Zeh har dari .................
For more Persian music go to the main Music page. Ey Iran (mp3)
Ruhollah Khaleghi (music), Hossein Golgolab (lyrics), Golnoosh Khaleghi
Ey Iran KiKi
Vatane man Iraj Bastaami
Beh Yade Aref
Ghazvini
Golhaye 264
Az Khoone Javanane Vatan
Laleh Damideh, Vocals: Elahe, Violin: Parviz Yahaghi, Composer: Aref
Ghazvini, Lyrics: Aref Ghazvini
Producer: Rouhollah Khaleghi
Elaheh:
Yek Shaakheh # 290 Gol (in Abu Ata)
Nadrer Golchin:
Morghe Sahar,
Amad Nobahar
Ghamar: "din
o del dadam o mehrat kharidam" ,
"Mosem-e Gol"
Javad Badi-zadeh:
Shod Khazaan
Dariush Rafiee:
Mastaaneh
Delkash:
Baazgashteh, Saaz-e
Shekasteh,
Yaad-e Man Kon,
Atashe Carevan , Jodaee" in two parts:
(1) (2), Dastgah:
Dashti, Yaadet
Miaayad, Safar
kardeh, Jahaan-e
zibaa, Sokoot-e
shab, Sepaas-e
mohabbat
Kouros Sarhangzadeh:
Zohreh
Abdolvahab Shahidi:
Zendegi,
Navaiee,
Yaar-e beevafaa,
Kasi yaar niyah (kermanshahi)
Haiedeh: "Raftam O Bar-e Safar Bastam", Ey Khodaa
Mahmoodi Khansari: Morghe Shabaahang, Raseed Mojdeh, Shur,Yahaghi and Varzandeh Barge Sabz #71, Shur Habibollah Badiee and Farhange Sharif
Hossein Ghavami: Javaani, Toraa Man Cheshm dar Raaham, Sargashteh, Saaz o Avaaz, Mojdeh Eydel
Banan, Golhaye Jaavidaan #130, Vocals: Gholamhossein Banan, Musicians: Ahmad Ebadi, Hasan Kasaie, Ali Tajvidi, Jalil Shahnaz, Morteza Mahjoubi, Naser Eftetah
Announcer: Roshanak, Mahour, Elaaheye Naaz
Asari az Ostaad Alinaghi Vaziri: Pishdaraamad Segaah, Gheteie Dashti, Renge Dasti, Kharidaare Toe, Kenaare Golzaar, Kaarvaan , Ey Vatan (mp3)
Javad Ma'roufi: Khaab-haaye talaaee, Jila, Koo koo
Master Ahmad Ebadi's setar solo
1 Segah
2 Chahargah
3 Homayoun
4 Esfahan
5 Afshari
Dastgah of Mahour
Assadollah Malek: Chahar Mezraab Bayat e Esfahan, Chahaar Mezraab Shur, Chahaar Mezraab Segaah, bayaat e Tork, Shur, Chahaar Mezrab Shur, Mokhaalef Segaah
Album: Barg-e Sabz
Collaborators: Mohammad Reza Shajarian,
Ahmad Ebadi, Assadollah Malek, Jahangir Malek
Poems: Sadi, Jami, Kamal Ismail
#308: Segaah
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The tracks below are from "Taknavaazi Violin" by the late violinist Assadollah Malek with two tar masters Farhang Sharif and Jalil Shahnaz. Also featured are master Jahangir Malek on zarb, Reza Varzandeh on santoor and Mansour Nariman playing the oud.
* Shokoufeh (Dastgah Shour)
* Ghoncheh (Dastgah Shoushtari)
* Sokhane Del (Dastgah Abou Atta)
* Montazer (Bayat Turk)
* Kereshmeh (Segah)
Golpa: Delshekasteh, Delam Gerefteh, Ruzegaar , Mooye Sepid, Havase Meykadeh, Golhaye Tazeh #10 , Golhaye Tazeh #36
Aminollah Hussein:To raa doost daaram ey vatan Part (1), Part (2)
Sima Bina: Yousef , Hamdel
Parvin Emshab Dar Sar Shuri Daaram , Gol-e Pajmordeh
Nahid Ghorobe Koohestaan
Nouri, Mohammad: Iran Iran (mp3), Nazanin Maryam
Maziar: Iran Iran
Emad Ram: Niaaz
Farhad: Toraa doost daaram, Barf (Iran) (mp3), Morgh-e Sahar (mp3), Yesterday When I Was Young, Yesterday (Beatles song)
****
Taknavazan traditional Persian instrumentals:
Hassan Kassaie: Ney
Jalil Shahnaz: Taar
Reza Varzandeh: Santur
Ahmad Ebadi: Setar
Taknavazan 208 "Gharani and Rahab"
Khorram: Violin Majid Nejahi: Santoor Jahangir Malek: Tonbak
Taknavazan 207 "Dashti"
Ali Tajvidi: Violin Jalil Shahnaz: Taar Mansour Saremi: Santoor Jahangir Malek Tonbak
Taknavazan 210 "Dashti"
Habibollah Badii: Violin Fazlollah Tavakol: Santoor Jahangir Malek: Tonbak
Taknavazan 214 "Mahoor"
Ahmad Ebadi: Setar Fereydoon Hafezi :Tar Majid Mousavi: Ney Jahangir Malek: Tonbak
Taknavazan 236 "Shoor"
Jalile Shahnaaz: Tar Parviz Yahaghi: Violin Fazlollah Tavakoli: Santoor Jahangir Malek : Tombak
***********
Northern Slopes of Rasvand Mountain. Bolagh is beyond the trees.
***********
Grandfather
by: A. Shafie
My grandfather is sitting on a chair, in front of his store, under a willow tree. It is a mid-morning of a late spring day. The sky is as blue as it could be. The leaves are as green as they could get, and the breeze is cool and refreshing on my skin. The snow on the mountains has retreated toward the peaks. Partridges are singing in the fields.
I am on my summer break. Schools are closed for the next three months, and I have absolutely nothing to do.
My parents like me to go to the summer school that is run by a cleric, who teaches things that no one is interested in. My parents know that too, but they just want me to go, so I am not idle, walking around the neighborhood causing trouble. In other word, the cleric’s summer school is nothing but a cheap baby sitting service to keep the kids off the street.
Last summer I went to this summer school. It was awful. I was bored to death. So I would start talking to other kids and before you know it, we would be playing and giggling as if we were in a playground. That’s when he would get mad and punish us with the whip. It was so painful.
This year I have convinced my parents that I would stay with my grandfather and help him with his little store. My grandfather would also give me some lessons in writing and calligraphy. He is very nice and lets me help him with the customers too.
My grandfather’s store is very small compared to my father’s. He just sells cigarettes, matches, tobacco, sugar, tea, cookies, candies and a few other things. His store is very clean and neat. He has a 4 foot wide and 6 foot long bench behind the counter against the wall on the left-hand side of the store. We normally sit on that when he is teaching me calligraphy.
His customers are kids who come to buy candy, women who come to buy sugar, tea or rice, and men who come to buy cigarettes. He is very pleasant and kind to kids and very respectful toward women. He even gives free candies to the kids when he feels like it.
Sometimes, there are men who come to buy cigarettes or other things, and my grandfather refuses to sell them anything. He tells them that their money is "haram" (untouchable), because they have been to the tea- house, a few doors away, where people gamble. Some of them who don’t know my grandfather, start arguing, and get offended and call my grandfather a fool. But he doesn’t seem to be bothered by their negative remarks. His face looks peaceful and contented, like he has done the God’s will, and seems to be pleased, while I feel uneasy and embarrassed. They grumble on their way out of the store, and head for other stores. Others just laugh sarcastically and move on.
I think to myself, that my grandfather is wrong. Who cares if these people gamble? Who cares if they are sinners? Who cares if they will burn in hell? But when I look at his face I see a man who looks more righteous than anyone I have ever known.
Today, he is sitting on his chair, alone, deep in his thoughts, with his face full of peace and tranquillity. I am standing on the sidewalk with my back to the willow tree watching him. There are no customers. All housewives have made their morning shopping. The butcher shop is empty too. No one goes in and out of the teahouse either. Anyone that steps into the teahouse automatically enters my grandfather’s black list. He will never deal with them. He will never sell them anything.
Across the street the fruit stand has no business either. It is a peaceful morning. I hear the birds on the mulberry tree. They are the sparrows having a feast. They must be so happy and free. They don’t have to go to school. They don’t have to just wait for a customer to come and buy a piece of candy or a pack of cigarettes. They don’t argue with each other. They don’t gamble. They have no heaven. They don’t have a judgment day. They have no hell. They do what they enjoy the most. They don’t think what they need to eat and how they are going to eat it. They just do it. Then they come down the tree to get their wings wetted in the little creek.
I move to the sun. My shadow is still too long. It still is a long time to lunch. I see other kids playing by the creek. They are chasing the grasshoppers. I like to go and play with them, but I know better. My grandfather would not let me. So I try not to even think about it.
He notices that I am watching him. He looks at me with a smile and says the usual thing that he always does: "mirza assdollh khan, halein yakhche der?" He speaks Turkish. He always spoke that language. My grandmother, my mother and my aunts do too. But we, the kids never learned it. I can understand simple conversations when my mother talks with my aunts, but I do not speak it. I have no desire to do so either. All my friends at school speak Persian. I am no different. I consider myself Persian and not Turk. Turks live in the smaller villages. They are mostly farmers or farm helps. The bigger towns like mine speak Persian.
My grandfather has moved to this town from one of these villages when my mother was just a little girl. His family had lived in a village called "Dareh Zooleh", which means Zooleh Valley, for many generations. They were prosperous farmers and educators. They were a class of their own, "khordeh malek" (petty land-owners). They owned the land that they farmed. They worked on their own land and hired help in harvesting seasons. They were not as rich as the landowners that owned many farms or villages. They were educated and into books. There were many hand-written books by their ancestors kept on the shelf, wrapped in pretty green and red velvet.
There were, from time to time, conflicts between them and the bigger landowners. But they had learned to live with it, until a winter back in early 1900, when there was a big fight between them and Faramarzi the wealthy land owner, who owned many villages including more than half of the farms in "Dareh Zooleh". This time was no different from others. It was the same old stuff, which had its roots in the way Mr. Faramarzi looked at the petty landowners. They were like an eye sore to him. He always hoped that they would just disappear from the face of the earth.
To Mr. Faramarzi, the Khan, there were only two classes of people, the landowners and the peasants who worked on the farm of the landowners. In his world there was no place for people who owned their own land, and farmed it themselves. Therefore, he had no love for my grandfather’s family. But as I said that was not such an unusual thing. Everyone knew about that, and everyone knew how to live with it, including Mr. Faramarzi.
But that winter, during the fights of words and a few encounter of beating up a few of my grandfather’s family helps, something went very wrong. To this date, no one really knows what happened, and who pulled the trigger, and shot Mr. Faramarzi's younger and cruel brother. In middle of winter in the middle of the night, my grandfather family left every thing behind and fled over the mountains to Malicheh, a village six miles to the North of Dareh Zooleh, where they had some relatives.
Somehow, the war didn’t spill over to Malicheh. One of the reasons I can guess was that Mr. Faramarzy was well aware of the fact that he was not very popular. Secondly they had nothing to gain by dragging the fight over to Malicheh, because of the Khan of Malicheh who had his own rivalry with Mr. Faramarzy, and Mr. Faramarzi could have gotten himself in a real fight with the Khan.
So Mr. Faramarzi lost a brother, but got rid of a petty landowner at the same time. He took my grandfather family’s land, their houses, live stocks and their other belongings.
My grandfather grew up in Malicheh. He got married to my grandmother Leila, who died a few years ago. She was a very kind woman. I used to love going to their house that was across the unpaved road from our house. My grandmother had two brothers. One had died when he was very young. The other one was a tall, slender man with raised eyebrows, long mustache, and piercing green eyes. I was so scared of him. I was scared for my grandmother too, when he used to come to her house. I would try to avoid her house when he was there, and I would be relieved when he left.
One time I went there and he was sitting on the balcony (eivan) and was smoking his water pipe. As soon as he saw me, he said: "Kor kiei, jeghelah?" -(whose son are you, little one?)- in his native Lori tongue. I was petrified. I thought he would grab me and throw me off the balcony. He looked mean like the giants in my grandmother’s stories. I ran down the stairs and went right back to our house.
I tried to be quiet, so my mother would not notice me. She would laugh at me, if she knew I was frightened by her uncle she called "haloo". That was another thing, everyone called their uncles "amoo" or "daei", and my mother would call her uncle "haloo". I thought it to be weird.
But nevertheless, my mother saw me and asked me why I didn’t stay at my grandmother’s. I told her that I would go later. I went to the yard, and after a few minutes I headed for her house. I entered the courtyard, but didn’t go upstairs. I looked at the balcony. He was not sitting there. I didn’t want to take any chances. I called out: "grandmother, is that "Lor" still in your house? If he is, then I’ll come back later".
I didn’t hear her, but I heard him, laughing loud and scary, the way giants of my grandmother’s stories laugh before eating the poor farmers or little kids. I ran away back to our house again and tried to hide in the yard somewhere. I didn’t want my mother to know what had happened. They didn’t understand. They would think that it was funny and they would laugh at me.
Later that day, my mother took me there. She said that she wanted to see her "haloo" (uncle). I didn’t like to go, but I didn’t want to make my mother suspicious. Also I felt safer with my mother.
When we got there, it was in the afternoon. My grandmother was sitting on the balcony on a Persian rug, across from his brother, the man I dreaded so much. He was puffing at his water pipe, tears were rolling down on his face, and disappearing in his unshaved gray beard. He was humming a song, a very sad song.
I had never seen him cry. I never thought he could cry either. I felt like crying too. I told my mother that I liked to play in the yard, and she let go of my hand. I ran downstairs, to the yard, out of the gate, across the road to our house. I went to my room and closed the door.
I know they were talking about their brother who had died young, many years ago. But to them, it was always like a fresh wound that had never healed. My grandmother died a few years after that, leaving my grandfather alone and lost.
After my grandmother died, her brother seldom visited us. Every time I saw him, he would say: "grandmother, is that Lor still in your house?" Then he would laugh, and squeeze me in his arms. I knew his eyes would be wet when he did that. He would hold me like that, so I wouldn’t see his eyes. He would always hum the same sad song.
A few months after my grandmother death, my mother and my other three aunts kept gathering in our house, and kept talking in Turkish about something that they didn’t want us kids to know about. However, I could understand enough Turkish, to know that they were talking about my grandfather, where he should be staying, and who should take care of him.
After a brief stay with my other aunt he moved in to live with us. He would spend his days at his store, keeping himself busy hand-copying a book for a wealthy family who were not wealthy enough to print the book. The book was written by one of their ancestors. So, my grandfather created probably one of the last hand-written books. He had hand copied many books before that.
This was actually a tradition in his family. His father, grandfather, and great grandfather had left him hand copied copies of books, mostly religious ones. One of the oldest books he had, was from 18th century, hand copied by his great grandfather, Haji Akbar Zooleh, the son of Haji Pir Ahmad Japelaghi, also know as Khajeh Ahmad Bozorg (the great).
My older brother would dictate to him, and he would keep writing for hours at a time, using special pen and special ink. I always wished I could have those little square bottles of ink, but they were expensive. There were made in China. It said so on the bottles. He would return the empty bottles to the rich guy who used to come about every other week to monitor the progress of the work. Then the rich guy would bring more bottles of ink and paper.
That was my grandfather’s last hand copying project. It took nearly a year.
He seems to be addicted to writing. He is always writing some thing. His face is as calm as the river on the other side of the town, under the bright sun in a mid summer day.
Yesterday, I went to the orchards, a couple of miles away from the town, on the northern slops of the hills and some low profile rocky mountains. I passed through the wheat and alfalfa fields on the Southern edge of town, to the little creek that crosses the North South country road and goes straight Westwards.
I stopped by the creek. The water was as clear as tears of little babies. It must have been around 2 in the afternoon. The little navy blue butter flies, and the little bright yellow ones were all over the alfalfa fields. From time to time you could see the large white ones and the monarchs. You could hear the "jir jiraks" who were singing at the top of their voice. That meant, that the temperature must be at its peak of the day. The whole prairie was alive, with the sound of the birds and the breeze through the branches of the Russian olive trees.
I felt so relaxed and light. It was like I could fly and reach the highest branches on the treetop. I felt the sun penetrating deep into my skin. I touched my face. It was hot. I sat by the creek, with my feet in the cool water, touching the bottom. Oh, God, what a beautiful day, I thought to myself.
I lied down on my back, on the grass with my feet in the water. Now I could see the blue sky. A few very high clouds were moving gently up in the sky. I could hear the different noises. The water sounded differently now that I was lying down.
"I wish I were like those clouds", I thought to myself. "Then I could go everywhere". "I could follow my mother when she went to the orchard." "I would cover the sun in her path so it would not bother her." "I would rain on her garden every night so they won’t ever be dry." "I could float high in the sky, and see the mountain peaks, and deep valleys". "I could see the top of the trees". "I could even be higher than the birds."
I closed my eyes and listened. There were so many different noises. I felt I could hear the butterflies. I felt I could hear the germination of the alfalfa fields, the growing of new leaves on clovers, the conversation of two doves on the tree and the breeze chasing the river.
I started humming: "breeze come, breeze come, harry up and blow, the water is stealing your baby, breeze come, breeze come, hurry up and blow." And I felt the breeze blowing on my face. It always works. That was the trick I had learned from my older brother a long time ago. So when I like the breeze to blow. I sing to her and tell her that the water is stealing her baby, and she always comes, blowing gently.
I could smell the wild roses in the distant gardens. Pretty soon the ruby red grapes are going be ripe. The barley fields are being harvested. It is only a matter of days now. I love the ruby red grapes we call "yaghooti". Our orchard has the best. They are so pretty.
My grandfather is looking at me smiling: "where were you Mirza Asdollah?"
I smile back: "I am here grandfather, I am here, right here." He gets up with a sigh, just like when the breeze gently goes by the newly sprouted wheat fields. I follow him with my eyes. He looks up at the sky, with a calm face. It is as if he is looking for someone or something.
I am missing my grandmother. I am sure my grandfather does too. He tells me to go home and tell my mother that he will be coming home for lunch soon.
Uniquely Iranian
by
A. Shafie
I go to visit my friend’s sister. My friend has given me her address and asked me to deliver a letter to her along with some gifts from the States. My father in law calls a taxi for me. They are not actually taxis. They are just regular cars like the limousines in the States.
I get on the car. It is a bloody hot day. It is the same car and the same driver as i had just yesterday. So I know his car not only is not air conditioned, the blower doesn’t even work. He starts his talk about how bad every thing is and how he deserves a better life, and he should not be driving a taxi.
I give him the address. He is not familiar with the area. He keeps driving, hoping to see the street. I finally ask him to pull over in front of a store. I go in and ask for the address. A few more stops and asking for direction, and we find it.
It is an apartment building. They live on the 2nd floor. I tell the driver that it should take me about 30 minutes and ask him to wait for me. He gets paid by hours, so he doesn’t mind.
I ring the bell. They ask who I am. I introduce myself. The door opens. I take the stairs to the 2nd floor. They are waiting for me at the top of the stairs, my friend’s sister, her husband and their son. Their faces are lit up. I am amazed. It is like I have come to my own sister’s house. They shake my hand warmly. The husband and his son kiss my face on both chicks.
I feel that I have known them all my life. They treat me like a king. They lead me inside their beautiful cozy apartment. The picture of Sattar Khan is on the wall. I already feel at home. The picture of one of my heroes is on the wall.
I am immersed in a sea of love and attention. I have never seen these people before, but they act like they have known me all their lives. The sister looks at me with tears in her eyes. She says I have brought her the scent of her brother.
I am so comfortable. It is like I am in the home of my childhood, and they are my siblings. I start talking about her brother, my good friend of many years in the States, and she weeps silently. I feel the tenderness of life and love with no boundaries or conditions. I feel like I can stay forever without wanting to move from my seat. I keep talking, listening and experiencing the interaction with the type of people that I have always wanted to meet, the type of people who can cure your blues by just looking at you, the type of people you read about in mystic books, people who have power of healing your pain, just by touching you, people closest to being gods.
I have lost track of time. I remember the driver is waiting for me. I reluctantly say goodbye to them. I promise to come and visit them again. I love to do that. They hug me and kiss me, and make me feel the most loved person.
I come downstairs. I see the drive sitting on the hood of his car under the shade of a magnificent plane tree, with a big tray of fruits, tea, cookies and mixed beer nuts.
They were not only loving and caring toward me, who am a friend of her brother. They were equally nice, respectful and kind to the driver that they didn’t know. I thought to myself: “this is uniquely Iranian too.”
Tehran 1998
Last call
After four centuries, Armenians of Shazand are no more
By Behrooz Parsa
May 15, 2002
Call it anything you like. It won't make it any easier to bear. I am writing from the town of Shazand, 20 miles southwest of the city of Arak, about 200 miles southwest of Tehran. Years ago when I was growing up here, this town was basically made up of four villages, a railroad station and a sugar mill. Two of the villages, Kelaveh and Abbasabad, were mainly populated by Armenians.
The total population of Shahzand at that time was probably 3,000, with about 20% to 30% Armenians, who since the early 1700 had gradually settled here, possibly because Shazand was along their rout from Isfahan to Armenia, before modern roads were built.
Most of them were farmers. Some worked in the sugar mill. Others grew grapes and made wine. They also owned the only tavern in town. They were part of the solid fabric of our community, although they very much kept to themselves. We knew them not as Armenians but as Mr. so and so, Mrs. so and so, fellow farmers, owner of so and so farm or vineyard.
 I left here when I was 15 to go to high school in Tehran. I had planned to come back here, and become a schoolteacher, but I never did.
After more than 30 years, I am back for a brief visit. Shazand is a much bigger town now, almost a small city of 15,000 people. All 4 villages, the sugar mill and the train station are clumped together to make up this not-so-attractive town with absolutely no character.
The old sugar mill looks rustier than ever. There is little sign of the vineyards and the surrounding miles and miles of farmland. There is an oil refinery, a petrochemical plant, a 1,300 megawatts thermal power station, and a paint manufacturing plant, all built over the past two decades, which have replaced the vineyards, and wheat and alfalfa fields.
The air that used to be filled with the fragrance of wild roses (gol-e mohammadi) and the freshly cut clovers is now filled with yellow smoke, and the smell of gases and chemicals.
The other night, in my sister's house, while in bed, trying to go to sleep, I reached and picked up the telephone directory of Shazand. Like Dustin Hoffman in the movie "Rain Man", I started glancing through it, looking for familiar names, old classmates and other folks I used to know here.
I didn't see the name of any of my Armenian classmates or their families. The more I looked the less I found. There were around 3,500 names in there. I spent over an hour and looked at every name. I was amazed to find out that there was not a single Armenian name in the entire directory. I realized that after almost four centuries of history in this part of the world, Armenians of Shazand were no longer here, finished, gone, vanished, didn't exist anymore.
They had left behind, their farms, their homes, their churches, their cemetery, the headstone of their ancestors, and gone away, as if they had never been here, as if this place meant nothing to them.
That night, I felt strangely depressed. I didn't know what was bothering me. I had left this place too, so did many of my other friends and relatives. For some reason those didn't bother me. But just the thought that a whole group of people had collectively decided to call it quits made me despair. It was as if a universal law had been broken. I felt as if these people had betrayed this land, or perhaps it was the other way around, this land had betrayed these people.
Now I am standing here on the slope of Mount Rasvand on the southwestern edge of the town. The Ahvaz-Tehran passenger train is leaving the station heading north to Tehran. The chimneys of the oil refinery and the power station are sending yellow and blue smoke up into the sky. The sun is shining majestically overhead. I look at the town and think to myself: "All gone, the wheat and alfalfa fields, the vineyards, the Armenians, and the small tavern where I had my first glass of wine."
Little sleeper (in memory of my brother and all the loved ones who left us so early)
Little sleeper, the spring is here;
Tulip and rose are come again,
Only you in the earth remain,
Sleeping, dear.
Little sleeper, the spring is here;
I, like a cloud of April rain,
Am bending over your grave in vain,
Weeping, dear.
Little flower, the spring is here;
What if my tears were not in vain!
What if they drew you up again,
Little flower!
By Hafez
My home is cloudy
My home is cloudy,
The entire world is cloudy along with it
From the passage, wind is howling, wasted, drunken, and delirious,
The entire world is wasted from it,
So are my senses
Oh, flute player,
That the tune of your flute has drifted you from your path,
Where art thee?
My home is cloudy,
But the cloud has turned into rain.
I am contemplating the brighter days, which are no more,
I am in the sun,
Gazing at the sea,
And the whole world is wasted by the wind;
And Strolls along his path, the Flute player, playing his tune, in this cloudy world.
Nima
Translated by: A. Shafie
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"Gotteli" is the national flower of Astaneh. It blooms when the "yaghooti" grapes just turn pinkish. There is a little song which, kids in Astaneh used to sing with "sarsakhti" accent:
"Gottelia gol kerdenah Yaghootia lak zedenah" Which translates as: "the Gottelis are in bloom, and the yaghooti grapes(*)are getting pinkish".
(*) Similar to Champagne grapes, but sweeter and firmer, and a little bigger. In Astaneh this kind of grape is harvested in august, while the
other types are harvested in September. |
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