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enemies, he said, his eyes twinkling with merriment. Was this true or just gossip?

But whatever it was, Kashgars heart of darkness was distinctly palpable. The siren
that wailed and echoed through the silence of the night confirmed this.

Modern-day Fragrant Concubines

As the City of Saints, Kashgar has fascinating records of religious practices such

as of the shrine of Bibi Anna, who granted unmarried girls young and handsome
husbands. Ella Sykes was to chronicle some of the prayers at the shrine: Oh Allah!

Oh Saint! Grant me a house with a kettle on the fire and a spoon in the kettle! May
the house have carpets and towels, and may I be granted a husband whose father
and mother are dead!

Then there is the famous Sigm or Mud Shrine for skin diseases. One had to

throw a lump of mud and wish for a cure. Sure enough, I found posters of religious
tours pasted on walls in the manner of Bollywood posters. If one read between

the lines, it would appear that such tours were motivated by profit. The Uyghur

scholar Rahila Dawut suggests that the exploitation of religious culture for tourism
is common. It seems a few state or private tourist companies have begun to buy

management rights to many of the shrines in Xinjiang. In stark comparison to

the posters that suggest religious freedom, Dawut chronicles the reality: festivals

such as Ordam Festival, the largest Shrine Festival at the tomb of martyr Ali Arslan
Khan in Yengisheher county, has been banned. Illegal religious activities, feudal
superstition and separatism are cited as the main reasons.

Kashgars outskirts boast the mazar (tomb) of the famous scholar Mahmud

al-Kashgari, who authored the eleventh-century masterpiece the Diwan Lugat al

Turk, a dictionary of Turkic languages. He was a contemporary of Al Biruni, who
Indians may remember as the polymath who wrote the famed Tarikh al-Hind (A

History of India). I found that most tourists head out to the mazar of the patron
saint of the city, the Sufi leader Apaq Khoja (khoja literally translated means master)
of whom, it is said, converted the Buddhists of Kashgar to Islam.

I set out for the mazar located on the fringes of Kashgar. It is said that

the seventeenth-century mazar was originally built for Muhammad Yusuf Khoja, the
father of Apaq Khoja. Today it is more popularly known as the mazar of Eparkhan

also written as Ipar Khan, or else known as Xiang Fei or Fragrant Concubinesaid

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to be the beauteous favoured concubine in the eighteenth-century Beijing court of

the Qianlong Emperor. The Emperor was smitten by her sweet fragrance and thus
called her Xiang Fei (literally meaning Fragrant Concubine).

There are two versions of the Fragrant Concubines love story with

the Emperor. The Chinese version says that the concubine pined for the Chinese
emperor after his death. Not the Uyghur version, though, which contends that the

concubine was an unhappy one who constantly plotted the death of the Emperor
even going as far as hiding a dagger under her clothes.

The social anthropologist Edmund Waite asserts that it is a mistaken

assumption that the Fragrant Concubine was buried at the site. But this has not

quite deterred the flow of tourists. A dirt road that leads to the complex was full of
tour buses and cars. The complex looks entirely non-Chinese. It is built in Islamic
style, a few structures of brown earth and buildings covered with white and blue

ceramic tiles in floral motif, the vibrant colours of the tilesjade green, mustard
yellow and prussian blueevocative of Isfahan.

A mosque and the mazar constitute the complex: at the time of visit, the

former was undergoing restoration, while the latter has withstood the ravages of
time. It is a grand green and white structure with the geometry of the Taj Mahala
grand pishtaq (doorway) with minarets at the four cornersbut it had none of the

Tajs grandeur or opulence. The exterior was inlaid with floral ceramic tiles in vivid

blue, bottle green and mustard yellow; the interior was plain and ordinary. One of

the tombs inside was covered with a plain green cloth; the other covered with red
marked the concubines final resting spot.

The tour group ahead of me had made a beeline for the inside and then

rushed to the rose garden. I was soon to find out why. Two local large-eyed, ingenious
beauties had dressed the part of the Fragrant Concubinefaces caked with makeup, necks adorned with cheap costume jewellery. One wore knee-high boots; the
other wore loose harem pants. Get a picture taken with the Fragrant Concubine!
they shouted.

Party plays out the fable of Aladdin as it trades old for new

Another prominent landmark in Kashgar is the historic 500-year-old settlement

described as the best-preserved example of a traditional Islamic city to be found

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anywhere in Central Asia. This settlement still stands, now enveloped by modern
trappings of housing blocks and traffic. The settlement is atop a hill: a cluster of
tightly packed mud and wood houses along narrow alleys.

The ticket I bought said (which I quote verbatim):

The famous poet Guo Xiaochuan have written like this. You do not know
Xinjiang horse is strong without entering Tianshan mountain. You do not
know Xinjiangs wilderness without entering the southern Xinjiang. You
do not know Xinjiang history is so long without reaching Kashgar. While
how about not walking on this street? Then you know nothing.

This clunky translation explained why Caucasians in China find English teaching
jobs for a song!

But for a fact, the walk was enlightening. It seemed that the existing houses

and households had been turned into a living museum. As the accompanying
flyer said:

Visiting the old town, you can feel the legacy of middle ages and enjoy the
typical Uyghur folk customs. All kinds of ancient living style will be shown
in Kashgar such as carpet making, Uyghur hats hand making, musical
instruments hand making, copper article hand making. These kinds handmaking skill hand down from one generation to another generation. You
can visit Uyghur family and enjoy traditional Uyghur food here. The usual
entertainments with custom will make a deeper impression on you.

The streets and houses, all the uniform hue of earth, seemed fascinatingly mysterious.
I noticed some doors had been left ajar. They opened into lived-in courtyards

covered with grape trellis. Stacked with firewood and coal, cycles and scooters,
washing lines and potted plants, they were homes that people still lived in. Some

doors remained steadfastly shut. A closer inspection of the doors left open revealed
the stamp in Chinese calligraphy saying wenming hu or civilised dwelling.

A group of noisy kids cycled and played at a dead end (the hexagonal

pattern of cobble stones indicates whether you are moving to a main street,

rectangular pattern towards a dead end). Looking after them was the oldest girl, a
nineteen-year-old called Teherniya. Teherniya was beautiful as Uyghur women are;
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like other Uyghur women, she wore the headscarf (not the veil). This revealed her
face and sharp features: a tall nose, large eyes and delicate skin. She said she did not
go to schoolthe other kids quipped that she was waiting to get married.

Teherniya invited me in. Teherniyas housecertified civilisedwas

The neatly swept, open courtyard boasted a well in the centre, a large

the first (and last) peek into a Uyghur household, albeit a Party-aided idealised,
model household.

urn stood with a stone on its lid. Drinking water, she explained. To the right stood

the common wall with the neighbor. A door on the opposite side opened to a large,
longish living room astoundingly rich and colourful with an array of different kinds
of kilims (rugs and carpets) a stack of mattresses on the side. This is where the
menfolk sleep, she explained. There was yet another room inside, dark and gloomy
but lavishly decorated with an assortment of rugs used by the ladies in the house.

A small alley opened to a space where the family kept their sheep and then onward
right to the balcony looking out to a vast empty space. In the distance, the main
street ran parallel. Beyond were new mud-colored housing blocks.

The household was civilised all right. The Party gave us these wondrous

carpets to put in the house and helped us build our modern gussalkhana, you know

with an English pot, she said happily (gussalkhana or washroom is also the word

used in North India), taking me back to the open courtyard by the entrance, where
the gussalkhana sported a brand new English pot (i.e. a ceramic commode).

After my grunt of approval, we returned to the balcony to survey the vast

open space below. The space was littered by debris: old clothes, broken windows,

shafts of wood and perhaps even a bicycle tyre. Teherniya confirmed my suspicion.
The Party demolished some old buildings and is building a public park and a
shopping plaza, she said. Across the road lined by mangy weeping willows, I

eyed the mud-colored stack of modern apartments. Families are being asked to
move from here. Those who do will get apartments there, she said, pointing in the

direction. Did she want to move into an apartment, I asked. She was civilised enough
not to answer.

I had neither known about relocation plans designed to move families from

the old city into newer apartments across the road (the New York Times reporter

Michael Wines had reported in 2009 that 13,000 families would be moved), nor
the fact of the park and shopping plaza designed at the cost of demolition of the
old townthe demolition of which the Party justified in the name of earthquake

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protection. Teherniya showed me how only a small part of the old city wall was

intact. It was where I had bought the entrance ticket. The surrounding moat of yore

had been flattened to become a road. I looked at Teherniya who looked as though

she could call the Party bluff. That momentary silence, I could feel the rage of the
girl, waiting to get married.

The magic of the Silk Route is still alive

If there is one memory that makes me smile, it is of the bazaar. I asked one scooter
taxi to take me to a bazaar, not specifying one because I did not know any well. It
turned out to be the Atush Zapar Kuch market, which sold cloth and dresses. The

market appeared to be a massive tin shed, sort of a large extended garage that was

maddeningly busy and frighteningly huge. Outside, ragged and scruffy vendors who
looked like they washed once in a blue moon made freshly squeezed pomegranate
juice for a fawning audience; bales of cloth dominated the inside.

Then were the stall owners: old gentlemen, impressive in their long jackets,

badam caps and with such beautiful, dignified manners that they qualified as the
never-ending spirit of the Silk Road. I looked at the stack of Russian headscarves in
my hand; I had bought them not quite knowing why. The elderly gentleman at one
of the stalls had been charmingly persuasive. There was no hard haggling, no venom

of the Chinese kind. Just pure sweetness that made me feel like a Queen: as would
with a trader whose trade ran in his blood.

On the way back, I stopped at the market in front of the Id Gah mosque.

While a large part had been cleaned up, some alleys remained as crummy as
before. It was a riotous evening market. Sellers from the nearby pockets had pulled

up in their donkey carts. On sale were irresistible things that modern markets

cannot quite match: figs just freshly plucked, heaps of sweet-smelling juicy melons,
mounds of grapes so fresh that you could see the leaves and vines. Grape-popping
seemed a popular sport. I watched as young lads threw them up in the air, to catch
them by the mouth. Oils, scarves, turbans and hats. Samovars, daggers and knives.

Many gathered around vendors sitting on low stools with large, cane

baskets, covered over with white cloththe bread-makers of Xinjiang. He is the

best baker in Kashgar, said a helpful old man. I bought a loafwarm, fragrant

sourdoughwhich cost a pittance. It was providence as it was the only food that I

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was to eat the next day.

The skies had begun to darken in anticipation of rain. I scurried back, the

loaf under my arm, just as the wind was beginning to whistle. As if on cue, thin
sheets of sand began to fly as I entered Qinibagh. Rain, storm and all would settle,
I thought.

In a few hours into the night, the wind howled like a pack of sorrowful

wolves on the loose while dark clouds whirled like dervish. The old window frames

rattled in despair. The city seemed unnaturally quiet, dark and still, echoing only the
fury of nature. Then the lights went out and the storm continued to rage.

In the early hours of the morning light, the scene was of haunted

desolationthe sky muddy grey, swirling with sheets of sand flying. Caught were
listless leaves of chinar and grape and dirty polythene. Downstairs, the reception
had filled up, many had sought shelter in the building. No electricity. The taps

would run dry, informed the receptionist. All flights out of Kashgar would be
rescheduled, the reception assured. I was to leave the next day and then connect

back home. I could hardly protest. I had half a bottle of water and a loaf of bread. But
I could not discard my niggling sense of anxiety.

It was a day spent looking out of the window, praying for the storm to

The next morning was a fine day, as if nothing had happened at all. Everything

quell. The hours passed slowlynothing changing at all, until suddenly late in the
night, the city turned serene.

had fallen into place, including the flight back to Beijing, scheduled on time.

The airport was chaotic largely because of the backlog of flights. The flight

would leave, assured the airlines, but it would be late afternoon at the earliest. It

was early morning and with the flight re-scheduled late afternoon, it seemed the
city was calling me back!

I spotted two young and yuppie Chinese backpackers on the same flight

back to Beijing. They told me that they had decided to wait it out at the airport. What
a waste of a day, they grumbled. I told them that I had decided to head back, could I
call them (or they me) just so to tally the exact time of departure?

One of them, Yao Yin, bespectacled and earnest, asked if he could join

We flagged a taxi and headed back to the Id Gah Mosque area. It was Friday,

with me. His friend Wang Lin would call him or me and keep us in the loop about
departure time. This seemed the ultimate foolproof plan.

the opportunity of a lifetime to see the massive flow of the people into the mosque.

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As we journeyed to town, I sized up Yao Yin. He was freshly married, straight

out of Harvard, and spoke perfect English. He worked in a cushy multinational in

Beijing, now traveling to see lesser-known China. He explained why he wanted to

latch onto mehe felt safer with me, a foreigner. Some might mistake me as your
partner, your boyfriendTaiwanese, Hong Kongeranything but CHINESE, he said
with exasperation. This was certainly a first: a smart Chinese man who had found a

perfectly pragmatic solution to visiting the alleys of the Mosque area, areas he had
been forced to skirt because it was dangerous. I casually asked what his father did
for a living. No surprises herehis father was a Party member.

It was true that Friday appeared more colourful and festive than usual,

with people gaily dressed. The square sported a relaxed air. We made our way to

a snaking alley and stopped where a crowd had gatheredfreshly baked minced
meat samsas (Indian samosas) just out of the clay oven. The baker asked me if my
boyfriend was from Taiwan; I said he was. The crowd roared in approval. I thought I
saw Yao Yin fiddling with his ring.

The alley was a magical worldfrozen in time. Medicine shops, ration

shops, sweetmeats, carpets, pots and pans, herbal teas, fragrant oils, bread shops
and dhurries. The dhurrie mats came from Afghanistan when it was still good
times, said the owner, pouring us black tea from a copper samovar. Soon both of us
were lugging two heavy, identical dhurries.

Around the corner was a shop that sold musical instruments. Are you

Indian? asked the shopkeeper. Yes, I answered. Your boyfriend is from Hong
Kong? Yao Yin nodded in agreement. Well, come in then and take a look, said
the shopkeeper.

There were a few paintings on the walls; one in particular was alluring.

This painting is by a Uyghur painter, a talented, reclusive Uyghur intellectual, most

wanted by the government for sedition, he explained. I will sell this for US $2000
and not a penny less. That is what the family deserves. It seemed that the painters
days were numbered.

There was no doubting that the painting was striking with its muted tones,

not the gaudy street scenes sold at the souvenir shops. The strokes were deft, the

painting realistic and melancholic in its depiction of an ancient street in Kashgar.

The shopkeeper took us out and pointed in the direction of modern plazas and shop-

houses. The street existed, it was real until demolished and now look at the modern
plaza, he said, his voice quivering with anger. We stood twiddling our thumbs.

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Just then a man in a badam cap and a long robe made a regal entry into

the shop and we all followed him in. I do not know who he was, but he seemed

to command respect. All the assistants stood up. This stranger was obviously a
familiar face. We watched him tune a stringed lute. Sing, pleaded the shopkeepers.
And he acquiesced.

The stranger had a golden voice. I do not know what he sang, a rhapsody

so deeply sorrowful and moving that all of usthe Uyghur shopkeeper, his battery

of assistants, Yao Yin, the American-educated Chinese in search of Chinas lesserknown, and Istood entranced and transfixed by the magic of his voice. It was this
voice of angst that echoed long after the singing ceased.

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