ound, coloured flakes glittered on his handsome high forehead.
A black silk cloth was tied above his little eyes.
His flashing see through shawl threw sparks around with every movement of his hand. He would glance down every now and then and his hands moved adroitly and skillfully and yet gently and delicately on the strings of the trapezoid-shaped santur.
He played so swiftly that I knew that look down was purely out of modesty, since he could play as majestically and as quickly with his eyes closed.  
The high- and low-pitched sound of his tunes filled everyone’s ears and souls and my soul too was filled thoroughly with the magnificent harmony of his notes.
Alongside him was his brother, who was accompanying him with old but shiny and polished kamancheh.
What you would find among the sound of their sweet nostalgic tunes was the tranquility that was to be seen on their faces.
All of a sudden, in the middle of a dark gloomy silence, a boy from Torbat-e-Jaam sat at our heavenly feast.
With a setar in his hands and a snow-white bandana wrapped around his head with a huge decorative knot at the side, the boy played his instruments with all the passions of a person whose sole zeal, love and reason for existence is the tune of his setar.
He had hung very small and pretty colourful beads, which looked like tiny glasses, at the end of his long and beautifully carved setar and they would shake with every movement.
As a piece neared its climax, he would smile, out of satisfaction, out of pure happiness.
In the middle of each piece, a daf, which was played by his friend, would accompany his setar.
He played such an awe-inspiring music that it filled everyone with rapture, and I found myself standing on my feet and applauding for him.
The sound of  setar came to an end, and now it was just the “buf” “buf” of the daf that permeated the place.
How wonderful it felt to hear this celestial music from that wooden stage, under the dark night sky that was filled with stars, stars you only could see out of a city.
The music of the daf, the setar, the kamanche and the santur would reach up to the heavens and that was why you could never play that splendour indoors; as the vigour and the vitality of the music would have easily overwhelmed us and any roof above them.
They played till the very remnant of our energies left us.
Their playing ended but the applause was endless.
The santur-playing girl stopped playing and put the little hammers aside. She was the last to raise her head and pay her respect to the cheering crowd.
Her skin was white and her face was round, just like the miniatures one sees in a Khayyam.
Her little chin was truly beautiful and her ruby red lips and chiseled nose was magnificent, but there was something I couldn’t fathom.
Under the thin arch of her eyebrows were two white bulges in the middle of her white complexion, two white nuts without any opening.
She was blind.
She couldn’t even see with her head down. I don’t know why I felt embarrassed and confused.
I couldn’t understand. Maybe I did but its comprehension was beyond me.
It was over and we left, and we have spent days and nights since then remembering the memories and the music of that day.