CHINA A vase of synthetic red tulips shuddered on the table
as the train sped along uneven ground. Steadying my flask of
jasmine tea, I held back the window curtain and peered out at
the expanse of sand, reddening in the soft evening light. Then
I noticed the embroidered image on the lace curtain: three
Bactrian camels, double-humped and furry, mountains peak-
ing in the background.
It wasn’t dissimilar to the scene outside, deep in northwest
China’s Xinjiang Province. As the warm smell of wok-fried mut-
ton and chili drifted in from the dining car, I ducked out of my
compartment, threading between passengers who nodded and
nudged me in the right direction.
I’d been warned not to travel here. According to China’s state-
run press, it was far too dangerous for foreigners, due to unrest.
Despite warnings, I had no other way to continue by rail from
mainland China through Kazakhstan and Russia, partly along
the old Silk Route, then eventually back to my home in London.
And I was determined not to let anything stop me.
Within hours of my arrival in the city of Turfan, I found the
Turkic-speaking Muslim Uygur community gentle and welcom-
ing, inviting me into their family-run cafés to try bone broth
that glistened, fat chewy noodles, and mutton skewers cooked
on sidewalk grills. Chinese soldiers roamed the streets. From
the closed-circuit cameras placed on mosques and the enforced
restriction on beards and headscarves to the patrolling tanks, a
feeling of unease permeated the city.
Saddened to leave Turfan, I boarded the new high-speed
service to Urumqi, which connects the two cities in just over
an hour, and found a distinct absence on board of Uygur pas-
sengers, most of whom were forbidden from traveling freely
within the region.
Finding an empty table, I sat down just as a Buddhist nun with
a shaved head ran up to me, laughing. Flummoxed, I strained
to catch a few words from her stream of chatter and eventually
extracted “Indian.” A fellow passenger translated, explaining
that she was curious as to whether or not I was Indian, and I
confirmed that I was indeed of Indian ethnicity. Thrilled, the
nun clapped, slapped her thighs, and sat down, swinging her feet
like a child. I learned that the nun was excited to meet someone
of my origin, as India had come to the rescue of the Dalai Lama
and she was grateful. The nun had fled Tibet, and unable ever
to return, she had made her home near Urumqi.
Joyfully, the nun pored over my photos from the Potala Palace
in Lhasa, scrolling through each one with concentration before
realizing her stop was approaching. Pulling out a gold iPhone,HAVE FAITH
IN THE
KINDNESS OF
STRANGERS
OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2019 113BY
MONISHA RAJESH