Babur Is Their Hero, Too

In yesterday's post, I wrote about the Mughal Emperor Babur, and why he remains my greatest hero. Today, let me continue on that theme, and write about the time I spent a night at the airport in Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Some fifteen years ago, I flew Uzbekistan Airways to London and back. My ticket was Delhi-Tashkent-London and Frankfurt-Tashkent-Delhi. I used the opportunity to travel from London to Frankfurt by bus - and that was one great adventure, about which I will write some other time.

After a week or so in Frankfurt with relatives and friends - and loads of Moroccan hash - I reluctantly took the flight back. However, my plane, a brand new Airbus, was delayed on the tarmac for over an hour, due to which I missed the connecting flight from Tashkent to Delhi. The airline offered me meal coupons at the airport restaurant and, since a visa to visit the city cost US$20, which I could ill-afford, I decided to spend the night in the airport itself.

The airport restaurant was completely empty when I landed up there for dinner - except for a small rock-n-roll band that played old Elvis and Chuck Berry classics; rather well, too. The food itself was ghastly. But the bottle of Uzbek wine that went with it was not too bad. I sat around sipping the wine, chomping on the boiled meat, and urging the band on. Then, suddenly, there was an exodus. Everyone split. The band packed up. The waiters disappeared. The barman was not to be seen. I sat around for a while, sipping the sweet wine, wondering what had happened - and then decided to investigate.

I wandered round the restaurant, wine-glass in hand, unable to find a soul, when all of a sudden I heard muted clapping coming from a room beyond. Thinking something interesting may be happening there, I opened the door a crack and peered in. Everyone seemed to be there - the entire restaurant staff, and all the members of the rock-n-roll band. Nothing much was really happening - they were all watching a programme on a big colour television. Seeing me, they asked me to join them, and I did. I couldn't understand a word, but it seemed to be a historical programme, with sword-carrying men in strange clothes, riding horses and all that. Every once in a while, the audience would cheer and clap excitedly. Then, finally, the show ended, and everyone packed up to leave - back to their duties. It was then that I posed the question to the rock-n-roll guitarist: What was this TV programme all about? The answer: This is a weekly programme on Babur - the Uzbek who conquered Hindostan! Babur was their Hero!

In yesterday's post I had said this about what Babur might feel if he were to return today to Kabul, where he lies buried:

But if Babur were to return to his beloved Kabul today, he would be shell-shocked - his maajun would be illegal because of white-skinned firangi barbarians who don't know their hash from their elbows; and his booze would be illegal because of the Taliban!

Today, I must add that he would probably return to Ferghana in Uzbekistan, where his father once ruled. Perhaps in Uzbekistan you still get maajun - the candy made from hashish that Babur was so overly fond of. Perhaps.

Someday, I will fly to Europe again via Tashkent. This time, I'll pay for the visa - and visit Samarkand, Bukhara and Ferghana. These are the places where Babur grew up. Hope I get some maajun.