Young Sanobar, who sells exquisitely crafted scissors and knives to tourists at her family’s quaint shop deep in old Bukhara, looks up as I walk in, and asks, “India?” To my surprise, she launches into an effusive account in Uzbek and broken English, of her father’s heart surgery in India, her emphatic recall of the prosaic names of Gurugram hospitals — “Artemis bad, Medanta good” — sounding almost incongruous in this romantic setting. A squad of colourfully decked-out middle-aged women from the Ferghana Valley flash gold teeth as they pass by our visiting group of journalists from the Indian Women’s