here and there the lights of a few shops. On the way, the dim lights of the shops were also seen, but they also jumped off the canyon at night and fled. At a bend in the road, the two Germans, who had been introduced that afternoon, suddenly met. They also went out for dinner. Returning now. We had a lot of gossip on the way back to the hotel after walking slowly along the brick paved path. That naughty man basically continued the conversation. And the young man with his companion may have just shaken his head because he didn't know much English. We mainly talk about Bangladesh and the subcontinent. The gentleman traded in leather in Frankfurt. Wholesaler. Many people buy goods from him and sell them in the wholesale market. In that way, many Pakistanis and Bangladeshis in Frankfurt know the leather goods trader. I learned some amazing information from him. For business, he mainly imports leather goods from Morocco or Algeria. Although the original skin goes from Bangladesh. In Morocco the consumer goods are prepared only after finishing. In response to the question why the main source of leather is manufactured from Bangladesh and taken to the European market, the gentleman said in a somewhat hopeful voice, "I have tried it once or twice. But later I came to know that the owners of leather industry in Bangladesh use child labor. Once all this is known in our market, no buyer will buy my imported products. So I didn't want to take any more risks. If Bangladesh wants to export leather goods directly to the European market, then the issue of child labor should be completely eradicated. 'However, apart from the depressing remarks about Bangladesh, he surprised me by telling a different story. At that moment we reached the entrance of our hotel on foot. There is some light there. Getting his face in that light, he said, ‘Take good care of my cheeks. Do you see anything unusual? ’It is not that there is a flood of bright light, but it is not enough to see the gentleman's face well. I can't look at it and see that something unusual exists. "Six years ago, I had a very bad motorcycle accident," he said. The right side of the cheek is absolutely crushed. I took refuge in a Bangladeshi plastic surgeon in Frankfurt. He performed such a perfect operation that even you could not catch anything. From then on, I have a lot of respect for Bangladeshi doctors. '
The next morning, after breakfast at the hotel, I set off in search of Sauri. He is not where he was supposed to be in front of the minaret. Instead, a few peddlers sitting there with various designs of bright designs have set up base. Last night's rain said goodbye, but left with the cold. The sky is still cloudy. The sun has not yet risen in the clouds. It's like a purple morning. The smooth courtyard covered with sandstone is crumbling due to lack of people. Hammamkhana in the middle of the courtyard. Barely one person is sitting in front of the shop. His store has a variety of brass-designed locks and various wooden dolls. There is also a strange kind of scissors made of silver, the tip of which is like a bird's face. The narrow alley next to this temporary shop. Maybe I walked this path last night. But walking in the pitch black darkness, I can't dig out any memory of this alley. The square is a closed place just a short distance down the alley. Above is the extended roof of the hammam. Here, like the hawkers of Dhaka's New Market, a few vendors are sitting with posaras with bulb lights on. Among those who sell needle-thread pillow cushions, I discover Sauri in front of his shop. Looking at the work of a cushion with a very focused mind.
Sauri is wearing a thin silver jacket today. Light green full sleeve t-shirt inside. The camera seen on the train yesterday is hanging around my neck. Signs of light lipstick on thin lips. The hairs down to the shoulders are flying in the air. As I already know, Sauri graduated from Nine-Eleven in succession, so as of age he is probably very close to forty. But judging by the beauty, it is difficult to accept that infallible truth. Looking at him, it seems that he is almost thirty years old. I stood to the side and turned around with a sweet smile. Then I found out that he had gone to the minaret a while ago to look for me, but it was wrong to go to the minaret. And that's why I couldn't find him. But this time, as we found out, we decided to spend the rest of the day together in different parts of Bukhara.
Sauri had a travel book written in Japanese. Written on Uzbekistan. It is understood that he has done good research before coming here. He opens a special page in the book and says, "Let's find this spice shop first." Sauri's hobby is meeting the owner of that spice shop. We find the spice shop easily. Two lanes later the shop is located. However, in the hope of Sauri, the young son of the owner of the shop with ashes. When Sauri showed him the picture on the page of the book, the boy said in a very surprised manner, ‘You are not the first, many more foreigners come looking for my father. She is old. Nowadays, not many come to the store. I am the one who runs the shop. 'While Sauri was talking to the boy, I was looking at the goods in the shop. The spices that we are familiar with in the Indian subcontinent are here, along with the spices of various unnamed terms. At one time many of these spices may have reached our Indian subcontinent at the hands of the Mughals and the merchants of the Silk Route. The combined flavor of nutmeg, jaggery, cloves, prunes, cinnamon, cardamom তাই these are very familiar to me, but a completely unfamiliar smell to Sauri. Sauri tries to sniff lightly, taking one kind of spice from each bag with absolute interest. The shopkeeper took over, realizing he was willing to buy spices and take them to Japan. So he showed some spices in a wooden jug in the shape of a gourd and sold them. But seeing Sauri's reluctance to buy, he turned his attention to other things.

We found Abdul Aziz Khan Madrasa after thanking the spice dealer for 'Rakhmat'. Huge building. Broken door Arch-like architecture at the entrance. The occasional unusual brightness of the tiles on its walls indicates that in the recent past, several maintenance works have been carried out on this wall. Many times the old blurry picture is brought back with a new brush stroke, just as some of the tiles have been added to enhance the appearance of the vase with the erased Arabic Kufic color or a bouquet of flowers. A few centuries ago, there was a lot of students, but today it is completely abandoned. A few pigeons are flying around the inner boundary. As I chased after the pigeons, I saw innumerable hand-painted pictures hanging here and there on the verandah of that silent building. The seller is just one. One boy. Standing quite a distance away, he is playing games on his cheap mobile phone as the morning sun sets. As we stopped in front of a picture, the boy ran across the yard and said, ‘This is one Lily-Majnu sir. Good price. Please bye. '
Not to mention the pictures that are being sold here. The paintings we see in Bangladesh or in various galleries in Europe and America are clearly different. Our well-known images are such that we can see them from a distance with the naked eye. Even if it is pulled on the wall, it is not difficult to understand the content of the picture. But these Uzbek paintings are like Nakshikantha's fine craftsmanship. If you don't observe very closely, not everything is clear. If you look closely, you can discover the various mysteries hidden here and there in the picture. They can be called fine writing or miniature painting. Among them are bright colors of bright red, blue and gold. The golden color is like gold washing water. In the middle of the pot with such glitter. And the blue color is quite dark. Not light blue. The blue that we wash off the white cloth is the bright blue. In earlier times this color was made by grinding indigo stones. So all these dazzling paintings started many centuries ago, from the time of the founding of the Timurid dynasty. However, in modern Uzbek miniatures, such as the human body, the vitality of the relationship, the agility of the horse, the posture of the seats, the folds of the clothes, the savage speed of the warriors are depicted, but they were absent in the early pictures. In the beginning the drawing cycle of this miniature was limited to calligraphic designs only. The trade of the Silk Road and the conquest of India by the Mughals connected the waters of that captive lake with the vast waters of the sea through the tributaries. The silk trade route stretched from China to the Italian port of Venice. Along the way he came up with trade money. Samarkand Bukhara artists learned Byzantine faces and Chinese-style postures. Leaving only the design, they chose the portrait of a living creature, the folk character or the story as the subject of the picture. On the other hand, when the Mughals went to India, the petals of India secretly took place behind the pictures that told such stories. Today, I stand in front of the miniature painting of Lily-Majnoor, with its wings all around, with fascinated eyes, a joint sacrifice of the interactions of painters from different countries that are hidden behind the picture.
Talking to the boy, I found out that these pictures were drawn from a nearby village. The girls of the village take a few days to draw such a picture. At first, someone draws the initial shape with a pencil. Then the girls sit down and turn the fine brush over those lines. For them, this is a kind of cottage industry. The way of bread. The price of such a wonderful picture will be at least a few hundred dollars in the western countries, even in Bangladesh it will not be less than one thousand five hundred and six. But this boy asked me for only fifteen hundred rupees. When the money was explained to him, he carefully wrapped the picture in plastic paper and handed it to me.
After leaving the madrassa premises, Sauri said, ‘There is a very old Jhudipara somewhere around here. We can go there once. ’We followed the map in his book and walked down an alley on the edge of the old town. However, I cannot be sure whether that alley is Jhudipara or not. Then I saw a white old man walking towards us with a backpack behind him. Unable to keep up with the pace of age, his back is slightly bent. A hiking stick in hand. Thin hat on the head. We think he must be going back to the end of his visit to Jhudipara just like us. When he stopped to ask her, she laughed and said, ‘Hey, you idiot! Are those Jews still here? Kabei may have sold his house and emigrated. Cheap hotel business in those houses now. I also stayed in the same hotel. 'He looked at the book in Sauri's hand and then said,' These books are written in different colors. In fact, most of them are fake. 'He reached into his pocket and took out some lozenges. He opened the package and extended the rest towards us with one mouth. After eating lozenges, we did not move further towards the so-called Jhudipara but walked a little way with the old man. I know that he is originally from Reno, Nevada, USA. He was in the Navy in his youth. According to that source, when he went to visit some countries, he got addicted to traveling. Ninety-nine countries have toured so far. He asked me for advice on which could be the 100th country. With the condition again, you have to propose the name of a country which is not easy to go to at all. I call Cuba to throw the old man into disarray. He said with a smile that he had finished his trip to Cuba a couple of years ago by burning fair wood. But what else? May B North Korea? He remembered this proposal. My advice is that he will consider that there is a strange club in the city of Los Angeles. Only those who have traveled to 100 countries can become members of that club. His dream for twenty years, to be a member of that club. At the age of sixty-eight, he is finally on his way to fulfilling that long cherished dream. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.

The Imam Ghazli Mosque is next to the place where the old man came and said goodbye to us and started walking in a different direction. Maybe then the time of Johar. On the wide verandah in front of the mosque, the muezzin stood and spread the rippling sound of the call to prayer. Not only this mosque, I have noticed in a couple of other mosques till I came to this country, Azan is given empty-handed, sometimes standing in the minaret. Not with the help of a mic. The reason behind this is the ban of Ismail Karimov. Karimov was the founding president of Uzbekistan. He held power until his death. When Karimov-led Uzbekistan became independent from the Soviet Union, Central Asia was in turmoil. The Mujahideen were floating from Afghanistan like Beno water. Weapons coming. Rebellion is coming. The Karimov government was frightened. The border with Tajikistan was sealed. At the same time, restrictions were given in various ways of practicing religion. After Karimov's death, however, the situation is slowly changing. However, despite the controversial actions or decisions of many people in this country, but Karimov is still a devout personality. One or two people I asked said, "He is our hero." Uzbekistan's prosperity, independence and stability are all his contributions. Visiting his mausoleum complex adjacent to the famous Khoja Khizir Mosque in Samarkand, I found evidence of the love and gratitude that people have for Karimov. I have seen old men walking lazily to visit the grave, while relatively young people have come from far and wide with the scorching sun just to offer some flowers at his grave.
This time Sauri and I left the old city and went to Bukhara fort. The boundary walls of the fort swelled like the waves of the sea and merged into the ground. And there are a few parambulators moving around in cars নয় not children, but bundles of bread. A few baby girls are wrapping cloth around their heads to protect themselves from the freezing wind and are living like home-made bread. Some of them stood a camel away. Cloak on his body, turban wrapped around his head. Matching black glasses with this dress in the eyes. In exchange for 100 Mon, he was allowed to ride his camel for some time. These camels are somewhat diverse. Two humps on the back. Wool like wool all over the body. These Bactrian camels are found only in Central Asian countries. Nowhere else.
Some of the narrow roads like the stomach punch have penetrated inside the fort. As we climbed that sloping road, we had to stand against the wall for a herd of children coming from the opposite direction. They went a little farther and came back again. The gentleman who was with the group introduced himself and said that they were his students. He came to visit from a village near Bukhara. He is giving history lessons to the students in the guise of traveling. The children of his group have taken a picture with us. This is not my first experience in Uzbekistan. I have seen before, someone stopped in a hurry and said, can I take a picture with you? It takes a long time. Feel yourself a bit of a celebrity.
Inside the fort, there is an open space. Small museum on one side. There are some copies of the ancient Qur'an Sharif collected by the former emirs of Bukhara. At the entrance of the museum, a few peddlers are sitting with some sheets designed in colored yarn, hoping to sell. And next to them is a photo business. Like that boy in the morning, it has hundreds of miniature paintings. The caravan of camels along the Silk Road, the meeting of poets at Babar's court, the hunting expedition of the Nawab of Bukhara, the conquest of Taimur Long কত how many such stories have emerged on the ground of those images. Sauri whispered to me before going in front of the photo gallery, ‘I have a hobby of buying pictures of that Silk Route. If you ask me where I came from, I will say, from Cambodia. Don’t look at me again and tell me I’m Japanese. ’I looked at him with a bit of an inquisitive look and explained that Cambodia is a somewhat unknown country to people in many parts of the world. Rich or poor country, people do not know. At the same time they know Japan as a rich country. So when it comes to Japan, traders often double the price of goods in one go. Soori has traveled to 42 countries so far. Many places in the world have been his vision. So I have no way to ignore his experienced reasoning. I nodded and walked towards the photo shop.
Sauri's guess, however, was not false. As soon as you stand in front of that temporary photo shop, the first question of the shop is, what country are you from? Cambodia: That's all Sauri looks at me with sly eyes. On the other hand, I have a curious look at the shop. That vision means, how did this young man with an Indian look get along with this yellow native lady? Without giving him a chance to think much, Sauri asked him to bring down the miniature painting of the Silk Road. The pictures were stuck with a rope hanging between the two pillars. At the time of downloading the special picture, the seller said that he has at least two more pictures based on the same story. They are not on display. Inside the bag next to his seat. He wants to show them to Sauri too. Although the pictures are drawn on the same subject, there are differences in subtlety. There are also differences in the use of color. And the price is less than that. When he went to the ophthalmologist to test the strength of his eyes, he tested the box lenses one by one and said, is it better or the previous one, just like this picture seller also wants to know by presenting those two pictures one by one, does it feel better? Or was the previous one right?
After bargaining and planting a beautiful miniature painting, we come back to the depressing alleys of the old city. There is a yellowish house with a dome, wrapped in a thick wall and standing to one side. Seen from a distance, it looks like an abandoned house. Although the house is not completely uninhabited, as you can see from the light of a few tube lights burning in a stuffy place inside. On the other hand, it is not as if there is a front door in front of the house. As soon as he found the unobstructed passage, his feet sank into the obsession of a soft carpet like butter. The creeping buds woven into the carpet seem to twist the legs. Not only this carpet under the feet, there are a few more hanging inside the room with twinkling lights. However, the foliage woven in them is not yet complete. A few women are silently carrying out the task of fulfilling that perfection. Pulling the incomplete part of the carpet to his waist, he is displaying various expressive forms in it with strange skill.
A cafe next to the carpet shop. A little light coming from the cracks in the roof above saves the cafe from the need for artificial lighting. This cafe has no boundaries. From the place where the carpet shop ends, to the next brass taijas shop. Sitting here on such a cold afternoon and playing some sweets may not be bad. So I order cheese cakes with a pot of tea, and Sauri takes vegetable samsa. Samsa means the one we call Samucha. In this region it is Samsa, and in the neighboring country Kyrgyzstan it is Samsa.

The tea comes in a pale blue-and-blue design. Dilute liqueur tea. With two cups. While pouring tea from the pot, Sauri suddenly said, ‘I saw such a thing in Samarkand two days ago, then I thought I would not talk to any more boys on this journey. But what if you became friends with Mitali. I had to break my promise. 'Naturally, I pressed him to tell me what was going on. He hesitated a bit and said, ‘That day, while walking around the complex in the Samarkand region, a local Uzbek youth came to me and met me. Then in the evening you will find one. Bought me some hard drinks. Of course, I just took Pepsi myself. 'That's all I can guess, so I stopped him at this point and said,' Did the boy mean to make you drunk? So that he can take some advantage? ’He puts the cup of tea down on the table and says,‘ But I don’t get drunk so easily. I have a good habit of all this. 'Then he opened his purse bag and took out his mobile phone as if he remembered. Then he opened something and handed the phone to me and said, 'Read the message. The boy sent it after returning to the hotel that day. 'I took the phone from his hand and saw that it was written in the message, I want sex. Understandably, the boy's knowledge of English is not very deep, so with as few words as he knows, he has said the real evil of the mind without pretending. As I handed the phone back to him, I noticed a pure disgusting expression on Sauri's facial muscles. To avoid the unpleasant topic, I say, ‘So, do you have any boyfriend?’ ‘Well’ ... a little skeptical and says, ‘I don’t know. It's a bit complicated. There is one. He lives outside Tokyo. We met on Saturday. Let's have lunch together, drown in a glass of wine. But we are not serious about the relationship. It's going on, let's have a kind of relationship. 'He said this and turned on the mobile phone in his hand. Then he took out a key and pushed the phone towards me and said, look at this. Due to my previous experience, this time I looked at the screen of my mobile with some discomfort. But this time a picture of a child has emerged. She is lying on the bed wrapped in a blanket. I look up and say, ‘My sister’s daughter. Sister is three years younger than me. After this niece, now my mother is burning me. Your younger sister got married and became a mother, and what are you doing? This is one of the mother's questions when I call. Well, tell me, everyone in the world has to follow that one rule and get into the cycle of marriage, family and children - who gave such a vow? '
After tea at the cafe, we sat on the edge of a paved pond near the Sauri Hotel. Now the cloudy feeling in the sky has decreased a bit. Although the dim light of the sun is a little bit, the frost is a bit removed as it comes right. In the green water of the pond next to us, there is a mulberry tree standing with a bright reflection. Although that reflection is occasionally broken into pieces by the free-swimming of a few swans. Adjacent to the pond is the bench of Liabi House Restaurant. There is a thin curtain between the water of the pond and the bench. Not far from us, a peddler is selling wooden 'dutras' of various sizes. What we call Dotara, they call it Dutara. Huge map of the city towards the corner of the pond. There was a commotion. Several old men in lace hats are standing in front of the map, talking to each other in an excited manner. Maybe on a holiday, he is visiting Bukhara from a nearby village to find the whereabouts of the path. The question may come to my mind as I watch them find their way, ‘Have you ever lost your way, Sauri? Did you ever think that I had traveled the wrong way to the wrong address while touring forty-two countries? ’My question made Sauri think. For a while he was immersed in reminiscing. While I was thinking about him, I looked at a boy running by the toy car near the edge of the pond. ‘I had a strange experience a few years ago.’ I looked at him in response to Sauri. ‘I went to America a few years ago. In the city of Sedna, Arizona. To see the Red Rock Canyon. The plan was to fly from Sedna to Phoenix to Cancun, Mexico. From there I might go to Belize. But when I went to Cancun, I realized that something had happened to me. Impossible cough, the whole body is numb. It was as if I was slowly dying. '
‘Do you think it was some kind of flu? Sauri nodded silently. Then he says in a slightly lower voice, ‘I don’t know if you know or believe, but there is a kind of supernatural power in Sedna. I have been to Sedna before, but I have not been overwhelmed by such a strange force. Seeing the strong presence of disbelief in my eyes, Sauri added, ‘Do you know how I recovered then? You can say, he is also a coincidence. When I went to a hospital in Cancun and was not working even after taking medicine, one day I suddenly found a Tantric woman by the side of the road. He opened a small shop and did business. The lady rubbed a liquid on the bottom of my throat and massaged it for a while. ' A pendant with a golden chain hangs right there, looking like a measuring sphere preserved in the Ulubeg Observatory in Samarkand. "It's a weird thing," said Sauri, taking a dig at the previous words, "then I recover like a feast." After returning to Japan, I asked myself many times, why did I go to Sedna? But did death mean to deceive me into calling me there and trapping me? '
I understand very well what happened a few years ago that still brings a cloud of panic to his mind. Understandably, when Sauri remained silent for a while, Kiva sat down with a proposal to travel to the city. Will be leaving for Kiva this afternoon. The hotel manager arranged a taxi. However, he said, it will take about seven hours, not five, to get to Kiva from here. It is a bit scary to go so far alone in a taxi. Sometimes there are hundreds of miles, where there is no city, there is only the desert. If something happens there after dusk, it is not possible for anyone other than God to be a witness. Meanwhile, I have booked a hotel and return train ticket for my stay in Bukhara. When you go to Kiva, some money goes into the water. However, since the girl is saying so much, she is reluctant to ignore his request. I understand that I have to make a decision very quickly.