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’t help myself. I don’t think she minded because she continued to visit me almost every day.
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 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.
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’t 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.
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.
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. “Keep in touch,” she said and left without looking back. In those days, it was only possible to keep in touch if you had a person’s home address and phone number – meaning a landline. Generations Z and Alpha will probably find this difficult to imagine.
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?
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’s magical film, Gabbeh.
In a makeshift tent against the backdrop of Iran’s beautiful grasslands, an elderly man raises his right hand to point into the sky.
“What is this colour?” he asks his class of fully engaged, eager children.
“Blue!” 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’s Taste of Cherry and Majid Majidi’s Children of Heaven, both real gems. At the time, it didn’t even occur to me that a country capable of producing such simple yet profound films must be quite culturally sophisticated.
Outside the airport, the road was lined with cars, none of which were official taxis. The cars’ 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’t 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’t remember his subject.
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.
“Put the sugar in your mouth,” explained the waiter, “and leave it on your tongue as you sip your tea.”
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.
image credit: irandoostan.com/shah-mosque-isfahan
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 – spices, foods, perfumes and incense. My Tibetan friends had told me the best quality turquoise comes from Iran – the Jowo Buddha’s crown is said to be encrusted with Iranian turquoise – and that Iranian saffron is second to none. Thanks to Gabbeh, 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’t have enough money with me.
“Sir, 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,” 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.
“Not necessary, dear sir, not necessary,” 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.
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’t 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 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.
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.
“Americans are very smart,” he said. “When Arab bellies are full, they can’t think. When Persian bellies are empty, they can’t think. The Americans make sure the Arabs have a lot to eat and the Persians are always hungry. Americans are very smart.”
Did I meet up with my hazel-eyed girl? No, I didn’t. After she left the coffee shop on that sweltering day, I sent her a postcard but she didn’t write back. I met lots of hazel-eyed girls and boys in Iran. Each time, her image flashed into my mind.
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?
Today I wonder, is the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque still standing? Has the Bazar-e Bozorg-e Tehran escaped the bombs? And what has happened to the hazel-eyed girl.
Oh Rinpoche. Thank you. Sigh. I enjoy your episodes as much as I enjoy Snow Country.
A piece of your heart never left Iran , and a piece of hazel eyed girl never left your heart.
Do you still have that address thou ?
Lucky hazel-eyed girl to have you thinking of her. Maybe she is a woman now, still thinking of you. Let’s hope so!
Ah… A memory frozen in time…
Hope she is fine and reading this…
A Karmic connection was made and where ever she is, her prayers shall be answered…
I loved reading this, and the image of the exquisite mosque took my breath away. I just checked if it is indeed still standing. It is, but not totally undamaged. Us/israeli strikes have affected the area.
Oh you Wonder- ful,
Using a hook – hazel eyes- to lead the readers to the political
core topic Iran. You show the old culture and beauty of that country and sharply point out how the West is operating a double standard with regard to its own behaviour in the world…
Your sight on all this absurdity made me feel deeply happy !
You Wonder-ful,
using the hook ‘hazel eyes’ to lead the readers to the core topic Iran. You let the reader feel the beauty of its old culture
and sharply point out how the West operates double standards when acting in the world – like in the case of Iran..
🙏 Moving words… like a movie with all senses, that made me immerse into an illusory world, as if I had been part of it… Thank you for sharing.
Through her eyes, Rinpoche could see beyond the prejudices sold at that time. I hope that through his clear and deeply reaching words, more eyes and hearts will be open to this wonderful, rich and unique civilisation.
Told* (not sold) typo:)
Thank you
Very inspiring…beautiful details..thank you Rinpoche
Thank you Rinpoche for writing this. I have always thought the mosaics in the building of important mosques are especially works of world class art. The mathematics involved in the designs are just amazing. The colours of the stones exquisite, the results are some of the finest in the world, incredible. Such an example of a very fine culture.
I used to wonder how great rinpoches deal with beautiful girls around them… And how amazing and honest story.
Im sure she never received the postcard! Because I bet that if so, she would have written back. Maybe you should write again or send blessing pills 💫
🙏🙏🙏
Rimpochela 🙏Lovely short story enjoyed it . The infatuation expression of your Hazel eyes Crush …sort of reminds me of Ruskin Bond’s Night train to Deoli.
Unbelievable seem to exhibit a versatile narrative.🙌.
Chapsu Choi, I pray for my comrades to have their hands on this post. A blessing in story.
Romantik view on a regime that is fundamantal religious. I was always very Dad there I could Not Travel Iran as a women by myself. I Even traveled all over India all alone, but the Mullha regime is dangerous.
I shared an apt. with an Iranian student in 2018. She was studying soil composition in the USA to learn how to create better agriculture in Iran. I have been inspired to visit Iran by the Iranian people I have met. How wonderful you were able to visit. Thank you for sharing your experiences.
I have just read this beautiful journey, its beauty touches my lately empty heart. I want to share this with my Iranian friends and I want to have this close to me. Thank you so very much, and so much gratitude to you.
Arlen
If this is a song, I think it is Who is she by I Monster ~
Very magical and absorbing story indeed by my favourite story teller, please write more la dear Rinpoche 🙏💐
Thank you for taking us through this magical journey into a great country and even greater culture. 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
Thank you for watering once again the sense of beauty
reflecting in someones eyes and mosaics ….
for keeping the doors and windows open
to blow out all prejudices
my residue is a certain smile, sure he knows
When I can’t come back by flight from Bir to Delhi in May 25 because of few days of war with Pakistan, I just take a taxi , it was ten hour trip like a very strange dream when you try fix everything and it is just melt, you try twenty things one by one and it is not working, it was also huge storm, water triggered landslides, buses that plunged in ravine, a lot of calling, uncertainty of wheather anyone even be able to lend me money for return ticket after I missed my flight and couldn’t affort new one, just chanting Guru Rinpoche mantra between phon calls. About one-thir of the way there we stopped at a newly opened gas station carved in Himalayan rocks. There was only a single fuel pomp there and man pumping the fuel behaved as if he was playing around- almost dancing, almost as if he had a snake in his hands, trying to aim it into the right opening while constantly amusing himself with it.When we pulled up in our car he greeted us with wonderful relaxed smile. He looked at me. Those were the green-hazel eyes and wavy hair. He bowed to us like Guru Padmasambhava himself. I grabbed phone as quickly as I could overtaken by a Japaneese tourist Syndrome but I cath only a split second of those eyes before he disappeared in gasoline fumes
Thank you Rinpoche, very beautiful and gives me feelings of that part of the world
I traveled in my early 20’s to parts of Middle East and was moved deeply
The deep spirituality and incredible wisdoms
It changed me the young hazel eyed Melbourne woman that I was.
Thank you again
fantastic Rinpoche thank you
Girl with the hazel eyes
Aah ah ah ah
They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. Yet without a mirror we cannot observe our own eyes , its depth , color , expression of love….its luring and powerful enticement
It takes another being to really see them , mirror back what is mesmerizing….. so who is the seeker, the seer, the reflector of light in all that of this exchange ?
Thank you for the journey and vision of what you saw and what you see.
Impressions so fleeting as the desert wind yet lasting as the ancient Persian culture, its universal permutations of geometry , the expressions of people, its music , art and poetry of love,
Beautiful, Rinpoche. Thank you for this tender tribute to Iran and its ancient Persian civilization. How despicable that Trump and Netanyahu have the power to just wantonly destroy entire cities and countries, and the world can do nothing to stop them. I hope the hazel-eyed girl is safe and free…maybe she can be the leader of Iran someday.
In this episode, there is something called Love..
这篇自传里，有一种东西叫做爱…
I am going through a situation which has made everything ephemeral. This is the first thing I read today. Jewel in the midst of doomscrolling. 🙏🙏🙏🌼🌼🌼
What always reminds me of Iran is the smell of roses.The food tastes of roses, the sweets,the drinks. The beauty of the women like roses.Came through Iran on an overland bus trip in the early seventies but was unable to explore. I love Iran/ Persia and its people, its ancient culture and beauty beyond short lived regimes.Thank for having blessed it with your extensive visit. May the Lady of hazelnut eyes be blessed and protected. May you meet her again. May the people of Iran and their timeless architecture all be protected.