#Kharabat

[aftaabmagazine]

In that Breath - Spiritual Lyrics as Gateway to the Divine from Kabul’s Kharabat 

در آن نفس

In that Breath 

Two captivating renditions of a composition by the revered استاد محمد هاشم چشتی Ustad Mohammad Hashim Chishti (1944-94) featuring lyrics by the master poet of the ages, سعدی Saadi, vividly showcase the distinct and intriguing musical traditions of کابل Kabul and هرات Herat. 

These performances, by two celebrated vocalists, استاد مهوش Ustad Mahwash and استاد جلیل احمد دل‌آهنگ Ustad Jalil Del Ahang, present a rare and precious chance to delve into the unified artistic expression born from the rich cultural heritage of Kabul’s خرابات Kharabat musician quarter.

The Poem by Saadi  سعدی

In that breath when I pass, may I be yearning for you 

بدان امید دهم جان که خاک کوی تو باشم

I give up my life with the hope of becoming the dust of your alley

حدیث روضه نگویم گل بهشت نبویم

I will not speak of the gardens of paradise nor smell the flowers of heaven

جمال حور نجویم دوان بسوی تو باشم

I will not desire the beauty of the houris but steer towards you

Translated from the Farsi by فرهاد آزاد Farhad Azad with edits by پروین پژواک Parween Pazhwak

استاد مهوش Ustad Mahwash's Version Liner Notes

This song In that Breath was composed by Ustad Mohammad Hashim Chishti (1944-94). 

This recording by Ustad Mahwash was released in 2007 by the Accords-Croises label based in فرانسه France. She was the first woman to have been conferred the honorary title of "Ustad" in 1977 in Kabul by the Ministry of Culture. 

Spiritual Lyrics as Gateway to the Divine from Kabul’s Kharabat 

By Farhad Azad 

The lyrics embody صوفی Sufi ideals, expressing fervent longing for the beloved, rejecting worldly pleasures in favor of divine love, seeking annihilation of the self in union with the Divine, and using the beloved as a symbol for the ultimate reality. 

In Kharabat, where the songs held deep spiritual significance, استادان masters or ustads would often require their students to perform an ablution وضو (wuzu), before singing. This ritual purification emphasized the sacred nature of the poetry and music, ensuring the singers approached their performance with reverence and spiritual readiness.

Reflecting on her musical journey in the CD’s liner notes, Ustad Mahwash says “I am a follower of the sufi path and our Master Mohammad Chishti who encouraged devotion through the practice of 'mystical audition' or سماع Sama. I sing everything that relates to love.” 

Ustad Del Ahang's Version Liner Notes

This استاد جلیل احمد دل‌آهنگ Ustad Jalil Ahmad Del Ahang’s (1961-2018) rendition of در آن نفس (In that Breath) is a moving example of the Kharabati school of music, honed under the tutelage of استاد سرآهنگ Ustad Sarahang (1924-83) and later استاد موسی قاسمی Ustad Musa Qasemi (1936-95). 

From Kabul to Herat: The Journey of Kharabat’s Spiritual Music

By Farhad Azad 

The music of کابل Kabul’s خرابات Kharabat district, a cultural gem, embarked on a poignant journey to هرات Herat as early as the 1930s. This migration was not merely a physical movement of aspiring artists to Kabul to study under the masters, but a profound cultural exchange that shaped the musical landscape of Herat, carrying with it the emotions and aspirations of a community.

This استاد جلیل احمد دل‌آهنگ Ustad Jalil Ahmad Del Ahang’s (1961-2018) rendition of در آن نفس (In that Breath) is a profoundly moving example of the Kharabati school of music, a testament to the emotional depth and beauty that can be achieved through music. His soulful interpretation, filled with longing and devotion, resonates with the spiritual essence of the Chishti Sufi order, inviting the listener on a journey of self-discovery and transcendence. 

Exiled in ایران Iran in 1998, Ustad Jalil Ahmad Del Ahang captured the haunting performance, accompanied by استاد رحیم خوشنواز Ustad Rahim Khushnawaz (1943-2010) on robab, عظیم حسن‌پور Azim Hassanpour on tabla, and غلام سخی رسولی Ghulam Sakhi Rasouli on dutar. 

The reverend musician and composer استاد محمد هاشم چشتی Ustad Mohammad Hashim Chishti (1944-94) traced his lineage to the چشتی Chishti Sufi order a spiritual tradition established in the 900s AD by ابو اسحاق شامی Abu Ishaq Shami in the town of چشت Chisht, located in present-day Herat province افغانستان Afghanistan. The Chishti Sufi order, with its emphasis on music as a spiritual practice, played a pivotal role in developing and preserving the Kharabati school of music, infusing it with spiritual depth and significance. 

The Chishti practice, renowned for its profound emphasis on سماع Sama, a devotional practice of evoking the divine presence through music and poetry, is not just a performance, but a transformative spiritual journey. This unique aspect of the Chishti practice adds a layer of depth and richness to the music, elevating it beyond mere entertainment to a profound spiritual experience that resonates with the soul.

The unique lineage of this صوفی Sufi musical tradition is a testament to the enduring power of cultural exchange and the fluidity of art and culture. Born in the heart of Herat, the Chishti Sufi order’s musical essence found its way to Kabul through the descendants of Ustad Hashim Chishti. 

His descendants, invited from هند مرکزی central India by امیر شیرعلی خان Amir Sher Ali Khan, the ruler of کابلستان Kabulistan in the 1870s, played a crucial role in carrying forward the musical tradition, demonstrating the enduring power of cultural exchange and the fluidity of art and culture, and the importance of preserving such cultural practices.

The poet لیلا صراحت روشنی Layla Sarhat Rushani (1958-2004) aptly observed that artistic works with “simplicity in the expression” are akin to  “a stream of pure, clear water, and clear waters often make their depths appear shallower than they actually are.” 

While seemingly lovely and simple on the surface, these two renditions of Ustad Hashim’s composition carry a profound depth—a millennia-long journey of verse and melody passed down through generations, traversing vast distances before returning to their ancestral home. The music, a testament to the interconnectedness of human expression, transcends geographical boundaries and historical epochs, resonating with listeners across time and space.

[celestica-1988]

Kharabat, l'antico ghetto musicale di Kabul, fu ridotto al silenzio. I musicisti vennero bastonati e imprigionati e i loro rubab, tambura e armonium distrutti a calci. I talebani andarono a sparare alla tomba di  Ahmad Zahir, il cantante perferito di Tariq. "E' morto da quasi vent'anni" disse Laila a Mariam. "Morire una volta non basta?"

Mille splendidi soli, Khaled Hosseini

[amirblogerov]

Hayat Tahrir al-Sham militants continue raids in northern Syria.

Hayat Tahrir al-Sham militants continue to terrorize civilians in northern Syria. In the settlements of Arabcherduk, Dabiq and El-Bab, seven civilians were taken prisoner, who were suspected of complicity with the Kurdish security forces. Also, in the area of the village of Kharabat Sharanly, a shooting battle took place between the Hayat Tahrir Ash-Sham bandit group and a maneuverable sabotage unit of Kurdish self-defense units. During the clash, two members of the Kurdish unit were killed. According to local residents, a Kurdish sabotage and reconnaissance group was preparing a terrorist attack at the location of pro-Turkish militants in the Idlib de-escalation zone.

[dailypapernews]

Musicians faced death under Taliban rule. They may be silenced once more

Musicians faced death under Taliban rule. They may be silenced once more

The capital’s morning rush hour is a discordant backdrop for the workshop of Izzatullah Neamat. But walk down an alley, sidestep a sewage canal, and there he is: ensconced in the rabble among dozens of rubabs — an ancient instrument that resembles a lute — that have become his life’s work and family legacy. Here on the outskirts of Kharabat, the city’s oldest quarter and the onetime home of its…

[keomusic]

دانلود آهنگ قدیمی خرابات از ایرج بسطامی

دانلود آهنگ قدیمی خرابات از ایرج بسطامی

با دانلود و شنیدن این آهنگ لذت ببرید هم اکنون آهنگ جدید ایرج بسطامی به نام خرابات در کئوموزیک

Download new Music by Iraj Bastami name is kharabat

متن آهنگ خرابات از ایرج بسطامی

نوشته دانلود آهنگ قدیمی خرابات از ایرج بسطامی اولین بار در دانلود آهنگ. پدیدار شد.

source https://keomusic1.ir/%d8%ae%d8%b1%d8%a7%d8%a8%d8%a7%d8%aa-%d8%a7%db%8c%d8%b1%d8%ac-%d8%a8%d8%b3%d8%b7%d8%a7%d9%85%db%8c.keo

[tinolqa]

Super Mega Detailed Character Meme- Yabuqa Horo

Surprise, it’s not Aumeric this time! Under a cut because it’s long.

Appearance -

Gender: Male Race: Au Ra, Xaela Height: 7′ exactly. Eye Color: Yellow with blue-green limbal rings. Hair Color: Pale pink. Skin Color: Blue. Scars: A handful of nicks and old cuts on his hands, but otherwise shockingly few for a Steppe-dweller.

The Facts -

Name Day:  1st Sun of the 4th Umbral Moon. Occupation: Wrestler/Coliseum Jobber Sexual identification: Mostly homosexual. Romantic identification: Homoromantic. Alignment: Neutral Good. Criminal History: Once stole a dead guy’s identity and squatted in his apartment for a few months. This was shortly after the attempted assassination of Nanamo Ul Namo- the dead man was a Brass Blade who had gotten caught in the crossfire between the Scions and the Crystal Braves, and wasn’t quite important enough for anybody to fully investigate. Other than that, his record is pretty spotless.  Relationship Status: It’s complicated. See below. Sweet on: Fereydoun Kharabat, a teahouse owner in the Ijin district of Kugane.

Favorites –

Favorite food: Khuushuur- dumplings that have been fried, rather than steamed like buuz are. Favorite drink: Tea, particularly tea with milk and salt. Also loves water more than any normal person, for tribal reasons. Favorite scent: Grilled meat, dust. Favorite person: Absolutely Fereydoun. The man was a lifesaver and a fast companion in his time in Kugane, and Yabuqa legitimately doesn’t know where he would be in life without the Raen and his teahouse.

Randoms –

Ten facts about your muse:

- The second-youngest of four brothers. Though he looks big and imposing, his elder brothers often picked on him for not measuring up to them, which left him with a bit of a complex about his height and weight. To anybody who is not either another Horo or a Roegadyn, this is somewhat incomprehensible.

- Hates actual warfare and is horrified by the idea of killing another person. For a Xaela, for whom combat is a daily reality, this put him in many unhappy situations before he left the Azim Steppe for the far west. This is also why while he is quite skilled on horseback and at wrestling, he is a horrible archer and equally bad with most melee weapons.

- He has a horse that he had to leave behind in a stable on the outskirts of Yanxia after being informed that horses do very poorly on sea voyages. He misses her, but is glad he did not risk her life by bringing her on a boat.

- A decent swimmer, thanks to growing up along the banks of the One River. Fairly buoyant, too.

- Originally left the Steppe because he was chosen as a warrior for the Nadaam and didn’t have the stomach for it. En route to the Dawn Throne, he stole away with his horse and what belongings he could carry and made for the coastline, not wanting to risk taking shelter with another tribe that could be hostile to a Horo, or worse, know of his dishonorable retreat from such a noble calling. If asked, he says he came to Eorzea to teach the locals Azim Bokh wrestling as a form of cultural exchange.

- Is/was terrified of getting into an arranged marriage. Leaving the Steppe had the added bonus of delaying this fate.

- Prefers to wear clothing that doesn’t restrict his chest and midriff.

- A very good sport about losing any kind of sparring match. Even to the nastiest opponent, he’ll smile and shake hands. Whether or not they take this the right way... well, that’s up to them.

- While he can’t imagine having his own someday, he’s very good with children. Especially when it comes to being tolerant of being climbed on, poked, tugged at, dragged into silly games, or asked pointless questions. Hire him as a babysitter and you won’t be disappointed, though he might not be strict enough for some parents’ liking.

- Naturally shows deference to Lalafells on most matters, as he thinks that their pudgy appearances indicate wealth and importance. Considering Ul’dah was his first real experience with Eorzean society, this only reaffirmed this belief.

Five Things -

5 Things they like:

- Meat. Take this how you will. - Nearly every beverage, but particularly tea and milk. - The color pink. - Friendly, low-stakes sparring. - Big cities.

5 Things they dislike: - Serious violence. - People who are bad sports about competition. - Chysahl greens and things cooked with them. - The smell of stagnant water. - Tight clothing.

5 Virtues: - Unbelievably forgiving and good-tempered about losing. - Kind and patient with children. - Willing to help others for little or no pay, provided he has a reason to. - Does not resort to violence or threats to get his way. - Open-minded, but without disdain for his own culture. 5 Vices: - Cowardly to a fault. - Extremely avoidant of his own problems, and will do everything he can to not address them directly. - Submissive, particularly around disagreements. Will sometimes intentionally lose fights. - Somewhat thick-headed and doesn’t understand when people hint at their feelings or desires. - Overindulgent in food and drink.

5 Personalities they gravitate toward: - Strong-spirited and/or stubborn. - Healthily competitive. - Dominant in terms of decision-making. - Those who feel before they think. - A level of patience and kindness is important, too, though they aren’t actually the things he puts first.

5 Personality types they avoid: - Those who adhere too stubbornly to traditions. - The mindset of soldiers, mercenaries, and professional hunters is fairly offputting to him. Anybody for whom killing is so trivial an activity scares him a little. - Extremely “honorable” individuals. This made Yanxia and Kugane kind of an unpleasant experience for Yabuqa, just based on the number of people who had what he thought were overly strong feelings on honor. - Sore losers. - Anybody who has a goal that they’d put before the well-being of others.

5 Fears: - Death. This is a big part of why he’s so anxious about the kind of combat in which blood will be spilled and lives will be lost- he can’t stomach the idea of losing his own life, and facing whatever comes after. - Being pushed into an arranged marriage. Yabuqa is too sentimental, and too gay, to be set up with a spouse for the purposes of continuing a family line or cementing an alliance between clans. - The deep desert. He likes Thanalan well enough, but grew up on horror stories of what happens to caravans that delve too deep into the Nhaama Desert without sufficient food and water, so he has a healthy fear of the Sagolii as well. - Being truly alone. He has spent his entire life surrounded by other people, and can’t imagine that kind of isolation without shuddering. - Accidentally hurting someone else.

Tagged by @cyrillien and @sagolii-snowflake!! Header edit by @theseventhdawn.

Everyone else, consider yourselves tagged!

[pashtorung]

Kharabat New Song by Elias Shahna & Ahmad Jawed

Kharabat New Song by Elias Shahna & Ahmad Jawed

Watch Online Kharabat New Song by Elias Shahna & Ahmad Jawed

https://dailymotion.com/video/x2rrguj?autoplay=1&logo=0&related=0&syndication=178972

[lasaharipk]

Kharabat New Song by Elias Shahna & Ahmad Jawed

Kharabat New Song by Elias Shahna & Ahmad Jawed

Watch Online Kharabat New Song by Elias Shahna & Ahmad Jawed https://dailymotion.com/video/x2rrguj?autoplay=1&logo=0&related=0&syndication=178972

[lulian]

Rode of Kharabat - Xuxanov — in Rancho Palos Verdes.

[aftaabmagazine]

A Glance at Babrak Arghand's Short Story: "Music and Songs" 

A Glance at Babrak Arghand's Short Story: "Music and Songs" 

By Farhad Azad  June 2, 2024 

In سازها و آوازها "Music and Songs," ببرک ارغند Babrak Arghand, a noted novelist born in کابل Kabul in 1949 and passed away in Holland in 2019, crafts a magical realist tale of return. The narrator finds himself in the labyrinthine alleys of خرابات Kharabat, the musician's quarter nestled beneath Kabul's ancient Bala Hissar fortress. Amidst the decay of a seemingly abandoned courtyard, a flickering lantern reveals an old acquaintance, a musician playing the santoor alongside his mother.

The story unfolds, revealing a tale of heartbreak and societal constraints. In the societal structure of Kabul during the story's time, musicians occupied a lower social rung, often considered a caste apart. While wealthy families hired them to teach and perform, they maintained a strict distance, embodying the phrase "Kept by the door, fed by the door." This social hierarchy, with its rigid boundaries, plays a significant role in the narrative.

Arghand's narrative channels this societal divide, particularly the rare but tragic instances of musicians falling in love with women of higher social standing only to face harsh consequences. 

The story is imbued with the enchanting lyrics of the famed song من جان خرابات ام "I'm the soul of Kharabat," written by the 19th-century poet مستان شاه کابلی Mastan Shah Kabuli and popularized by the renowned Kabuli-born musician استاد محمدحسین سرآهنگ Ustad Mohammad Hussain Sarahang (1924-83). The lyrics, with their Sufi undertones of ego loss and spiritual seeking, perfectly complement Arghand's magical realist style, inviting the audience to appreciate the beauty and depth of this music.

Arghand's tale, written in exile, may be rooted in historical reality. Rare whispers persist of musicians from Kharabat daring to love women of higher social standing, only to face brutal reprisal. Theirs was a precarious existence, labeled as mere entertainers, or worse, سازنده "zanenda," a term dripping with disdain. 

In Arghand's hands, this becomes a haunting elegy for a vanishing world where music once soared, now echoing only in the memories of ghosts. They serenaded celebrations yet remained outcasts, forever tethered to the threshold, their melodies fading into the encroaching silence.

Arghand's use of language and narrative style, with its lyrical prose and evocative descriptions, enhances the emotional impact of the story and invites the reader to immerse themselves in the world of Kharabat and Kabul's inflicted hardboiled society.

[aftaabmagazine]

A Historic Musical Evening in Kabul Nearly Five Decades Ago as Told by the Kabul Times

PHOTO CAPTION Mahwash watching one of the amateur singers getting his wrist tied up by Ustad Hashim. The young man holding the harmonium is Assef, one of the best tabla players in town and Ustad Hashim's younger brother.

Caption and photo printed in the article "How are Musicians Initiated?" (Kabul Times, July 11, 1973)

- - -

A Historic Musical Evening in Kabul Nearly Five Decades Ago as Told by the Kabul Times

By Farhad Azad 

Let's travel to a night in Kabul in early July 1973. The air is mixed with the scent of نسترن wild roses and هل cardamom. This was no ordinary night in Kabul. This is the night when Mahwash, the celebrated "Female Vocalist of the Year" of Radio Kabul, steps onto a different stage, one steeped in the age-old traditions of classical music.

Golalaye Farida, the woman behind the stage named Mahwash, had already charmed her audiences with her voice, a gift first honed five years ago under Hafizullah Kheyal, a seasoned composer and vocalist of Radio Kabul. 

But tonight, she and a few other aspiring musical students seek a more profound path of learning, the kind found in the famed musician's quarter of Kharabat, where Ustad Mohammad Hashim, a legend with over 50 compositions to his name by this time, holds court with other ustads. 

A symphony of anticipation fills the air in Ustad Mashwash's friend's home. Ustad Hashim's two younger brothers, the dilruba virtuoso Nabi among them, bring life to the room. Among the gathered are vocalists Shah Wali Wali and the "stout" Ahmad Wali, alongside the "ruggedly handsome" composer Nainawaz. Mahwash's husband, a steadfast pillar of support, observes, and their four-year-old daughter absorbs in her play, adding to the unfolding scene.

Dinner, a fragrant feast, was a mere prelude. As Waleh, the Kabul Times' roving eye, later recounts, the air grows thick with a palpable sense of ritual, of history being made. The ceremony begins…

- - -

How are Musicians Initiated?

By Abdul Haq Waleh

Expert from the July 11, 1973 issue of Kabul Times  (written in English) 

Mahwash brought to Ustad Hashim a tray containing suit material [cloth for a suit], some cash and candies. She was asked to present it to another Ustad Mohmmad Nabi who accompanies Ustad Hashim on the dilruba. 

Ustad Nabi asked Ustad Mashwah, as the custom goes, what was there on the tray. She replied with humility that there were a few unworthy gifts she wanted to present to Ustad Hashim. 

He asked again why present these to Ustad Hashim and not to others because there were quite a few ustads in town. She believed Ustad Hashim tops them all as far as his teaching techniques and compositions were concerned. She wanted to be his pupil and learn classical music from him. 

Then came another question from Ustad Nabi from which Mashwash was apparently not prepared. Perhaps they do not rehearse the whole ceremony because they like it spontaneous. Ustad Nabi inquired as to how she would behave after initiation. 

Mahwash looked blank and after a few moments of hesitation, the word was passed to her husband and he whispered it into her ear. She said she would behave as his daughter should. 

Then Ustad Nabi emphasized with enough seriousness the amount of request required by an ustad and the quantity of hard work to be put in by the pupil. Afterwards, he took Mahwash's hand and placed it on the harmonium. Ustad Hashim took a string from the tray and tied it around her wrist. This symbolized that she was his pupil for life, tied up to him through that string.  

Almost all the amateur singers extended their hands to be tied up in a similar manner and the smiling Ustad complied with generosity. But he did not utter a word before or after the ceremonies. Perhaps the traditions require that the Ustad should not say anything. That was why the ceremony was conducted by another ustad. And Mahwash passed the tray, serving each with a few candies which symbolizes a sweet future. 

But the question is that thousands of her admirers want her to sing popular songs which they are in a position to appreciate classical music. But Mahwash is bent on learning classical music so that one day she may be able to answer questions which may reveal whys and wherefores for her.  She believes she has the right to pursue her own interests while her admirers are entitled to their own likes and dislikes. She will sing for them songs that may be hits after mastering the art of singing under an ustad. This sounds quite convincing to me and perhaps her countless admirers will be looking forward to the opportunity. 

- - - Editor's Reflections

By Farhad Azad 

Captured with Candor

Abdul Haq Waleh's prose is a time machine, transporting us to a space in time where tradition and ambition collide. He paints a vivid tableau: the hushed whispers, the scent of instruments, the palpable scene as Kabul's musical elite gather for a pivotal moment. He writes, “Nainawaz was so much carried away by music that the pretty hotels announced a few times that dinner was ready but he did not allow anyone to move.” And this line as well, “Ustad Hashim was playing the ever ready harmonium and the little lady in her black crepe dress was singing one of his compositions.” 

Mixed Classes Learning Music

In this rarified space, social boundaries blurred. Mahwash, the middle-class songbird, sought the wisdom of Ustad Hashim, the maestro of Kharabat's musician class. Alongside her, the aristocratic composer Nainawaz defied societal norms. Both songbird and composer shared passion for music transcended class divisions, a testament to art's unifying power. Yet, this mingling was not without risk. Both had faced familial backlash for pursuing their artistic dreams. As the poet Samy Hamed observed years later, this society loved the music but shunned the musicians, a paradox whose shadow did not hover over this historic night. 

Women's Place in Music

Mahwash, a woman singing openly, not just on the radio but in public concerts, was a radical shift. Just two decades earlier, female vocalists entered Radio Kabul shrouded in burqas, their voices celebrated, their identities concealed. Mahwash and other female arts defiances signaled a shift in the tectonic plates of a conservative society fully supported by Zahir Shah, the gentlemen monarch. Three years after this historic evening, the Ministry of Culture would bestow the title of "Ustad" upon Mahwash.

Ustad Mohammad Hashim's Influence on Popular Music 

Ustad Mohammad Hashim Chishtis (1934-94), the unsung hero of popular music on Radio Kabul, shaped a generation of composers who defined Kabuli pop. He mentored Shah Wali Wali Taranasaz (1927-2007) and Nainawaz (1934-79), whose compositions were the bedrock for vocalists like Ahmad Zahir, Mahwash, Ahmad Wail and many more. A tabla virtuoso from childhood, the elder son of master tabla player Chacha Mahmoud Chishtis, Ustad Hashim’s musical innovations extended beyond tradition, reaching into diverse genres. He famously reimagined a Western guitar, playing it with a river stone, and his legacy extends to the melodies that defined Kabul’s modern sound.

"The Culture of the Coups"

The timing of this musical gathering was eerily prescient. A mere three weeks later, Kabul's fragile peace would shatter, ushering in an era of political upheaval. Daoud Khan’s coup, the first of many to follow, as writer Rahnaward Zaryab noted, would forever alter the course of Kabul’s history. But on that early July night, amidst the scent of wild roses and the promise of music, the future remained unwritten, a melody hanging in the balance.

[aftaabmagazine]

From the longing of the sight of your blossoming face

Recalling a classic song from the old Kabul ‘s narrow alleyways that once gave birth to eloquent poets and heavenly voiced nightingales

The Lyrics

از شوق گل رویت دیوانه شوم یا نه؟

From the longing of the sight of your blossoming face, shall I be crazed or not?

در حلقه گیسویت زولانه شوم یا نه؟

In the coil of your tresses, shall I be bound or not?

زلف تو پریشان است من نیز پریشانم

Your tresses are disheveled, I too am unsettled 

با زلف پریشانت من شانه شوم یا نه؟

With your tangled tresses, shall I be your comb or not?

عشقم به جنون مایل عقلم به هنر نازد

My love veers towards madness, my mind takes pleasure in art 

در کشمکش هر دو دیوانه شوم یا نه؟

In the struggle of both, shall I be crazed or not? 

The Vocalists

 آواز استاد غلام محمد دستگیر شیدا

Ustad Mohammad Ghulam Dastagir Shayda (1916-70) 

شعری از ندیم کابلی

Poem by Naidem Kabuli

This recording originates from Radio Kabul in the late 1950s or early 1960s. 

آواز حیدر سلیم

Vocals Haidar Salim 

A mid-1990s album of private recordings was a dedication to the artist's late father, featuring his father’s favorite songs.

A mid-1990s album of private recordings was a dedication to the artist's late father, featuring his father’s favorite songs.

The Poet 

Nadiem Kabuli عبدالغفور ندیم کابلی was born in the Shor Bazar شوربازار neighborhood of Kabul. Though his exact birthdate is unknown, he passed away in his early 30s. 

His first collection of poems was printed in 1930 by Sardar Azizullah Khan Qatil سردار عزیزالله خان قتیل, the Kabul court ambassador to Tehran. 

A new edition was recently published in Tehran in 2009.

The Poem and Composition 

The composition and the poems share an exquisite poetic style reminiscent of Old Kabul کابل قدیم. It reflects a time long gone when the art of words and music intertwined to tell stories of love, grief, and the human experience in the distinctive Kabuli literary and musical arts style labeled the Kabuli ghazal غزل کابلی, established by Ustad Qasim (1978-1956)استاد قاسم افغان in the early 1900s. 

Nadiem Kabuli's عبدالغفور ندیم کابلی verses dance to the rhythm of the "Hindi Style" Sabk-i Hindi سبک هندی, a poetic tradition born in the Mughal courts of India and Kabulistan, where the latter served as the summer capital. This style is about painting fresh, intricate pictures with minimal wordplay. It's like a skilled painter who can perfectly capture the essence of a scene with just a few brushstrokes. 

Ustad Mohammad Ghulam Dastagir Shayda استاد غلام محمد دستگیر شیدا , a master of the musician's quarter, Kharabat in Kabul خرابات کابل, composed it in the 1950s or possibly earlier. However, we do know that this song has been discovered by those new to the classical Kabul ghazal genre for many generations. 

This song holds a special place in my heart. The poet who wrote it hailed from my ancestral paternal neighborhood, and the singer who performed it was a dear friend of my maternal uncle Ghafourماما غفور. As it happens, my uncle, along with my extended family members, was a musical arts patron.

When I hear this song, it conjures a colloquial feeling; it takes me to the old Kabul much before my time, a Kabul, under the foothills of the Bala Hissar بالاحصار , the ancient fort, where the master musicians of Kharabat reigned over the musical high arts. 

Their songs reawakened the lyrics of ancient and contemporary poets in the hearts of Kabulis, a people who couldn't live without their nobel poetry and music. 

Lala Machine استاد دین محمد معروف به لالا ماشین, a master Kharabati sarangi سارنگ musician, said of the Kabulis of that bygone era, "They enjoyed music, and we enjoyed playing for them."

Although the nightingales of Kharabat may now sing no more, their melodies still echo, bringing life to hearts in Kabulistan and distant lands. 

Their legacy defies the dogmatic decree of silence, a testament to the enduring power of art, in Naidem Kabuli lyrics, “My mind takes pleasure in art” and that pleasure of the mind and soul cannot be extracted so easily. 

—Farhad Azad 

May 04, 2024 

Thank you to Parween Pazhwak for the help with the research and edits. 

[aftaabmagazine]

"Music and Songs" Short Story by Babrak Arghand

"Music and Songs" Short Story by Babrak Arghand

Translated from the Farsi by Farhad Azad

AftaabMag.com | Spring 2024

The narrow, dusty alley of Kharabat exhaled loneliness, and a solitary lamp at the end of the alley flickered with a faint light here and there.

As I reached Saber's house, I stopped. It was as if my body grew numb and lifeless, and my feet lost their will to move. Time ceased its flow, the earth no longer spun on its axis, and the stars were absent from their reflection in the crystal spheres. Only the sound of mystifying music rippled through the air, and the fragmented cries of a santoor poured out into the alley through the cracks and crevices of the window.

I looked up. A dim glow illuminated Saber's upper room, and the shadow of a hunched man fell upon the white curtain of the window, swaying left and right with the instrument's melodies.

I thought, "Poor soul, it seems he's still sleepless..."

And I nudged the doorstep with the tip of my foot. The sound of the music rose louder. The plectrum struck the strings with greater intensity, and the cries arose more painful and melancholic.

In the courtyard, the rain fell drop by drop, the earth exhaled the scent of damp soil with sorrow, and the poplar tree stood guard by the well like a sentinel, as in the past. A faint light from the lamp at the end of the corridor glimmered weakly beneath the mulberry leaves, and a deceived, nocturnal butterfly wearily circled around it.

The courtyard was small and square. It smelled of dirt, dead leaves, and music. A small drum rested its cracked head against the brick wall of the well, and a small puddle had formed in front of it. The sound of laughter came from afar, a weak and painful laughter. I thought to myself, "They're intoxicated again."

I had known that courtyard for years. I knew Zeib Al-Nasa, Nowruz, and their son Saber. I knew of his love story and infatuation with Roushanak—he had told me his accounts of Roushanak. I also recognized that laughter, and now weakly echoed for years as time passed. Sometimes, I thought that laughter flared into the air every night, its scattered fragments spreading throughout Kharabat.

I slowly entered the room. The room was cold and reeked of sorrow mixed with saffron, death, and loneliness. A lantern burned restlessly at the top of the arch, flickering as if exhaling its last breaths, a halo of darkness coiled around its jug-like neck. 

The smell of death emerged from its burning. Further away, a basil plant had withered in a pot, and the wind gently swayed an empty, broken picture frame on the window sill like a pendulum. The walls of the room offered a heart-wrenching sight, riddled with holes, and everywhere, memories of grief and pain were painted as if a mad lover and songwriter had moved out of there. I could hear the echo of his voice, still reverberating with woe and pain:

"In death, I'll carry your love's scar, a burden unseen, Yet, I yearn for my darling's embrace, a fleeting dream."

Someone whispered in my ear, "Do you hear? This is his voice. It's Saber's voice. The voice indeed stays!"

And right there, at the entrance, I sat down. The echo still painfully twisted and turned in the room. Astonished, I saw that life had returned to that home with all its hustle and bustle, and music and sound once again filled the room. 

I saw Saber, his santoor resting on his knees, his head bowed, frantically plucking at its strings like a madman. The cries and shouts of his santoor arose in a clamor, striking the doors and walls, shaking the withered basil plant, and violently clanging the empty, broken picture frame on the window sill.

I saw Zeb-un-Nisa wrap her shawl around her neck, place her water pipe before her, and take a deep drag. A moment later, a column of smoke from the burnt tobacco emerged from her mouth, momentarily obscuring her wrinkled face. Beyond that smoke...

She said to her son, "Look at your face. Your color has become like the flame of a lamp. What have these three years of prison done to you?"

And she added, grumbling, "What does this Roushanak have that has stolen your heart? I wish I hadn't let you go to their house that first day..."

Her voice dissolved in the grayish smoke of the water pipe. I didn't hear what else she said. But then she raised her voice, "I told you from the first day look at our station and their station. Where are we, and where are they? We are from Kharabat, and they are..."

She raised her voice even louder, "One day, their servant didn't open the door for us. He sounded, 'They will not give their daughter to a musician. The lady of the house said to tell you to cut their coat according to their cloth...'"

And after a pause, she said, "Saber!... It's good you didn't listen to Roushanak; it's good you didn't run away with her!"

Upon hearing Roushanak's name, I saw the cries of the santoor evolve louder, more painful, and more hopeless. Zeb-un-Nisa added, "They wouldn't say anything bad about Roushanak. After all, she is the apple of their eye, but they would have skinned you alive!... Let my words turn to ashes. They would have killed you!"

I saw the santoor fall silent. Saber lifted his head. His complexion was a shade of yellow. Two tears had gathered in his eyes. His face was handsome and charming. He had powerful eyes and eyebrows. In a sweet but sorrowful voice, he replied, "I wish I had listened to her... When they didn't allow the wedding, I wish we had both run away!"

And he moistened his dry, parched lips with his tongue, "I wish I hadn't broken bread with them...after all, they had the right of a student over me...I wish their hospitality hadn't blinded me..."

Zeb-un-Nisa wiped the mouthpiece of her water pipe with the palm of her hand: "They didn't have the right of a teacher over you. You had the right of a master! Those ungrateful people achieved their intent, and that was it... All they learned from you was singing and reciting. What else did you have to offer them? What else would they do with you? You were naive, that's all!"

And she let out a series of coughs: "If you had listened to me, we wouldn't be in this shape."

And she brought the water pipe to her mouth again: "The earring wasn't worth hanging for. Didn't I tell you?... They imprisoned you and forcefully married off their daughter... For God's sake, three years of hard labor, all for a girl! Roushanak wasn't a shining beacon, she was a scorching flame, a scorching flame!"

And she murmured painfully under her breath, "I don't know what sin my son committed, falling in love is no sin."

Saber bit his lip and stared at the mother-of-pearl diamonds of his santoor. The lantern glow reflected in the pearly shapes of the instrument. Suddenly, he saw Roushanak in the diamonds on the edge of his santoor, twirling and twirling in a wide skirt, just like in the old days, dancing and dancing to the music of the santoor. Like the branches of a spring willow, her hands and feet joyfully twisted and turned and curved this way and that.

Saber thought, "I know that God created these flowers imitating Roushanak's beautiful face. I know that these shining stars are Roushanak's tears, shed upon the darkness of this world. I know that the winds blow to caress her hair. If she were not here, there would be no world, no tolerance."

And he pressed his lips under his teeth: "The pain of prison seared my bones, but I didn't die. But without Roushanak, I will die. Roushanak has no life without me, either. I can smell the touch of death. I see it hovering a few steps away from me. I see that death is to an instrument, a song, a strange melody sung by a poor traveler in a vast desert, with passion, blazing."

I saw Zeb-un-Nisa rise from her place. She stood in the middle of the room. She seemed lovely and graceful. She had a peculiar resemblance to Roushanak. Her stature was like a tall cypress tree. She had captivating black eyes and eyebrows. She stepped through the smoke. I saw her loosen the knot of her green shawl, bobbing her black, curly hair onto her shoulders. She secured a scarf around her waist and tested the strap of the bells on her feet.

A bitter smile appeared on Saber's lips, and his unwell eyes lit up with laughter. With his white, thin hand, full of turquoise-colored veins, he excitedly squeezed his santoor, and his fingers magically hovered over the strings of the instrument. And the room was once again consumed with music.

Suddenly, I saw the door in front of me flung open with a loud bang. I heard the sound of its hinges hitting the walls.

In the doorway frame, a square, dark figure appeared like a black hole, pulling the swirling, blue smoke of the water pipe towards itself with an unnatural force.

I saw familiar and unfamiliar faces appear in the doorway. Each face carried an instrument or a song. Then, I saw a sound like a roaring river surging into the room. 

The sound held significant meanings, with a surge shimmering in every wave, every twist and turn. It was as if the particles of sound were expanding in the space, making the room tighter and tighter. 

The sound couldn't fit in the room as the walls began to recede and the ceiling moved further away. I feared the expanding sounds, worried that Saber's upper chamber might explode. I foolishly held my breath, drew in my arms and legs, and contracted my body as if making space for the sound. 

The echo roared like a volcano: "I am the soul of Kharabat, the beloved of Kharabat!" 

And all the voices and instruments echoed in response: "We are the soul of Kharabat, the beloved of Kharabat!"

They shook the curtains and walls, and the lantern flame frantically leaped out of the black ring of its jug-like glass. It was as if the army of love had invaded, as if the foot soldiers of music and song had arrived with jars of wine and bliss. I saw Zeb-un-Nisa, who had morphed into Roushanak, dancing, twirling, and stamping her feet, her toes adorned with henna patterns. It was as if she, too, had joined the instruments and songs, her thin lips moving as she sang along with the rhythm of the instruments: "I am the soul of Kharabat, the beloved of Kharabat." 

She twirled, her skirt blooming around her like a red rose, twirling and singing, "I am the soul of Kharabat, the beloved of Kharabat," tossing her curly hair from side to side.

Saber's eyes were fixed on Roushanak, and his plectrum plucked petals of devotion from the heart of the strings, laying them as a carpet at Roushanak's feet. And Roushanak stamped her feet upon those painful, blood-red petals, stamping and twirling.

Suddenly, I saw all the instruments and songs fall silent, and the darkness of silence spread its wings mercilessly everywhere, but Roushanak continued to dance without music. This time, she wore a black dress. Her face was saffron-hued. The bells on her feet had become large pieces of iron. She seemed spinning and twisting in one spot, fearfully asking someone, "Why did the instruments fall silent? Why did the songs fade away?"

I saw Saber's color turn more and more yellow and pale with each passing moment, and his fingers lost their strength. It was as if his tormented soul was leaving his body, as if he was dying and his existence was coming to an end.

Roushanak stopped dancing and sat down in front of Saber, terrified. "Why are you still angry with me?... What was in my power? What could I have done? I said let's run away. You didn't."

But Saber lowered his head and sang with burning pain: "In death, I'll carry your love's scar, a burden unseen. Yet, I yearn for my darling's embrace, a fleeting dream."

I saw Roushanak untie her waist scarf and wrap her shawl around her head again. I noticed she had become Zeb-un-Nisa once more. Her tired eyes were teary, her back was bent, and her clothes smelled of bitter tobacco smoke. I saw her helplessly take the santoor from her son's hands and put it in a corner. Then she asked, with distress in her voice, "My child, what's wrong with you?"

Saber said, "Don't ask, take that basil plant away from my sight, get these thoughts out of my head!... Can't you see they're suffocating me!"

Zeb-un-Nisa rose painfully from her place, "Don't worry, I'll take it away!"

And she stepped towards the basil plant. Her legs were quivering.

I saw the instruments weeping, the songs lamenting, the lantern at the top of the arch lifeless, and Roushanak no longer dancing. The moth of the lantern at the end of the corridor had perished under the mulberry leaves.

Mournfully, I stood. Outside, the rain had ceased, and the sound of laughter no longer reached my ears. It seemed as if time had stopped once again. The earth no longer spun on its axis, and the stars did not reflect in the puddles.

Only the scent of death was scattered everywhere. Only the sorrowful voice of Saber came from behind the walls of time, singing mournfully:

"In death, I'll carry your love's scar, a burden unseen, Yet, I yearn for my darling's embrace, a fleeting dream."

[aftaabmagazine]

کوچه های طرف کهنه شهر The Alleys in the Old City

کوچه های طرف کهنه شهر

The Alleys in the Old City

قهار عاصی

By Qahar Asi

Translated from Farsi by Farhad Azad

کوچه ها خاموش اند

the silent alleys   

کوچه ها دلگیر اند 

the somber alleys 

کوچه ها مثل گلوهای شریف 

the alleys like noble steep gorges 

التهابی و خشونت بار اند 

ardent and boisterous 

کوچه های طرف کهنه شهر

the alleys in the old part of town 

کوچه های طرف کهنه شهر

the alleys in the old part of town 

قصه های خونین 

blood-stained stories   

از چکشهای بلند

from forces above

جانب جاده میوند روایت میکنند 

his excellency, Maiwand Boulevard, narrates 

خاطر قیریی جاده 

about the pavement 

از زمزمه ی کاهگل خواجه صفا در حول است 

Khawaja Safa's mud clay murmurs surround 

کاسه برج آیتی از سالاریست  

Kabul's metal tower is from an aristocracy 

عشق را 

love 

از خرابات به چوک 

from Kharabat to the Chowk 

پوست می اندازد 

they shed their skin 

کوچه ها خاموش اند 

the silent alleys 

کهنه دیوار بلند کابل 

the old high walls of Kabul 

نبض پغمان شهید خود را

the pulse of Paghman, her own martyrs

ترجما نیست — سخن خون 

there is no translation— the language of blood

و صدا، آزادی 

and the sound, freedom 

:ارغوان زا ر بهار کابل: 

judas trees in the spring of Kabul: 

آه! صبر کن 

ah! wait

عشقری میاید 

Ashqari arrives 

 بگذار، تا که این برکه نیاشفته

let's go before he leaves

تماشا کنمش

let's watch him

پهلوان از سفر حج مزار آمد 

 است 

the hero has returned from his pilgrimage  

کوچه های طرف کهنه شهر 

the alleys in the old part of town 

بستر مردم آواره و سرگردان اند 

are the beds of homeless and adrift people 

که نه می میرند و نه به امید دلی 

they neither die nor have hope 

كوچه‌هاي طرف كهنه‌ي شهر

the alleys in the old part of town 

كودكاني كوهي،

the children of the mountains 

كودكاني همه فرياد به بازار تولد مي‌كنند

in the market, all the babies cry

چقدر سخت سر اند

how difficult it is for them 

مادران طرف كهنه‌ي شهر

the mothers in the old party of town 

وقتي از بابت ويراني ده

when it comes to devastation

و شهيدان به خون خفته‌ي شان

and the martyrs drenched in blood

حرف‌هاي خود را

with their words 

مي‌زنند آتش و شهري مي‌كنند

set fire and ravage the city 

چقدر شيرين اند

how sweet they are 

دختران طرف كهنه‌ي شهر

the girls in the old party in town 

و قتي از عشق سخن مي‌گويند

when they speak about love 

نازنينان همه با اشك قتغ مي‌سازند

with tears, the sweethearts wail 

گفتيني‌ها شان ‌را

what they say 

از لب رود و كنار چشمه

by the riverbank and brook

چقدر بومي و آزا ده سر اند

how native and free 

طفلكان طرف كهنه‌ي شهر

the little ones in the old party of town 

وقتي از غرش توپ

when the cannon thunders

جانب كوچه فرو مي‌ريزند

they descend into the allies 

۱۳۶۵, حوت ۸ ,کابل

February 27, 1987

[aftaabmagazine]

Beautiful Kabul ​کابل زیبا

حامد نوید

Hamed Nawed

یاد از ​کابل زیبا کردیم

we remembered beautiful Kabul

یاد از سورروان وجوییش

remembered her cypresses and streams

یاد از نسترن خوش بویش

remembered her fragrant roses

یاد است ماه شب چهارده یش

remembered her full moon

یاد است گلستانیش

remembered her flower gardens

یاد از دره پروان کردیم

remembered the valley of Parwan

یاد ازاستالف‎ کردیم

remembered Istalif

راه خرابات خامش

Kharabat’s ally is silent

گشت آن بلبل کابل خامش

the Kabul nightingale is silent

نه دیگرجلوه سرو چمنیش

no more, her cypress and lush fields

نه دیگر نسترن خوش بویش

no more, her fragrant roses

Hamed Nawed is a poet and lyricist. He resides in Washington DC.

Vocalist Haider Salim recorded this poem in 1993 at Ariana Studio in Burke, Virginia.

That generation of diaspora remained nostalgic about the Kabul of the 1960s-70s— many never returned.

Kharabat is the historical musicians’ quarter dating back to the 1700s.

The valley of Parwan, north of Kabul, is a picturesque location that many Kabulis picnic.

Istalif is a hamlet north of Kabul; its name derives from the Greek word σταφύλι, meaning grape.

Photo of Parwan province by HikeVentures

Translated from the Farsi Dari by Farhad Azad

[aftaabmagazine]

شاه لیلا Shah Layla

شاه لیلا

Shah Layla

همايون‎ سخی، روباب

Homayoun Sakhi, robab

سالار نادر، طبله

Salar Nader, tabla

This Ustad Sarahang's instrumental rendition of Shah Layla (شاه لیلا), "My Regal Layla" is by Homayoun Sakhi on rubab and Salar Nader on tabla performed live on March 25, 2016, at The Music Room in London, England.

The photo, taken by Farhad Azad, is from the "Afghan Jazz Project" featuring Salar Nader and Homayoun Sakhi at de Young in San Francisco, February 19, 2010.

Homayoun Sakhi was born in 1976 in Kabul. His roots are from the musicians’ quarter of Kharabat located near the ancient Bala Hisar fortress. He studied under his father, Ghulam Sakhi whose maternal uncle was the celebrated robab virtuoso Ustad Mohammad Omar. Homayoun Sakhi resides in the US and continues to record and perform worldwide.

Website: http://www.homayounsakhi.com

Salar Nader, one of the most sought-after percussionists of his generation, was born to Afghan parents in 1981 in Hamburg, Germany. His family relocated to San Francisco Bay Area, and at age seven, he began studying with the legendary tabla maestro Ustad Zakir Hussain. He resides in Los Angeles, California where he collaborates with noted film and TV composers.

Website: https://www.salarnader.com/