I really cannot hide my feelings for our music (fortunately, my westernization has not reached that point yet). The melody of the tar devastates me to no end, especially in bayat-i turk, or Humayun, or Abu Ata, or Shur, or sigah, or chargah, or bayat-i Isfahan, or afshari, or mahur, or any of the others. I derive a similar enjoyment from listening to the sitar, santur, and kamanche. Recently, I have begun to enjoy violin and piano performances as well. We also should not forget suzani. Its music is in our blood... is of us... is us.

There is a condition, however, for the appreciation of this music. The individual should live in Iran until the age of twenty or thirty. After that nothing can replace the impact of Persian music on him or her. And you will not be able to deny its impact. The question, however, is this. Do we have to deny this feeling? Modernization and progress demand that we deny that our traditional music thrills us. And, unfortunately, many conform. Snobbism affected us from when, in ancient times, we set eyes on Westerners. Until today, like leprosy, their acquaintance has been eating away at our lives.

* * *

Dr. Tafazzuli, a good sitar player, spoke to me about his meetings of a number of years prior to our conversation with Sadiq Hedayat, in Paris. "Hedayat and I met occasionally," he said. "One day he happened to be near my house. We watched the people, walked, and talked until we reached my house. I invited him in and he accepted. Inside, we rested and talked about diverse subjects as distant as Ray and Rome and Baghdad. We also imbibed an "elixir" that I had brought some time ago from Europe. We then talked about music. I suggested playing a record or two on the record player. He did not react. I named several records asking for his input, he did not respond. I enumerated the best of the Western singers, he remained silent. He eventually rose and, holding his drink, walked to the cupboard. When he returned, he was carrying my sitar. I was astounded as he handed the sitar to me and sat down. I had heard that he was not fond of Persian music.

The sitar was tuned for [bayat] turk. I began playing, beginning with an overture leading to gushas and farazes. It was a special time in our lives. Our youth mingled with the drink and the song. He sat there, nodded quietly and murmured something. Moments later he brought me some sweetmeat, asked me to play afshari and returned to his place and sat down, waiting in silence.

I tuned the sitar and began, passing boldly each stage, getting further and further into the spirit of the music. Suddenly I heard Sadiq cry, 'Stop, stop!' he said, and began to weep.

I put the instrument down and ran to him. He held me back with his hand and indicated that I should leave him alone. I did.

We returned to the food and the drink and the talk. I hoped that we would reach a stage where I could ask him about his reaction to the music. He read my thoughts. 'A lot is said about me and my negative attitude toward our music,' he said, 'but they are all lies. I can never deny the depth and the purity of this music. Never. It entrances me and plays havoc with my soul. It drives me to insanity. It drains my energy.'"

* * *

"'What were we talking about?' he asked rhetorically. 'We were talking about the spiritual depth of this music in our being. Yet often I feel this music to be bound, as if confined to four walls where its notes and melodies fail to mingle. I feel our music has the serenity of the mountain brooks and, thereby, lacks the tumultuous waves of the ocean. Furthermore, it is filled with agony and submission to the will of God rather than with determination, anger, and decisive action. It lacks warmth. It is the music of the enslaved; the music of those who have suffered and who have been humiliated. There is nothing in it about victory, bravery, and standing proud before history. Yet it is a simple music, especially for those who understand it. Whereas the works of Beethoven and Tschaikovsky require an urban taste, a complex mental readiness, and knowledge of the subject before they can be appreciated, our simple music can be enjoyed by the peasants and the shepherds without need for any special knowledge.

That is why when I listen to our music, I find it fit for the festivities of Khusrau Parviz. I see Khusrau seated comfortably and, as he is being fanned occasionally, reaches for a grape. Shirin, his beloved, sits across from him. The music fills the hall as Borbad enters and enchants them all. Here Shirin's complaint reaches Khusrau's ear and Khusrau's love for Shirin is reaffirmed. Our music fits this scene but, unfortunately, you and I do not entertain with festivities of that nature.

We do not derive the total joy that the gushas and navas afford for a reason. That reason is compelling enough to persuade us to cast a closer look at Western music and, where possible, adopt some of its features.'

* * *

To date, I have not encountered any substantial improvisation and renewal of our musical heritage. There is, of course, "orchestration." But even that is done in a most unorthodox manner. Simultaneous playing of several instruments and mixing of several notes or bringing together of Iranian and European performers cannot mask our lack of originality. All this activity has ruined tasnif (i.e., music, lyric, and voice) at the public level. If any good compositions have resulted from these bold steps, I am not familiar with them. Nothing is published along these lines.

While our modernization in music leaves much to be desired, in the genres of poetry and prose we have made real inroads. Looking at the future indicators, it seems that there still might be some hope for our "fine arts." After all, no civilization has suffered as a result of correct adaptation of principles from another civilization. Furthermore, is not civilization a kind of transaction of cultural treasures?