By David Filipov,
Boston Globe
12/29/2000

DUSHANBE, Tajikistan - It was easy enough for the well-traveled correspondent to break Travel Rule No. 3.

That's the one that goes, ''When dining in a dark, dingy hotel bar in a provincial, post-Soviet capital such as Dushanbe, Tajikistan, never answer to strangers who address you, `Ahmad, is that you?'''

After all, he already had broken Travel Rules No. 1 (''Never dine in dingy hotel bars in post-Soviet capitals'') and No. 2 (''Dine if you must, but don't drink the cognac'').

So naturally, when the swarthy stranger in the fourth-floor bar at the Hotel Dushanbe addressed him, ''Ahmad, is that you?'' the correspondent, loaded up on hearty Tajik fare and emboldened by foul Tajik brandy, responded recklessly, ''It is I.''

It was a bad mistake. For the Ahmad in question was none other than Ahmad Zahir, the late, legendary Afghan singer, otherwise known as ''Bulbul I Afghan,'' the nightingale of the Afghans.

The bartender knew what was going on - with a big grin, he produced an Ahmad Zahir CD. The correspondent looked at the picture, and suddenly saw what they were all smiling at: the same long dark hair, the same jutting chin, the same, uh, slight weight problem. The correspondent was a dead ringer for the dead singer.

This was akin to being the best Elvis impersonator in a bar in Memphis. No, it was worse, because no one in Dushanbe tries to impersonate Ahmad Zahir. The correspondent was the first sighting since the musician died mysteriously in 1979.

A small crowd of Tajikis gathered. Everyone wanted to know what this Ahmad impersonator was all about.

The correspondent learned that his look-alike had been an accomplished musician who managed to update ancient Afghan folk forms with eclectic, engaging arrangements that borrowed liberally from Western and Indian culture. The result was haunting, moving, exotic yet accessible music. Such favorite Zahir hits as ''Dewana-am Dewana-am'' (I Am Crazy, I Am Crazy), ''Deldaar Raseeda'' (My Love Has Come), or his moving eulogy to his mother, ''Maadarem'' (My Mother) may never make it on MTV, but they sound great on MP3 (www.ahmadzahir.com).

Zahir's crossover style, and the fact that he often sang in the Dari language, which is not that different from Tajik and Farsi, lent his music appeal beyond the borders of Afghanistan.

The circumstances of Zahir's death in a suspicious automobile accident have added to his legend. Many are convinced that he was ordered killed by Hafizullah Amin, the ''butcher of Kabul,'' whose regime he had criticized.

''Many people love [Zahir] and consider him their idol,'' said Nuriddin Karshiboev, who heads an association of independent media in Dushanbe.

Back in the bar, the cognac flowed. Some hotel guests from Afghanistan had joined the small crowd. Some seemed convinced they had the real Ahmad Zahir in their midst. Someone handed the correspondent, now half-jokingly rechristened Ahmad II, a shashtar, a four-stringed cross between a guitar and a banjo that had somehow showed up in the bar.

''Ahmad,'' said one of the correspondent's new friends, a Tajik named Bakhtior. ''If you have indeed returned to us, please play us a song.''

If the correspondent had known any better, he would have repeated Zahir's words - ''Copy khani hunar nist'' (Copying is not a talent) - and wormed out of it. But having broken Travel Rules Nos. 1-3 hours earlier, he had no problem ignoring Travel Rule No. 4 - ''If you don't know any Afghan music, just say so.''

He did not know ''Dewana-am Dewana-am.'' So instead, he tried to fake it with ''Norwegian Wood.''

You know the tune: ''I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me ...''

The party ended abruptly right there. Everyone seemed disappointed. But the Ahmad Zahir sightings did not end.

As the correspondent walked out of the hotel the next morning, he overheard a security guard whisper to his colleague, ''Look, there goes Ahmad Zahir!"

As he was shopping for souvenirs at Dushanbe's renowned Green Market, a vendor at a stand selling musical instruments remarked to his colleague, ''This one looks a lot like Ahmad Zahir.''

The other vendor grinned and reached under his shelf to produce what looked ominously like a shashtar.

''Uh, sorry,'' the correspondent said quickly. ''I don't know any Afghan music.''