Divyanshi Chauhan
3rd Position | IFPD Article Writing Competition
Thirteen treacherous and scalding dawns of walking through the desert sand was how long I thrived on the rough brown sack of water my ammi had clipped to my pouch. The remnants of the hot liquid was just a sandy and salty mix of perspiration and the storm that had hit the dunes from the west, but was somehow still enough to help me reach the far end of this isolated expanse of sandy dunes. I knew Marakanda, or the land of wealth and abundance, as Ammi and Arifa would call it, wasn’t too far away from these burning dunes, just beyond the horizon, glittering with the jewels as my dreams had woven it to be. But after walking these long miles, and a tireless expanse of scalding sand, all that I was greeted with was a small hamletted market for the horsemen to stop by and cherish their cattle or perhaps even their horses with ropes, saddles, feed, and even tents to carry for their journey ahead.
I, on the other hand, had no cattle nor was I affluent enough to own a horse.
All that I had was the soft jingle of 14 Wu Zhu coins that my mother had sold
our poor hen Sheikh for, the greedy and noisy bird, mostly chasing after the
wind and the crumbs off of Ammi’s apron, was a cacophonous melody to my
mornings, but was still a member of the Yasin family, laying perhaps an egg or
two a week for my mother’s delectable bhurji, a feast of its own. But selling him
for the few coins felt a little heavier than the weight of the coins I now
carried. However, even now, I didn’t think to pull out those mints that were
still clinking in the pocket of my cloak; there were too many prosperous, rich
men around me, even their robes whispered with wealth, and I feared they’d even
mock the weary clink of my mother’s humble Wu Zhu’s. All this while I heard the
faint murmur of their husky aristocratic declarations, a foreign language perhaps
Turkic, as they readily inspected the expensive spread of goods that each of
the stalls of this desolate market had to offer.
Turning the corner, however, I found the very thing I had been seeking for
days, water. A
hollowed-out plastered cistern stood beneath the faint shade of a leaning date
tree, its edges cool and cracked with age. I hurried forward, the thought of
cooling relief propelling me further and making my steps lighter. Turning the
cistern over, I found that the water was no crystal stream; all it had was the
faint aftertaste of plaster and the slightest crunch of the desert sand. Yet I
still filled my pouch to the brim in an almost greedy and hurried manner before
finally letting a few more sips of it slide down my parched throat that could
challenge the drought in these desert dunes. It wasn’t as sweet as a sherbet
like the people of our land would claim it to be, saying that western wells
carried a softness to them, a strange sweetness to their depths, but all I
could taste was survival. But, it was the undeniable taste of that very water
that brought back the reminder of days-old hunger, making my starved stomach
growl shamelessly, as I glanced around the drinking station, praying that none
of the men in those fancy western silks and jewels heard this audacious herald
from my hungry belly demanding food. Perhaps a piece of bread or half a lentil
cake would not be a bad trade for a few coins that still jingled in my pockets,
and so, after clipping back my water sack I made my way to the small shack in
the corner, where a lady draped in a red head scarf similar to what Arifa wore,
sat there at the far end as steam and smoke curled from the clay hearth she was
haunching next to, while the scent of freshly roasted chickpeas mingled with
horse leather and dust and she flattened the dough with her palms. The bread,
round, soft at the centre and crisped at the edges, bore the imprint of her
fingers like crooked little sunbursts. I placed two Wu Zhu’s before her, only
for her to glance at them, turning one over in her fingers, almost like tracing
the story of the worn-out coin. Before muttering, “Eastern Mint,” as she
finally looked up at me with a faint amusement, almost like she met musafirs
like me as frequently as the desert was greeted with the sun, but something
about her smile told me that most of them came looking for the same abundance that
we in the eastern lands had only heard stories of. After waiting for a moment,
she added earnestly, almost trying to pacify me, “You’ve come far boy.” I
smiled weakly, clutching the steaming bread she offered me. “Far enough to
forget what fresh air smells like,” I said. She laughed, and poured me a ladle
of the lentil soup brewing in the pot next to the counter, into a cracked china
bowl, perhaps a small reward for my humour. The soup with its aroma felt almost
like home, with the cumin and coriander, something my Ammi would make if only
she had all the spices she dreamt of.
As I cherished the warm comfort
of the lentil soup, dipping the crispy cake into the warm liquid I overheard
the conversations that filled the air, from merchants haggling in Soghdian, a persian
trader draped in long silk tunic dyed in neela dye as it shimmered under the
desert sun, as he boasted about the silks of his land, which he claimed to be
“like morning dew on jade”. It was a sight to watch how the greek envoy with
his heavy accent tried to barter his bronze mirrors to a caravan guard. None of
them spoke the same language yet still somehow managed to decipher those bent
words, exaggerated gestures, all of it stitched together with the clink of those
coins. This path somehow began to feel not just like a passage to the ultimate
destination for abundance but more like a journey where the route was more than
just sand and stone; it was a living tongue, spoken in silver, silks, and
spices. Somehow, trade here didn’t seem like the barters back at home in those
stuffed and chaotic markets but more like treaties waiting to be
forged. Empires, I began to understand, were not built by armies on this path
to the land of abundance but through handshakes of merchants and possibly the
patience of the translators accompanying them. Finally, as the hours passed by,
the dusk melted into amber light, and the desert became a little more merciful
to the fellow travellers, merchants, and pilgrims. And walking away from the
chaos and bustle of the markets, I was greeted with sights that only proved the
silent soft power that trade had in this scalding desert sand, binding empires
that otherwise never spoke or perhaps never understood the language that others
spoke.
Finding a caravanserai in this part of the region wasn’t such a task as every
20-25 miles the travellers were greeted with another fortress for rest and
refuge that rose like an oasis amongst the endless ribbon of sand, built by
kings and even caliphs to shelter traders, diplomats, and pilgrims alike.
Entering the large structure of sand and stone, I was amazed to find the arched
gateways, the vast courtyard and the stone lanterns that lined the walls of the
structure, flickering from the desert breeze. Men from every corner of the
world sat around a central fire, their faces half lit as they exchanged broken
whispers of unknown languages, sharing tales of lost cities, rare silks and the
emperors they once served. That night under the desert sky, there was an old
scholar amongst them, whose words echoed through the courtyard as he exclaimed that
“on this route diplomacy is a necessity,” because there were no rulers of this
road to abundance. It was the empire. The road was itself the ruler, dictating
wealth, peace and even war through the trot of the caravans that never ceased
to move through it. Because on this path kings rose and fell, but as long as
trade breathed and flowed through this path, it would brew the storms of strong
diplomacy. Finally at dawn, as the first light spilled over the dunes, I fastened
my pouch, its weight somehow lighter but my heart heavy from knowing. Because
in this world that I was headed towards, every bit of it was stitched together
by these invisible threads, by merchants and dreamers, by gifts and promises
carrying pieces of one empire to the doorstep of another.
The next leg of my journey was meant to take me northward, past the hamletted
markets into the caravans that moved like creatures crawling across the plains.
Almost every camel carried its own unique scent from another world, carrying
not just their masters but the load of bright Chinese silks peeking from behind
the sacks wrapped in the faint scent of cedar oil, Persian silver, Roman glass
bits and even Indian spices, in such appealing colours that they made me wonder
if I had ever seen colours so bright under the light of the day, each of them meticulously
packed in sacks of golden jute. The desert was no longer humming with the same silence
like it did last night, as it began to pulse with footsteps, hoofbeats and
murmured bargains and I knew that Marakanda was now no longer a dream, but a
reality that stood before me in all its glory. The vast gates opened for the
traders with just a faint command from Sogdian merchant who bore the mint of
this prosperous city. And that was all the confirmation I needed for knowing
that I had finally arrived in the land of prosperity. But it didn’t surprise me
any less that the men around me, even the ones in ordinary tunics, spoke in many
tongues heralding the approaching merchants to their ateliers, converting
measures faster
than a priest could recite prayers in the land I came from. My land was no
comparison to their riches, but here in these bazaars it seemed as though even
faith had taken new shape, coexisting not just in the same space but also
bargaining values and teachings with one another, as a buddhist monk
transcribed verses onto a stack of palm leaves while a greek sculptor chiseled the
shiny marble, as bright as the proof that art and faith had journeyed as freely
as wealth in this land.
The nights in Marakanda hummed with stories. As days blurred into weeks, from
sunlit
bazaars of Soghd to the winding valleys around where Persian diplomats shared
stews and stories. Each step in the ancient artery of this route echoed with
how gold, silver and even words flowed more freely than the rivers that have
tried to map this road. I bartered small goods over time from the little
knowledge of currency and weights I had learnt, carried messages, helped load
camels, and even lent my voice to a few merchants who could not speak the language
of these lands. And slowly the jingling of my Wu Zhus became a steadier rhythm
with the weight of new mint, not lessened but multiplied, as if the road itself
had rewarded me for enduring its challenges. Yet even as my pouch grew heavier,
a familiar ache followed me through the night winds, the longing for the clay
walls of my home, the scent of my ammi’s bhurji and the simple laughter of my
sister that no gold could buy. And finally I decided to join a returning
caravan, eastbound this time, the sands a little more softer and the winds not
as cruel. Because the caravans were no longer carrying the load of
expectations, only lessons and stories worth more than an Emperor’s ransom.
Because on this path no empire was forged by conquest alone, but by the road
itself.