Ellen Estilai —
Persian Heritage, #111, Spring 2024 —
My new favorite Persian word is ghalambor. It used to be zaferaan, or saffron, but after reading my friend Bahram’s article on the ney, the reed plant, I am partial to ghalambor. It is a graft of two words, ghalam, a reed pen, and bor, from the verb boridan, to cut. A ghalambor is someone who, with a sharp knife and steady hand, fashions reeds into the pens used by a calligrapher.
I like the fluidity of ghalambor, the way it catches at the back of the soft palate in an uvular plosive—almost a gagging sound to the Western ear—then skims the alveolar ridge, and pauses between compressed lips before gliding out on that final, accented syllable—open, soft, unfettered by the final “r.” Ghalambor.
It’s my new favorite word as much for its sound as for the surprising obviousness of its meaning. The word is not even in my Haïm’s New Persian-English Dictionary, but it should be. As much as I’ve admired the acrobatic, layered lines of Persian calligraphy, I never thought about the centuries of pen cutters who made them possible. Apparently, Mr. Haïm didn’t either.
This oversight made me feel guilty and sad for the forgotten and marginalized ghalambor. It made me think of Rumi’s poem about the Persian reed flute, cut from the same reed bed as the ghalam. Rumi says the flute’s mournful sound is the cry of the reed longing to be reunited with its reed bed. Does the ghalambor long to be reunited with his pens? Does he long to write his own story?
This is the kind of melancholy that calls for saffron. Zaferaan and saffron, its softer English equivalent, are still favorite words—conjuring up languid Friday lunches with fragrant, steaming, saffron-laced rice. After years of cooking with saffron, I thought I knew all about it—how to grind it into a fine powder before dissolving it in hot water; how much to use before it becomes bitter and overwhelming; how, with the right person and the right paella, it’s an aphrodisiac. I knew that the ancient Welsh used it to cure melancholy, and that Iranians believe too much of it could cause a person to die laughing. But from one of Bahram’s books, I learned something else: to dispel unhappiness or grief, some devout Iranians write prayers in saffron ink, soak the prayer sheets in water, then drink the saffron-tinged liquid left behind.
The ghalambor should do this. The pen cutter should become the penman. He should grind the saffron the way a calligrapher would grind pigment for his ink. Inhaling the honey-sweet saltiness, he should steep the powder until the water turns sunset orange, then wet the sharpened reed he kept for himself and write prayers of remembrance. He should bear witness as the marks he made swirl away into amber water, then drink the diffused prayers—prayers for the lost reeds and prayers for himself, that he be remembered.
Saffron Prayers, a Ghazal
by Ellen Estilai
Do not forget our pen cutter, frail ghalambor.
Who severed the reed from its bed? Hail, ghalambor!
Rumi’s reed flute cries out, longs for its marshy home.
Pen, like flute, bereft—an orphan’s wail: Ghalamboooor!
Knife scrapes away bark, bevels to acuity,
abrades tender core—his hands can’t fail, ghalambor.
Others will guide his pens, stream swirls and wisps of ink.
Scribes ignore their agents and prevail, ghalambor.
Inks dark as the reed bed’s loam obscure the parent
of their pens, obliterate, assail Ghalambor.
Do you cry out, ache for reunion with your pens,
long to write your story of travail, Ghalambor?
This manner of melancholy calls for saffron,
honey-sweet saltiness to restore pale Ghalambor.
Dip your pen in liquid saffron, write your prayers,
steep them in water orange as sunset’s veil, Ghalambor.
Drink sunset water laced with prayers for lost reeds,
prayers for you, that we hear your tale, Ghalambor.
Let Ellen, deep in inky doubt, steep saffron prayers,
that of your lost pen she may avail, Ghalambor.