The Tale of a Stranger Instrument

The Tale of a Stranger Instrument

Yes! Who am I?

I am the one who once played in the courts of kings; trembled in the hands of scholars; resounded in the ghazals of poets, and was a companion in the solitude of lovers. I was the instrument of tears and joys, the solace of lonely nights, and the fellow traveler of hopeful days. They held me close, let the fingers of love glide across my strings, and poured their deepest secrets into my soul.

My land, that magnificent cradle of civilization, nurtured me with care. Its people for thousands of years placed me in the heart of their culture and rituals. I was born in the land of Arya, in the foothills of Hindu Kush, under the shadow of Ahura Mazda and Zoroaster, in the Vedic hymns and the whispers of the Avesta. In towering mountains, green plains, winding valleys, stones, and carvings, I discovered art and permanence.

My land, the abode of eloquent speakers and prophets, the dwelling of brave men and heroes; the same land that the great Ferdowsi called “Iran” in his Shahnameh, once named “Khorasan” by Muslims, and today—breathing with tales and legends—is called “Afghanistan.”

A land where every particle of soil holds traces of Rostam and Sohrab’s heroism, echoes of Zoroaster’s prayers, and the melodies of thousands of poets and mystics. Here, its majestic mountains are the keepers of people’s sorrows and joys, its rushing rivers carry ancient tales, and its plains have opened their arms to countless generations.

Yes! I am the Rubab; from this great land, an instrument with deep roots, a grandeur as old as history itself.

But oh, what longing!

In that gem-filled land, where once its people embraced me as a rare treasure and with loving caresses illuminated my soul, they suddenly attacked me; they broke my bones, set my weary spirit ablaze, and abandoned me to the roads of exile.

They wounded me as if I were the source of their pain; as if my sound had spread a dark cloud of sorrow across the sky of their lives. But never, never was that true.

I was the silent guardian of all their sorrows and anxieties; every sigh trembled through my veins, and every tear fell like dew upon my wooden face. I was a wounded, lonely child in their arms, laughing with my melody in joy, and crying with its trembling voice in grief.

Every stroke upon my strings reflected the beating of their hearts; every vibration of my body was a whisper of their tears and laughter. I was the mirror of their souls, the breath of hidden silences, and the gentle song of smiles that none but I could hear.

Yes, now I am in a foreign land. Here, they caress me, play me in magnificent halls, admire my beauty, and praise me. But no! This praise tastes bitter. No feeling can replace what I had in my homeland.

My birthplace is still there. My mother is the mulberry tree; my body carved from her essence, a tree whose fruit is sweet and whose song is even sweeter. Today she too is saddened by my absence, left lonely and sorrowful. I know she weeps and waits for me.

I want to tell her:

Mother! Do not grieve; I will return. One day I will rest in your embrace again and wipe away your tears. You are dearer to me than anything. I still remember the day of parting, when we both cried bitterly. That day was the bitterest of my life; the day I was torn from you and from my homeland.

Ah, Mother! Ah, Homeland!

I love you. I will return. And you will grow once more, you will be magnificent again. Then I, the Rubab of hearts, will play in your arms, bring joy, and drive away your sorrows.

Yes, I will return! To hands that will play me with enduring love. Perhaps not a return in body, but a return in meaning—a return that conveys my legacy to future generations, so they know that the Rubab is not merely an instrument; it is part of an identity born from soil and love.

So wait, O kind Mother, and O suffering Homeland! Fix your gaze on tomorrow, a tomorrow when silent strings will sing again and strokes will descend not to break, but to heal. A day will come when fresh hands, with eternal love, will glide upon my soul and return my melodies to the bright sky. The return may be slow, and its steps trembling, but know with certainty it will come; for no wound touched by true love decays in darkness. That wound becomes an eternal tale, and its name is nothing but “Hope”—a hope that, like dawn after the longest nights, inevitably rises and illuminates the sky of life once more.