It was as though the wind had lost its patience with us, and from its dusty mouth a hot moan crept through the streets, turning the sky from white to a sickly orange.
I bought a string of chilies so sharp and fragrant— their red was on fire in the strange light that washed Istiklal yellow, and in that yellow, I suddenly noticed how the kemençe player's hair had turned from brown to white.
I realised I had become strangers with the city I once loved.
