ABSTRACT
Hodja-Akhrar is a most celebrated shrine, but the way to it is very long—miles and miles of a dusty lane which winds in and out of imaginary obstacles for no apparent reason. Hodja-Akhrar is slowly sinking to decay, for poverty and ruin are gnawing at the venerable school; its inmates are few, and their beautiful abode is falling to pieces. The tomb is naturally the true goal of the pilgrimage, and on that calm afternoon it looked a most appropriate ending to the journey; garden around felt so quiet and restful, so full of pious concentration. The blue-tiled sentences which run over the walls lack many a letter of their bold cufic script and on the pavement round the central fountain tiles of all colours strew the ground. Hodja-Akhrar in its wilderness seems full of a sense of revolt against such a cruel order of things; discontent and disapproval of the ways of the world seem to pervade it.
