For all my melancholy sentiments, this rather uncharacteristic backstreet holds a bittersweet beauty I can’t quite fathom

I can see the mountains today. The looming haze of smog, accentuated by the brilliance of the August sun, which usually reduces their dominating presence to a faint outline in the distance, is nowhere to be seen. Their stony, weathered faces, having borne the ravages of the centuries which saw the demise of Darius’ dream and the spirit of Cyrus still regard the dusty landscape spread before them proud and resilient; and, as Mithra, drawn forth by his celestial chariot lounges languidly in Leo’s lair, I can still discern a few peaks blanketed in purest white, scattered throughout the Alborz range. Yonder lies Mazda’s bounty, which, moulded by the soft, orange hands of the midday sun, flows downwards into the madness below, breathing fresh life into the scores of sycamores lining leafy Vali-ye Asr Avenue.

I remember when I used to while away the sweltering summer days here, on these insipid sofas, watching scrambled satellite television programmes and reading the yellowed, vanilla-scented pages of obscure British paperbacks salvaged from oblivion from the now-gone bookstore at the old Hyatt Hotel. Engulfed in an almost otherworldly ennui, living out a self-imposed exile from the hysteria of the swarming masses but a couple streets away, I would count down the days left until my grandparents and I would fly back to London, where the undying downpour on my cracked, sun-kissed skin felt like manna from heaven. My memories of this apartment in dusty Violet Alley aren’t particularly rosy, and represent a chapter of my life whose passages I don’t quite relish; yet, for all my melancholy sentiments, this rather uncharacteristic backstreet holds a bittersweet beauty I can’t quite fathom.

Looking outside my window on the seventh floor of the Jasmine building (here, perhaps, will one note the Persian fondness for florae) my eyes devour a sea of satellite dishes. Exuding a brownish glow in the midday heat, coated in a rust giving them the appearance of fried delicacies, they sit humbly and forlorn in anticipation. Perhaps the local pasdars will come and collect them this week; or, maybe they’ll continue to transmit illicit images of depraved Westerners for months to come. In either case, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be gathered up as scrap metal to make way for new blood, perpetuating the cycle. Bearing the brunt of the month of Mordad beside them, ancient coolers rest indifferently, the odd crow surveying the cityscape from atop their faded blue-green surfaces.

As I pour myself another cup of tea from the samovar on the ever-lit stove, a familiar voice reaches my ears: Radios, televisions, cassette players, refrigerators, flatirons, kettles – I’ll buy ‘em! The local merchant of secondhand odds and sods slowly does the rounds in his battered blue Zamyad station wagon, loaded with scrap metal, obsolete electronics, and other sundry items bound for his little shop of eccentricities. From outside his window, a stained white speaker juts, broadcasting his advertisements in an unintelligible, muffled, nasal voice - ad nauseam - while in his hand he holds a tiny tape recorder. Though I’ve yet to see anyone actually sell him anything, his wagon always seems to be brimming with his wares, which he proudly displays as he winds into each and every koocheh and pasaj in the neighbourhood. Without exception, every day at noon, as well as in the ungodly hours of the morning when dawn has yet to outstretch her rosy fingers, his cry echoes in the distance, until reaching its whiny climax. Perhaps this is the local take on the dawn call to prayer here, which, owing to the absence of a nearby mosque, is seldom heard. Prayer is better than sleep, sounds the admonition in my ears, as I rub away the slumber from my reddened eyes.

They likely think I’m a foreigner, or, at best, a bacheh gherti – a pretty boy – from the affluent suburbs up north. Gazing at me incredulously, their silken jet-black locks obscuring their narrow eyes, they look almost picturesque, as if transplanted here from the gold-leaf pages of a Herat school miniature

The junk monger (for all other plausible titles escape me) is but one of the characters who pass underneath my window on Violet Alley. Occasionally, on lazy summer afternoons, a motreb playing an old accordion stops beneath the soot-stained walls of the faded cream buildings lining both sides of the tiny street, in the hopes of gathering a few crumpled bills. He strolls around, arms akimbo, his eyes closed in rapture and his head turned towards the cerulean sky above, playing what at times sounds like a sumptuous concoction of Azeri folk songs, Urdu ghazals, and popular film music, capturing the gazes of passersby and bored housewives in the apartments overhead. As he ardently fingers the black and white keys of the pliable appendage, faded green bills flutter down from the blackened windowsills above, while more zealous patrons of the arts scramble down into the street to thrust a toman or two into his hand. If I’m lucky, I sometimes also get to enjoy the fleeting entertainment of two of the motreb’s contemporaries; dressed in full Bakhtiari regalia, in the spirit of the nomadic Persians of old, they wander the alleys of Zafar as a veritable toshmal ensemble to the sounds of the zorna and the dohol. As one bangs away on the dohol with his curved wooden sticks, the other prances about with his zorna lifted towards the sky, his ruddy cheeks pregnant with air, as he lets fly ancient tribal melodies that echo far into the winding alleys beyond. As he gasps for a breath every now and then, he takes advantage of the moment to gyrate his hips and twirl his outstretched hands in typical Persian fashion, all the while bearing the most beatific of smiles, as the dohol-zan pounds away beneath the beating sun. Some call them entertainers, others, rebels; and as I ponder their inclinations, I can’t help but imagine all their jaunty rip-rollicking as a direct affront to their turbaned cousins.

As dusk draws forth its swarthy velvet cloak upon the summer sky, against what appears to my eyes as hordes of flickering fireflies dotting the buildings far and wide, I step out into Violet Alley. The heavy iron door behind me having slammed shut, two weary Afghan construction workers peer at me from behind rusty lattices of rickety scaffolding overhead. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of their coarse, burnt countenances. They’re probably my age or younger, though I can’t say for sure. I quickly avert my gaze, yet they continue to stare at me, as they’re usually wont to do. I wonder if theirs is a look of envy – for their state is not exactly desirable – or rather, if they’re simply curious; they likely think I’m a foreigner, or, at best, a bacheh gherti – a pretty boy – from the affluent suburbs up north. Gazing at me incredulously, their silken jet-black locks obscuring their narrow eyes, they look almost picturesque, as if transplanted here from the gold-leaf pages of a Herat school miniature.

Sauntering onwards, an old Peykan taxicab zooms by me against the oncoming traffic on the one-way street, startling a handful of mangy cats foraging through a communal dumpster. Feeling the cool breeze from the mountains on my back, I make for the squalid bustle of Mohseni Square, imagining with relish the adventures of the night ahead.