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amarkand, the third-largest city in Uzbekistan, has always stirred my surprise and wonder. Perhaps it is because, as a child, I read so many tales that painted Samarkand as a place of flying carpets and magical marvels. My wife and I had often dreamt of visiting the city. Our wish was finally granted. In June 2025, we arrived in Samarkand at 7:35pm on board a fast train.
The capital of the Timurid dynasty was alive with evening energy. Famous for its mosques and mausoleums, Samarkand lies along the historic Silk Road, its name echoing through ancient tales. Travelling from Bukhara, we were eager to explore the streets of the city once celebrated as the cultural capital of the Islamic world. The air felt fresh. We sensed at once that the city had a modern structure, broad roads, clean surroundings and efficient trams, buses and taxis.
Using the Yandex Go taxi service, we reached our family-run hostel, Elita House, where we were warmly welcomed by the owner, Jamshed, and his daughter, Maryam. Maryam proved very helpful; her fluency in English made her an ideal interpreter and guide for the next couple of days.
As soon as we had placed our luggage in the small, cosy room, our young guide eagerly told us about a must-see event: a light and sound show at Registan Square, a short walk from the hostel, beginning at 9pm. Registan Square is home to three grand madrassas, the Ulugh Beg Madrasah (1417-1420), the Sher-Dor Madrasah (1619-1636) and the Tilya-Kori Madrasah (1646-1660).
Without wasting time, we asked for directions and reached the venue fifteen minutes before the show began. The square was full of tourists, all waiting expectantly. Over the next twenty-five minutes, the show eloquently narrated the story of Samarkand’s glory. The entire façade of the Tilya-Kori Madrasah transformed into a giant screen on which vivid visuals and crisp narration held the audience spellbound. From the city’s ancient origins to the Mongol onslaught, the story unfolded with striking brevity and clarity.
It was history presented in an unusual and captivating way, truly remarkable. Our first impression of Samarkand was exceptional. We felt exhilarated to be there. When the show ended, we strolled back to our hostel, eager to rest and recharge for the adventures that awaited us in the coming days.
The following morning began with breakfast in Elita Hostel’s courtyard. Somehow, the hostess had anticipated our preference for tea with milk. We were served a delightful platter of pancakes, a fried egg, salami, buckwheat and fresh tomatoes and cucumbers. “What a way to start the day,” I said to my wife.
We had planned to visit Gur-i-Amir (Amir Timur’s Mausoleum) early in the morning to take advantage of the cooler hours, as the day was expected to be scorching, with temperatures rising above 40°C.
On our way to the mausoleum, we passed the Khoja Nisbador Mosque, an elegant structure supported by finely carved wooden pillars. The mosque had two distinct sections: one old but carefully restored, the other newly built in the traditional style. As we walked through narrow streets with a central water channel running between them, the high azure dome of the mausoleum came into view. Turning a corner, we stopped in awe. The sight was magnificent.
The architectural style of Gur-i-Amir has had a profound influence on Mughal architecture across the Indo-Pak subcontinent. Our first glimpse of the ribbed dome was breathtaking. We lingered at the corner, quietly absorbing its beauty. Already captivated by the striking exterior, we tried to imagine the splendour of the interior.
As we approached the main entrance, we paused before the ticket kiosk. Entry was priced at 75,000 soms per person. “We’re spending millions these days,” I joked, recalling our recent experiences in Uzbekistan.
Tickets in hand, we were about to step through the gate when we noticed the perfect morning light for photography. The main portal, with its blue, white and brown tiles decorated in geometric and floral patterns, held us spellbound. We couldn’t resist taking a few photos, eager to capture the intricate details. The security guard at the gate smiled at our enthusiasm and kindly offered to take a few shots for us.
As the morning wore on, more tourists began to gather near the entrance. We decided to move inside the main hall, anticipating something truly marvellous.
A large oil portrait of Amir Timur hung on one of the walls facing the entrance. The mausoleum, constructed in 1403 for Timur’s grandson and heir, Muhammad Sultan, was originally not meant to house the conqueror himself. Timur had built a smaller tomb for his own burial in Shahr-i-Sabz, his birthplace, near the Ak-Saray Palace. However, when he died in 1405, severe snow blocked the mountain roads, and, according to chronicles, he was laid to rest here instead.
As we stepped into the main hall, reality and fantasy seemed to merge. The chamber was softly illuminated by warm yellow lights in the corners. The ceiling, glowing with golden hues, shimmered gently in the light. Pointed arches adorned with muqarnas, intricate stucco work, and gold-painted calligraphy and motifs lent the interior an almost otherworldly beauty. The sheer abundance of detail was overwhelming; sitting on a bench in one corner felt like the wisest decision.
Gazing upwards, we lost ourselves in the intricacy of the design. “How could all of this have been conceived, built and executed? It must have been a colossal effort,” my wife remarked, her eyes fixed on the walls.
After a while, recovering from our awe, I lifted my camera to capture the interior, only to realise that we were in a mausoleum, a place of solemnity. Out of respect, we put the camera away and offered a silent prayer.
The complex contains the graves of Timur, his two sons and two grandsons. Also buried in the main hall are two of his most esteemed teachers: Mir Said Baraka, Timur’s primary spiritual guide, and Sheikh Seyid Umar, perhaps the most revered of his mentors.
Standing there, I felt the tales of Amir Timur begin to stir in my mind: the ruthless campaigns, the towers of severed heads and the legendary clash with Bayezid Yildirim, the swift and skilful Ottoman ruler. What a life he had lived! I found myself lost in thought, trying to comprehend the enigma of a man who once ruled vast lands from Samarkand.
My reverie was gently broken as a group of Chinese tourists entered the hall, their voices in Mandarin echoing softly through the golden chamber.
History felt like an enigma, one I wasn’t quite ready to unravel. I tried to capture the walls, ceilings and intricate corners with my camera, but with every click, it became clear that their grandeur was beyond what a small lens could hold. “Open your eyes and mind, capture the whole moment in your head,” my inner voice urged. We were grateful to Allah for allowing us to witness such beauty through our own eyes, without relying on modern technology.
Around us, several tourist guides were narrating stories about the great conqueror and his mausoleum. After spending some time inside, we decided to step out. We needed a break after such an intense immersion in architectural splendour.
Just outside the exit, a row of souvenir stalls awaited visitors. We had noticed that in Uzbekistan, almost every madrassah, monument or mausoleum was accompanied by small shops and carts selling keepsakes. One stall, run by a local family, caught our attention. A young girl, about 14 years old, sat on a bench nearby, keeping an eye on the stall while working through her English-language exercise books. Her father, eager to speak to us, tried to start a conversation, but language proved a considerable barrier. Still, through gestures, smiles and a few halting words, we managed to communicate. It was a reminder that human connection often transcends words; warmth and curiosity can bridge the widest linguistic gaps.
A short distance away, we noticed an English-speaking guide talking to an American tourist. Curious, I approached them to learn more about Timur. The guide was in full flow, describing the conqueror’s campaigns and achievements with enthusiasm. The American tourist, deeply engaged, turned out to be a keen student of Islamic history and architecture. He had already travelled through several Muslim countries and, to my surprise, spoke knowledgeably about Salahuddin Ayyubi and his legendary conquests.
As our conversation deepened, I sensed my wife’s gentle gaze from a distance, a silent reminder that our next destination awaited. With a smile and a quick goodbye, we turned once more towards the streets of Samarkand.
We offered the Zuhr prayers in a nearby mosque. It was about 2pm, and the summer heat had reached its peak. We decided to return to the hotel for a short break, a chance to cool off and reflect on the splendours of architecture we had just witnessed.
After a brief nap, hunger struck, and we set out for a highly rated manti (dumpling) restaurant, Qazoz al Manti, about a kilometre away. As we entered the modest eatery, we saw a middle-aged man carefully preparing dumplings while his ten-year-old daughter washed dishes nearby. What caught our attention throughout our trip was how confident and industrious the women of Uzbekistan appeared, often working with a quiet determination that matched, and at times surpassed, that of their male counterparts.
After a simple yet satisfying meal, we were ready to explore the beautiful Registan Square, the heart of Samarkand. We had planned our visit so that we could enter in the late afternoon, allowing time to wander through the madrassahs as the sun softened, and then stay on into the night to watch the light and sound show once again, this time from inside the hedge that cordoned off the ticketed viewing area.
We were in awe the moment we entered the square through the automatic gate, having paid the 100,000 soms per person entry fee. It was around 5.30pm, and the soft daylight was perfect for capturing the beauty of the surroundings. Registan Square felt like a living classroom for photographers, every corner, niche and surface alive with geometry, rhythm and light. The Uzbek authorities have spared no effort in restoring the splendour of these monuments. I found myself wondering how breathtaking this place must have looked in its prime, when trade caravans from distant lands arrived with goods and stories. It must have been a truly spectacular sight.
We stepped into each madrassah complex, captivated by the intricacy of their designs and decorations. Though each building had its own distinct personality, they shared a similar structure: a richly ornamented façade opening into corridors lined with rooms on either side and a central hall crowned by a mihrab. Today, instead of classrooms, there are souvenir shops and cafés; in place of teachers once lecturing on theology, philosophy, astronomy and religion, tourist guides now narrate tales of the past.
The seats of learning have become sites of sightseeing. A quiet sense of melancholy lingered as we walked through the courtyards. Yet, somewhere within that feeling, a gentler thought emerged, that everything changes for a reason, perhaps even for the best, though our understanding may not always be deep enough to see it.
The sun was sinking and a golden light bathed the square. The buildings seemed to transform before our eyes, their mosaics glowing as if newly born from the sunset. Registan Square had become a paradise for photographers, each of them eager to capture the splendour of this fleeting hour. “Can a device with such limits ever hold this beauty?” I wondered. “Why not try?” came the second thought, and I lifted my camera. Climbing a few steps to frame one of the minarets of the Tilya-Kori Madrassah, I felt as though I were peering into a scene from a dream, a vision from centuries ago, when caravans arrived at dusk and traders gazed in awe at these glittering structures.
As twilight deepened, the square’s lights came on, casting a warm glow across the façades. The entire scene turned theatrical, the golden hues of sunset mingling with artificial light, creating a spectacle of colour and contrast. Though the long day had left us weary, the illumination seemed to revive us. The energy of the place was contagious; it was impossible not to be swept up in its magic.
We made our way towards the Tilya-Kori Madrassah, where we had earlier noticed prayer mats laid inside one of the side chambers. The building was hushed now, with only a few tourists lingering quietly. The mihrab shimmered under a soft yellow light, the air thick with calm. Offering our prayers in that serene corner felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, intimate, grounding, transcendent. Even now, the memory of that stillness remains with us: the glow of the walls, the faint scent of age and devotion, and the quiet sense of gratitude that washed over us in that moment.
After the prayers, we stepped out of the building. The blue hour of evening had begun. The Registan Square shimmered under its soft twilight veil. We were thrilled to experience the light and sound show once more, this time from inside the hedge, with nothing between us and the illuminated façades. The show began precisely at 9pm. After serving as a master-class in photography earlier, Registan was now offering a history lesson. The arena behind the hedge was almost full, the audience quietly absorbed as the story of Samarkand unfolded in light, colour and narration.
When the final note faded, the crowd began to disperse. Like most visitors, we stepped out onto the road in search of food. An electric signboard ahead glowed in bold letters: SAMARKAND — CULTURAL CAPITAL OF THE ISLAMIC WORLD. We smiled; there was no reason to doubt it. We found a Turkish restaurant nearby and ordered kebabs with iced tea, a satisfying end to the day.
As we made our way back to the hostel through the softly lit streets, the city seemed alive with echoes of its past. Samarkand had whispered its stories, and though the night was deepening, it felt as though countless more awaited us beyond the dawn.
The writer teachesengineering management at the NationalUniversity of Science and Technology. He can be reached at yasir299gmail.com