Fared Shafinury

March 12, 2007

Street Musicians

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An old man and his young son would traverse the streets in the late evening, trodding slowly down rich streets where families usually dine extravagently every night of the week. The father would point the scroll of his violin towards the urban grease stained ground, as if purposely hunching his back to not look anyone in the eye. Instead he was viewing the world through the eyes of his malnutritioned son. Hasan, who obediently drummed away on the tombak, would look everyone in the eye with gloom and glare. Standing at the corner of Mahyar and Vali-Asr, I took the innitive to approach this tragic duo with compassion, and my deep appreciation of music. Having paid them for their performance, I walked and talked with them as they played down Mahyar, the street I live on.
Hasan didn’t miss a beat on his drum. The father said they began working the streets of upper Tehran since five in the afternoon that day, and it was close to eleven at night by the time that we met. I wonder if Hasan’s little fingers began to hurt after sometime throughout the day. Their real home was Afghanistan, a place where Hasan told me he missed very much. His three sisters and mother survive on the miniscal earnings of their father and brother, who echo the plight of poverty in the rich streets of Tehran with their song. A melodic reminder of cruel disparity in a world of pain and anguish. Hasan stands in the dark with his father saying goodbye to me: A zombie ministrel with scraped bleeding elbows, and a father shreading pain on his life-giving saz. That night I purposely slept on an empty stomach, feeling utterly helpless.

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