This may sound like a private dedication but here it goes...
As my hubby laid uncomfortably after consuming tonnes of Vodka (neat) in a wedding feast that we had been privileged and honoured to be invited to, came at an end to the night of another wonderful day in Bukhara, I rubbed my painful nose from the sudden propel of my dearest hubby towards my button nose. The day couldn't had begun better with a cool breeze that blew steadily thorough the day.
We began our adventure of the day with a random walk about town and we met with some really friendly local Tajik that we would have wished to meet under better circumstances. The grand old 84-year grandmother of the family had passed on three days ago and we were invited as special guests to honour the doa Yasin to remember the passing of another generation. Hubby had made the collosal mistake of communicating that not only we had been married for only (a lie that surpassed the difficulty of language barrier) a year, which was to be mistaken as me being in my first month of conception of our first child. Otherwise we were treated with a kind of hospitality that we had almost forgotten existing in the modern world. I was whisked away as we approached the communion of the nearest and dearest of the lady who passed on.
As my hubby laid uncomfortably after consuming tonnes of Vodka (neat) in a wedding feast that we had been privileged and honoured to be invited to, came at an end to the night of another wonderful day in Bukhara, I rubbed my painful nose from the sudden propel of my dearest hubby towards my button nose. The day couldn't had begun better with a cool breeze that blew steadily thorough the day.
We began our adventure of the day with a random walk about town and we met with some really friendly local Tajik that we would have wished to meet under better circumstances. The grand old 84-year grandmother of the family had passed on three days ago and we were invited as special guests to honour the doa Yasin to remember the passing of another generation. Hubby had made the collosal mistake of communicating that not only we had been married for only (a lie that surpassed the difficulty of language barrier) a year, which was to be mistaken as me being in my first month of conception of our first child. Otherwise we were treated with a kind of hospitality that we had almost forgotten existing in the modern world. I was whisked away as we approached the communion of the nearest and dearest of the lady who passed on.
I was, of course taken away into the ladies' corner in which I was privy into a world of prayers and special recognition, and also a lot of fussing over the fact (or lacking of) that I was the youngest mother-to-be with my "one-month old baby" growing inside my very body. Suddenly I felt the primitive urge to carry my husband's child and it was some sort of news that had been spread within the compound and that only served to increase my guilt. Damn the lack of Russian or Uzbek / Tajik that we spoke and my hubby's wrongly-communicated state of my being.
The wake was, indeed an eye opener. It was the third day in which the whole scenario will be repeated on the seventh day interval and on the 40th and seventh month occurrence. My room was a splendid room of humble beginnings in which nothing was spared in welcoming those who paid their last respect to the grand old dame. Fruits of the sweetest and pastries of the freshest were served alongside home-cooked plov amidst copious amount of tea and fresh fruits. We learned that the reason of a stipulated 22m-long white cloth "kafan" to wrap the deceased body was also the very length of turbans adoring the heads of the merchants travelling on this old trading route - symbol of life and death is so intertwined, that God alone determines all, and on a practical note, after all, if you kick the bucket along the dry desert, you won't be hard-pressed to get yourself wrapped up and buried on the same day. We listened to tales of the greatest ruler of Bukhara, the Sufic philosophy and the superstitious asking from saints' tombs for many a blessing.
In the end, the most humble of return that we could garner was to reprint the photographs that we took and walked back in the evening to pass the small gift. We returned and saw the dawning of fatigue upon the eldest son of the lady who passed on and the quiet solitude only bestowed from another day having passed in the heat and breeze. Our photographs were a hit amongst the group, especially with the mother of the star child that we photographed. Nothing will prepare me for the joy of motherhood when I eventually carry the very essence of my husband and myself in the future, God willing.
In the end, the most humble of return that we could garner was to reprint the photographs that we took and walked back in the evening to pass the small gift. We returned and saw the dawning of fatigue upon the eldest son of the lady who passed on and the quiet solitude only bestowed from another day having passed in the heat and breeze. Our photographs were a hit amongst the group, especially with the mother of the star child that we photographed. Nothing will prepare me for the joy of motherhood when I eventually carry the very essence of my husband and myself in the future, God willing.
As my hubby turned noisily on his bed, I write to remember the wonderful progression of the evening when we left the wake into a lane that burst with the celebratory noise of a wedding procession making its way into the house of the bride. The groom was made to circle the burning fire outside the alley before he was to proceed into the house of his future father-in-law as this was to be a "pre-wedding" celebration of the local Uzbek people before the big solemnisation tomorrow at a mosque, followed by a huge feast on the boy's expense in a big restaurant - and we are invited.
It was a night of another hundred and one Arabian nights of dancing, singing, hard core sensuality from the many a woman dancing and handing out money at the same time to the wedding dancers and the odd tourist-make-a-fool-out-of-myself traveller that had been invited because we were deemed as "guest of honour" as we dug into what was to be our blessed dinner determined by the stroke of divine intervention and an opportunity to earn some Uzbek Som. I swore that I earned much better than I did in Samarkand! The wedding spent on us many a fresh salad, bread, copious amount of Vodka, Taskent red wine, and lots of drunk uncles that wanted to drink and toast with the two lost "tourists".
It was a night of another hundred and one Arabian nights of dancing, singing, hard core sensuality from the many a woman dancing and handing out money at the same time to the wedding dancers and the odd tourist-make-a-fool-out-of-myself traveller that had been invited because we were deemed as "guest of honour" as we dug into what was to be our blessed dinner determined by the stroke of divine intervention and an opportunity to earn some Uzbek Som. I swore that I earned much better than I did in Samarkand! The wedding spent on us many a fresh salad, bread, copious amount of Vodka, Taskent red wine, and lots of drunk uncles that wanted to drink and toast with the two lost "tourists".
We were invited to return the next day for some serious wedding fare (how come I see it as a dare?). I think at this point hubby and I will most probably run the other way if we see a wedding procession. If tonight was a second pre-wedding before the big Kahuna tomorrow, then what will happen there - they drink with a bathrub-sized bowl instead? These guys really party, work, and live hard. In a way it's very admirable but both of us aren't young buffaloes anymore. I know, I know... it's a lame excuse but already hubby was mistaking the alleys and I was deviously filming him knocked out and all grumpy. We better start seeing some more monuments soon before folks start thinking we're doing nothing under the pretext of travelling when in jest we're learning to drink Vodka neat! Gosh, what would an Uzbek or a Tajik think when they see us Malaysians downing our drinks mixed with tonic? (I hear someone muttered the word "wussy"?).
While we found our way through the dark lanes escorted by the brother of the bride, we could still hear the reveling inside the house as more dancing and singing emanated amidst the sleepiness of the town. All I can say are these:
(1) Uzbek and Tajik ladies are one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen;
(2) Uzbek and Tajik ladies are hardworking, loving, and dutiful;
(3) That I will love and serve my husband in a way inspired by modernity and the traditional grace of these wonderfully fun and industrious women;
(4) To keep an open mind to the learning of history from the local people;
(5) To never forget why we celebrate life; and most importantly
(6) To never, ever forget who you are
(1) Uzbek and Tajik ladies are one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen;
(2) Uzbek and Tajik ladies are hardworking, loving, and dutiful;
(3) That I will love and serve my husband in a way inspired by modernity and the traditional grace of these wonderfully fun and industrious women;
(4) To keep an open mind to the learning of history from the local people;
(5) To never forget why we celebrate life; and most importantly
(6) To never, ever forget who you are
It was weird to walk out of a mourning wake into a bustling wedding but here we are in Bukhara and I will always forever be thankful to the locals and the Big Chief for making this day of my life, one that will always be unforgettable and irreplaceable.
And that too dearest hubby if you're reading this, including the tiger balm rub, the nose knock, and your (now) infamous statement "honey, I think my insides are burning" after they made you drink that bowl (you weren't seeing things I assure you) of Vodka. Love you lots and long time.
And that too dearest hubby if you're reading this, including the tiger balm rub, the nose knock, and your (now) infamous statement "honey, I think my insides are burning" after they made you drink that bowl (you weren't seeing things I assure you) of Vodka. Love you lots and long time.
