Walking down the streets of Tashkent or Andijon, I would suddenly find ladies rushing up to me, catching me by the arms and wanting to be photographed. My salwar-kurtas seemed to fascinate them and, sometimes, they would playfully cover my head with my dupatta.
Nowhere in the world have I been made to feel so special by absolute strangers.
It was 2001, and I was part of a CII delegation on a three-city visit to Uzbekistan. Quite a few of us were from the automotive industry and we immediately formed a little group, exploring the open markets and restaurants whenever we had the opportunity.
Our first stop was Tashkent. We arrived late on Sunday afternoon, just in time to enjoy the city's many fountains at sunset.
Roadside artists were doing brisk business sketching tourists, while innumerable open stalls displayed ceramic and woodwork souvenirs. A common motif was Humo, the mythical bird whose outstretched wings symbolize peace, good fortune and the aspiration for freedom and prosperity. It was often paired with a fish, representing their two great rivers - Amu darya and Syr Darya.
Food, however, gave us some cause for concern. We had heard that horse meat was commonly eaten in Uzbekistan. At our first restaurant, we drew what we thought was a reasonably convincing horse and marked it with a bold cross. The waiter nodded emphatically, and we chose to believe that he had understood us.
The matter took a hilarious turn at the Mayor's banquet in Samarkand. Being the only lady in the group, I was seated next to the host. We were having a pleasant conversation about a shared culture and common words such as murabba.
Enjoying a particularly tender piece of cold meat, I asked our host whether it was horse meat. Much to my chagrin, he suddenly became flustered and red-faced and brought both fists crashing down on the table. The cutlery rattled and the glasses shook. I was ready to disappear under the table.
"Horse meat?" he asked, clearly aghast. "Horse meat on my table? Never! It is always colt!"
A popular staple is their local bread, non - baked rather like naan against the walls of a clay tandoor, but more like a round, substantial loaf. Eaten with almost every meal, it holds a special place in Uzbek culinary tradition. In Samarkand, we were given the bread as a gift. Many of us travelled onward the next day carrying our precious packets, only to arrive in the Delhi heat to find the bread green and wilting.
A popular staple is their local bread, non - baked rather like naan against the walls of a clay tandoor, but more like a round, substantial loaf. Eaten with almost every meal, it holds a special place in Uzbek culinary tradition. In Samarkand, we were given the bread as a gift. Many of us travelled onward the next day carrying our precious packets, only to arrive in the Delhi heat to find the bread green and wilting.
What struck me most was the dramatic difference in the skylines of the three cities. From the modern buildings and well laid-out streets of Tashkent, to the dreary industrial quarters of Andijon - relieved only by the sprawling gardens around Babur's memorial - and finally to the magnificent structures of Registan Square in Samarkand, it felt like taking a walk backwards through time.
The delegation had its share of long meetings and deliberations, and CII duly recorded the visit's success in its quarterly journal.
What stayed with me, though, was images of simple, smiling people. The hugs from complete strangers. Their delight in Hindi movies. And the sheer architectural splendor of Uzbekistan.
And, of course, whenever I think of Uzbekistan, I can still hear it:
"Indiski! Indiski!"
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