{"id":3840,"date":"2026-05-16T15:23:14","date_gmt":"2026-05-16T15:23:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/project\/episode-20-hazel-eyes\/"},"modified":"2026-05-20T14:35:44","modified_gmt":"2026-05-20T14:35:44","slug":"episode-20-hazel-eyes","status":"publish","type":"project","link":"https:\/\/mugwortborn.com\/es\/project\/episode-20-hazel-eyes\/","title":{"rendered":"Episodio 20: Ojos color avellana"},"content":{"rendered":"[et_pb_section fb_built=\u00bb1″ admin_label=\u00bbsection\u00bb _builder_version=\u00bb4.16″ global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb][et_pb_row admin_label=\u00bbrow\u00bb _builder_version=\u00bb4.27.5″ background_size=\u00bbinitial\u00bb background_position=\u00bbtop_left\u00bb background_repeat=\u00bbrepeat\u00bb width=\u00bb100%\u00bb global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb][et_pb_column type=\u00bb4_4″ _builder_version=\u00bb4.16″ custom_padding=\u00bb|||\u00bb global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb custom_padding__hover=\u00bb|||\u00bb][et_pb_text admin_label=\u00bbText\u00bb _builder_version=\u00bb4.27.5″ background_size=\u00bbinitial\u00bb background_position=\u00bbtop_left\u00bb background_repeat=\u00bbrepeat\u00bb hover_enabled=\u00bb0″ global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb sticky_enabled=\u00bb0″]

Ten\u00eda los ojos color avellana. Yo ten\u00eda poco m\u00e1s de treinta a\u00f1os y, en mi tierra, los ojos azules eran poco comunes y los color avellana, casi desconocidos. Hab\u00eda salido a menudo de mi mundo de ojos oscuros y conocido a bastantes personas de ojos azules, pero nunca hab\u00eda visto ojos color avellana, ese tono dorado, verde oliva y marr\u00f3n que cambia con la luz. La mir\u00e9 fijamente. Me pregunt\u00e9, <\/span>\u00bfLes pasa algo?<\/span><\/i> Eran hipn\u00f3ticos, imposibles de ignorar, imposibles de apartar la mirada de ellos. A veces, su cortina de espesa melena negra ca\u00eda hacia delante y esos ojos color avellana resultaban a\u00fan m\u00e1s fascinantes; en ocasiones, cuando se sub\u00eda la bufanda distra\u00eddamente hasta cubrirse la nariz y la boca y me miraba, lo \u00fanico visible eran esos ojos color avellana. Examin\u00e9 cada iris, consciente de mi descortes\u00eda y falta de respeto, pero fui incapaz de remediarlo. No creo que le importara, porque sigui\u00f3 visit\u00e1ndome casi todos los d\u00edas.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Acababa de terminar la universidad, dijo, y su padre, un pol\u00edtico iran\u00ed de alto rango, le hab\u00eda concedido un a\u00f1o de viaje antes de que sentara cabeza. Hab\u00eda elegido la India y Nepal porque sus civilizaciones eran tan antiguas como la suya. En aquel momento, lo \u00fanico que yo conoc\u00eda de Ir\u00e1n era la pel\u00edcula de Hollywood <\/span>Not Without My Daughter (No sin mi hija)<\/span><\/i>, protagonizada por Sally Field, que no hab\u00eda hecho m\u00e1s que alimentar mis considerables prejuicios contra el mundo isl\u00e1mico y reforzar mi convicci\u00f3n de que el ayatol\u00e1 Jomeini era un hombre malvado.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Quiz\u00e1 ella sent\u00eda tanta curiosidad por mis or\u00edgenes ex\u00f3ticos como yo por sus ojos color avellana. Nunca hab\u00eda conocido a un nativo del Himalaya, mitad tibetano y mitad butan\u00e9s, pero, a diferencia de otros visitantes interesados en recibir ense\u00f1anzas budistas, no me hizo ni una sola pregunta sobre el budismo. Ahora que lo pienso, no me pregunt\u00f3 nada en absoluto, aunque parec\u00eda absorber cada palabra de las conversaciones filos\u00f3ficas que yo manten\u00eda con otros. Recuerdo a\u00fan el intenso aroma del perfume que llevaba, que flotaba en el aire mucho despu\u00e9s de que ella saliera de la habitaci\u00f3n. Pregunt\u00e9 a mis amigos persas y me dijeron que era una fragancia exquisita y costosa llamada Oud, que las mujeres persas adineradas llevan desde hace siglos.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Empec\u00e9 a esperar sus visitas con anhelo. Si llegaba tarde, me pon\u00eda inquieto. Lo que sent\u00eda era algo m\u00e1s que fascinaci\u00f3n por unos ojos color avellana, aunque me resist\u00eda a reconocerlo, ni siquiera ante m\u00ed mismo. Su ascendencia persa no hac\u00eda sino aumentar su encanto.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

El d\u00eda que se march\u00f3 a Ir\u00e1n, nos encontramos en una cafeter\u00eda para despedirnos. Escribi\u00f3 su direcci\u00f3n a toda prisa en una servilleta de papel y me la entreg\u00f3 sin m\u00e1s. \u00abMantente en contacto\u00bb, dijo, y sali\u00f3 sin mirar atr\u00e1s. En aquella \u00e9poca, mantenerse en contacto significaba tener la direcci\u00f3n postal y el n\u00famero de tel\u00e9fono fijo de alguien. A las generaciones Z y alfa les resultar\u00e1 dif\u00edcil imaginarlo.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

El 31 de agosto de 1996, cuando el avi\u00f3n procedente de Kuwait inici\u00f3 su descenso hacia el Aeropuerto Internacional Im\u00e1n Jomeini de Teher\u00e1n, vi nieve en las cimas de los montes Alborz. Me sorprendi\u00f3. Sab\u00eda que los veranos son calurosos y secos \u2014en lo que entonces se llamaba Oriente Medio y que desde entonces he aprendido a llamar Asia Occidental. No esperaba encontrar nieve. En inmigraci\u00f3n me retuvieron mucho m\u00e1s tiempo que a nadie, porque ning\u00fan funcionario hab\u00eda o\u00eddo hablar de But\u00e1n. \u00bfSer\u00eda yo el primer turista butan\u00e9s en pisar Teher\u00e1n?<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Estaba ilusionado con este viaje a un pa\u00eds desconocido en el que no ten\u00eda nada concreto que hacer. Poco hab\u00eda en ese pa\u00eds que me interesara espiritualmente, salvo las vagas alusiones de mis maestros tibetanos a una visita que, seg\u00fan se dec\u00eda, realiz\u00f3 Gesar, el rey de Ling, cuando Ir\u00e1n formaba a\u00fan parte de la antigua Persia. Mi deseo de conocer Ir\u00e1n hab\u00eda nacido a principios de ese mismo a\u00f1o, en Londres, donde se supon\u00eda que estudiaba ingl\u00e9s. En realidad, iba de cine en cine por el West End y el South Bank, sumergi\u00e9ndome en todos los estilos cinematogr\u00e1ficos que encontraba. Fue por entonces cuando descubr\u00ed la m\u00e1gica <\/span>Gabbeh<\/span><\/i>, de Mohsen Makhmalbaf.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

En una carpa improvisada, con las hermosas praderas de Ir\u00e1n como tel\u00f3n de fondo, un anciano levanta la mano derecha hacia el cielo. \u2014\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 color es esto? \u2014pregunta a sus alumnos, que lo miran atentos y entusiasmados. \u2014\u00a1Azul! \u2014responden.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Al bajar la mano, vemos que es del mismo color que el cielo: azul persa. Ese tono no me ha abandonado desde entonces. Busqu\u00e9 m\u00e1s pel\u00edculas iran\u00edes y descubr\u00ed <\/span>El sabor de las cerezas<\/span><\/i>, de Abbas Kiarostami, y <\/span>Los ni\u00f1os del cielo<\/span><\/i>, de Majid Majidi, ambas aut\u00e9nticas joyas. En aquel momento no se me ocurri\u00f3 pensar que un pa\u00eds capaz de producir un cine tan sencillo pero profundo ten\u00eda que poseer una cultura de gran sofisticaci\u00f3n.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A la salida del aeropuerto, la carretera bull\u00eda de coches, pero ninguno era un taxi oficial. Los conductores me rodearon y empezaron a pugnar por llevarme \u2014gente corriente que intentaba ganarse la vida, seg\u00fan me hab\u00edan dicho mis amigos persas. Al azar, eleg\u00ed a un hombre corpulento de mediana edad que conduc\u00eda un Volga color crema. Los iran\u00edes son un pueblo elocuente al que le encanta hablar como a los indios. A m\u00ed no me molest\u00f3 en absoluto. Mi conductor me fue contando la historia de su ciudad mientras yo lo escuchaba con gusto, y en alg\u00fan momento de la conversaci\u00f3n comprend\u00ed que ten\u00eda un doctorado, aunque no recuerdo en qu\u00e9 materia.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Tras Kuwait, con sus gigantescas mansiones de m\u00e1rmol, sus modernos rascacielos y sus hoteles de lujo \u2014imagen perfecta de una sociedad de nuevos ricos\u2014, Ir\u00e1n no pod\u00eda ser m\u00e1s diferente. Se parec\u00eda m\u00e1s a la India que a los estados \u00e1rabes y, si acaso, menos desarrollado a\u00fan. De camino al hotel, mi conductor me persuadi\u00f3 de que nos detuvi\u00e9ramos a tomar algo. El men\u00fa del restaurante fue toda una revelaci\u00f3n: donde quiera que miraba ve\u00eda platos muy familiares que cre\u00eda t\u00edpicamente indios, entre ellos enormes naan y muy generosos kebabs. No, no, me dijo mi conductor: fue la India quien import\u00f3 todos esos platos de Ir\u00e1n. El camarero trajo el t\u00e9 con un terr\u00f3n de az\u00facar en piedra.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u2014P\u00f3ngase el az\u00facar en la boca \u2014me explic\u00f3\u2014 y d\u00e9jelo reposar en la lengua mientras saborea el t\u00e9.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Cuando el locuaz y barrigudo conductor me dej\u00f3 en el hotel, ya le hab\u00eda tomado bastante cari\u00f1o. Al pagarle, se ofreci\u00f3 a llevarme a hacer turismo y lo contrat\u00e9 para el resto de mi estancia. Me llev\u00f3 a todas las principales atracciones, incluidas las ruinas de Pers\u00e9polis, construida, seg\u00fan \u00e9l, por Dar\u00edo el Grande en tiempos del Buda. La historia universal no hab\u00eda formado parte del plan de estudios del Sakya College, y descubrir el poder y los logros de la antigua Persia me dej\u00f3 asombrado.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n
Mezquita del Jeque Lotfollah de Isfahan
Cr\u00e9dito de imagen: irandoostan.com\/shah-mosque-isfahan<\/em><\/figcaption>\n<\/figure>\n

<\/p>\n

El mayor atractivo de Teher\u00e1n, para m\u00ed, era su magn\u00edfico bazar, el Bazar-e Bozorg-e. El edificio era espl\u00e9ndido y sus tiendas, bellamente dispuestas, desbordaban colores y aromas: especias, alimentos, perfumes, incienso. Mis amigos tibetanos me hab\u00edan dicho que la turquesa de mejor calidad procede de Ir\u00e1n \u2014la corona del Buda Jowo, se dice, lleva incrustada turquesa iran\u00ed\u2014 y que su azafr\u00e1n es insuperable. Gracias a <\/span>Gabbeh<\/span><\/i>, acab\u00e9 tambi\u00e9n en una tienda de alfombras. Mientras curioseaba, el vendedor repar\u00f3 en que mis ojos volv\u00edan una y otra vez a una alfombra en particular y se lanz\u00f3 a negociar. Admit\u00ed con cierta verg\u00fcenza que se me estaba acabando el dinero en efectivo. La alfombra ten\u00eda un precio muy razonable, le dije, pero no llevaba suficiente dinero encima.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u2014Se\u00f1or, deber\u00eda hab\u00e9rmelo dicho antes. No hay ning\u00fan problema. Ninguno. Le env\u00edo la alfombra a su casa y me paga cuando pueda \u2014respondi\u00f3 \u00e9l, encantado de resolver el problema.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Mi mente esc\u00e9ptica felicit\u00f3 al astuto comerciante persa por su excelente estrategia de venta. Aun as\u00ed, compr\u00e9 la alfombra, aunque me empe\u00f1\u00e9 en dejar un anticipo antes de salir.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014No es necesario, querido se\u00f1or, se lo aseguro \u2014insisti\u00f3.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pero me mantuve firme y le promet\u00ed el resto a mi regreso a la India. Dos meses despu\u00e9s, la alfombra lleg\u00f3 a mi puerta.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Lo m\u00e1s fascinante de Teher\u00e1n eran las librer\u00edas. La mayor\u00eda de los vol\u00famenes estaban en farsi, urdu y otras lenguas, pero casi siempre hab\u00eda una peque\u00f1a secci\u00f3n en ingl\u00e9s escondida en alg\u00fan rinc\u00f3n del fondo. En lugar de libros, sin embargo, encontr\u00e9 montones de fotocopias. No supe bien por qu\u00e9; quiz\u00e1 los originales estaban prohibidos o resultaban demasiado caros de importar. Esas fotocopias me intrigaron, y cuando di con un ejemplar de <\/span>Snow Country (Pa\u00eds de nieve)<\/span><\/i> traducido al ingl\u00e9s, me conmovi\u00f3 profundamente el empe\u00f1o de ese librero iran\u00ed por hacer llegar a sus lectores uno de mis libros favoritos.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Le ped\u00ed a mi conductor que me llevara a Isfah\u00e1n, a cinco horas en coche al sur de Teher\u00e1n. Habl\u00f3 durante todo el trayecto, callando solo cuando me quedaba dormido. Todo lo que dec\u00eda me interesaba.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u2014Los estadounidenses son muy listos \u2014dijo en alg\u00fan momento del trayecto\u2014. Cuando los \u00e1rabes tienen el est\u00f3mago lleno, no pueden pensar. Cuando los persas tienen el est\u00f3mago vac\u00edo, tampoco. Los estadounidenses se aseguran de que los \u00e1rabes tengan siempre mucho que comer y de que los persas est\u00e9n siempre hambrientos. S\u00ed, son muy listos.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u00bfMe reun\u00ed con mi chica de ojos color avellana? No, no lo hice. Despu\u00e9s de la despedida en la cafeter\u00eda aquel sofocante d\u00eda, le envi\u00e9 una postal. No me respondi\u00f3. En Ir\u00e1n conoc\u00ed a muchas chicas y chicos de ojos color avellana y, cada vez, su imagen se me ven\u00eda a la mente.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Hay tres pa\u00edses en esta vida que me han cambiado por completo mis prejuicios, e Ir\u00e1n es uno de ellos. Cada vez que alguien habla del r\u00e9gimen iran\u00ed y de c\u00f3mo maltrata a su propio pueblo, mi mente de g\u00e9minis no puede evitar recordar las atrocidades perpetradas por los estadounidenses, los brit\u00e1nicos y sus aliados. \u00bfC\u00f3mo responder\u00edan las naciones angl\u00f3fonas si las invadiera una potencia m\u00e1s poderosa y codiciosa? \u00bfC\u00f3mo reaccionar\u00edan si esa potencia las despojara de sus recursos naturales o les impusiera sanciones draconianas? \u00bfSeguir\u00edan tan ufanas hablando de Estado de derecho y derechos humanos si fueran ellas las perseguidas y oprimidas?<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Hoy me pregunto: \u00bfseguir\u00e1 en pie la mezquita del Jeque Lotfollah? \u00bfHabr\u00e1 escapado el Gran Bazar de las bombas? \u00bfY qu\u00e9 habr\u00e1 sido de la chica de ojos color avellana?<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/p>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[et_pb_section fb_built=\u00bb1″ admin_label=\u00bbsection\u00bb _builder_version=\u00bb4.16″ global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb][et_pb_row admin_label=\u00bbrow\u00bb _builder_version=\u00bb4.27.5″ background_size=\u00bbinitial\u00bb background_position=\u00bbtop_left\u00bb background_repeat=\u00bbrepeat\u00bb width=\u00bb100%\u00bb global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb][et_pb_column type=\u00bb4_4″ _builder_version=\u00bb4.16″ custom_padding=\u00bb|||\u00bb global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb custom_padding__hover=\u00bb|||\u00bb][et_pb_text admin_label=\u00bbText\u00bb _builder_version=\u00bb4.27.5″ background_size=\u00bbinitial\u00bb background_position=\u00bbtop_left\u00bb background_repeat=\u00bbrepeat\u00bb hover_enabled=\u00bb0″ global_colors_info=\u00bb{}\u00bb sticky_enabled=\u00bb0″] Ten\u00eda los ojos color avellana. Yo ten\u00eda poco m\u00e1s de treinta a\u00f1os y, en mi tierra, los ojos azules eran poco comunes y los color avellana, casi desconocidos. Hab\u00eda salido […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":3810,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"off","_et_pb_old_content":"\n

She had hazel eyes. I was in my early 30s and where I came from, blue eyes were rare and hazel were virtually unknown. I had often stepped outside my own dark-eyed world and had met quite a few blue-eyed human beings. But I had never seen hazel eyes before, the golden, olive green and brown kind of hazel that changes colour with the light. I looked intently into her hazel eyes. Is there something wrong with them, I thought? They were mesmerizing, impossible to avoid, impossible not to stare at. Sometimes her curtain of thick black hair momentarily fell forward and her hazel eyes were more interesting. At times, when she casually pulled her scarf across her nose and mouth and looked at me, all I saw were those hazel eyes. I examined each iris, fully aware that I was being impolite and disrespectful, but I couldn\u2019t help myself. I don\u2019t think she minded because she continued to visit me almost every day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She had just finished college, she said, and her father, a high-ranking Iranian politician, had agreed she could travel for a year before she settled down. She had chosen India and Nepal because their civilisations were as ancient as her own. At the time, all I knew about Iran was the Hollywood film Not Without My Daughter<\/em> starring Sally Field, which had only strengthened my considerable prejudices against the Islamic world and reinforced my conviction that Ayatollah Khomeini was an evil man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The girl might have been as curious about my exotic background as I was about her hazel eyes. She had never met a half-Tibetan, half-Bhutanese Himalayan native before but, unlike those who visited me for Buddhist teachings, she did not ask one question about Buddhism. Now I come to think of it, she didn\u2019t ask me anything at all, although she appeared to drink in every word of the philosophical conversations I had with my other guests. I still remember the strong smell of the perfume she wore that lingered long after she left the room. I asked my Persian friends about it and they said it was a rare and costly fragrance called Oud that wealthy Persian women had worn for centuries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I began to look forward to her visits. If she was late, I grew restless. My attraction was now rather more than a mere fascination with hazel eyes but I was in denial about all such feelings, even to myself. Her Persian ancestry had increased her allure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The day she left for Iran, we met in a coffee shop to say goodbye. She hastily wrote her address on a paper napkin and thrust it at me. \u201cKeep in touch,\u201d she said and left without looking back. In those days, it was only possible to keep in touch if you had a person\u2019s home address and phone number \u2013 meaning a landline. Generations Z and Alpha will probably find this difficult to imagine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On 31 August 1996, as the plane from Kuwait began its descent into Tehran Imam Khomeini International Airport, I noticed snow on the peaks of the Alborz mountains. I was surprised. It is famously hot and dry during the summer months in what I then knew as the Middle East but have since learnt is West Asia. I had not expected snow. Immigration detained me far longer than anyone else because none of the officers had heard of Bhutan. Was I the first Bhutanese tourist to land in Tehran?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was excited about my trip to this unfamiliar country where I had nothing to do. Spiritually, there was little here to interest me, except vague allusions my Tibetan teachers had made to the visit of Gesar, the King of Ling, was said to have made when Iran was still part of ancient Persia. My interest in seeing Iran for myself had been piqued earlier that year in London when I was supposed to be studying English. In reality I was cinema-hopping through the West End and the South Bank, immersing myself in every style of moving picture I could find. It was around then that I first encountered Mohsen Makhmalbaf\u2019s magical film, Gabbeh.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In a makeshift tent against the backdrop of Iran\u2019s beautiful grasslands, an elderly man raises his right hand to point into the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is this colour?\u201d he asks his class of fully engaged, eager children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBlue!\u201d they reply. As the teacher lowers his hand, we see it is the same colour as the sky, Persian blue, and the shade has lived in my memory ever since. I began to seek out other Iranian films and discovered Abbas Kiarostami\u2019s Taste of Cherry<\/em> and Majid Majidi\u2019s Children of Heaven,<\/em> both real gems. <\/em>At the time, it didn\u2019t even occur to me that a country capable of producing such simple yet profound films must be quite culturally sophisticated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Outside the airport, the road was lined with cars, none of which were official taxis. The cars\u2019 drivers surrounded me and began vying for my business. These unofficial taxi drivers were ordinary people, said my Persian friends, just trying to make ends meet. For no particular reason, I chose a bulky, middle-aged man who drove a cream-coloured Volga. The Iranians are an eloquent people and like Indians, they love to talk. I didn\u2019t mind. My driver told me all about his city and its history and I enjoyed listening to him. As he talked, it gradually became clear to me that he had a PhD, but I can\u2019t remember his subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After Kuwait, with its giant marble mansions, modern high-rise buildings and luxurious hotels, the epitome of a nouveau riche society, Iran could not have been more different. More like India than the Arab states, it was, if anything, even less developed. On the way to the hotel, my driver persuaded me to stop for refreshment. The menu at the restaurant he took me to was a surprise. Everywhere I looked, I saw familiar foods, including huge, oversized naan and kebabs which I thought were native Indian dishes. No, no, said my driver, India imported all such dishes from Iran. The waiter brought me my tea which was served with a lump of rock sugar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPut the sugar in your mouth,\u201d explained the waiter, \u201cand leave it on your tongue as you sip your tea.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the time my garrulous, pot-bellied driver dropped me at my hotel I had become quite fond of him. As I paid him, he offered to take me sightseeing, and I hired him for my entire stay. He took me to all the main tourist attractions, including the ruins of Persepolis which, he said, had been built by Darius the Great during the time of the Buddha. World history had not been on the curriculum at Sakya College, and I was astonished to learn about the power and accomplishments of ancient Persia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"
Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, Isfahan
image credit: irandoostan.com\/shah-mosque-isfahan<\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

For me, the biggest draw in Tehran was its magnificent bazaar, the Bazar-e Bozorg-e Tehran. The building itself was glorious and its beautifully laid out shops were full of fascinating sights and smells \u2013 spices, foods, perfumes and incense. My Tibetan friends had told me the best quality turquoise comes from Iran \u2013 the Jowo Buddha\u2019s crown is said to be encrusted with Iranian turquoise \u2013 and that Iranian saffron is second to none. Thanks to Gabbeh, <\/em>I found myself in a rug shop. As I browsed, the rug seller noticed my eye return to one particular rug and opened negotiations. Rather sheepishly, I admitted that I was running out of cash. The rug was very reasonably priced, I said, but I didn\u2019t have enough money with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir, you should have told me. There is no problem at all. None. I will send the rug to your home and you will pay me when you can,\u201d said the rug seller, delighted to solve my problem for me. My sceptical mind congratulated this shrewd Persian businessman for his excellent sales pitch. Nonetheless, I bought the rug, although my conscience would not allow me to leave the shop without making a down payment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot necessary, dear sir, not necessary,\u201d said the rug seller. But I insisted, promising the balance as soon as I returned to India. Two months later, the carpet was delivered to my home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The most fascinating places in Tehran were the book shops. Obviously, the vast majority of volumes were in Farsi, Urdu and so on, but there was often an English-language section somewhere at the back. Instead of books, though, I found piles of photocopies. Why, I don\u2019t know. Perhaps the published books had been banned or were too expensive to import? The photocopies intrigued me and when I found a copy of Snow Country<\/em> in English translation, I was unaccountably moved by the trouble this Iranian book seller had taken to get hold of the text of one of my favourite books.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I asked my driver to take me to Isfahan, five hours south of Tehran. He talked throughout the journey, only pausing when I dozed off. Everything he said engaged my interest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAmericans are very smart,\u201d he said. \u201cWhen Arab bellies are full, they can\u2019t think. When Persian bellies are empty, they can\u2019t think. The Americans make sure the Arabs have a lot to eat and the Persians are always hungry. Americans are very smart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Did I meet up with my hazel-eyed girl? No, I didn\u2019t. After she left the coffee shop on that sweltering day, I sent her a postcard but she didn\u2019t write back. I met lots of hazel-eyed girls and boys in Iran. Each time, her image flashed into my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have visited three countries this lifetime that radically shifted my preconceptions and Iran was one of them. Whenever people talk about the Iranian regime and how it mistreats its own people, my Gemini mind remembers all the atrocities perpetrated by the Americans, the British and their allies. How would the English-speaking nations respond to being invaded by a more powerful and greedy country? How would they respond if that country then bled them of their natural resources? How would they respond to the imposition of draconian sanctions on their imports? Would they still be as smug about law and order and human rights if they were the ones being persecuted and oppressed?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today I wonder, is the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque still standing? Has the Bazar-e Bozorg-e Tehran<\/em> escaped the bombs? And what has happened to the hazel-eyed girl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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