Rex is looking at me as I tie the laces of my boots. He has that mischievous look on his face; the same look that he gives every guest before he pounces on them. The day I checked into the hostel, I found him chewing on my new socks. Had he not been so cute, I would have been angry and complained to the hostel staff. But it is hard to be angry at Rex for long. His soft black fur, little whiskers and cute puppy barks make up for all his shenanigans. He slowly walks over to me, tail wagging and curls up next to my feet and rests his back on my left ankle. And just when I thought he couldn’t get any cuter, he lets out a long yawn, and rests his head on the shoe that I had just finished tying.

I finish my morning coffee and toast, while he lazes around my feet. He acts all coy when I pat his little head and then gingerly gets up. He circles around me playfully and then comes back to my left leg, stretches himself and then slowly gets his back leg up. I quickly get away as he wets the leg of the chair I had been sitting on a moment ago and then merrily walks away.

When people say “Dogs are man’s best friend”, they clearly do not talk about this dog.

Rex. That asshole of a puppy.

The Tajrish market is busy. Fruits and vegetable sellers are hawking their produce. There are vendors selling batteries, belts, mobile chargers and other such random assortment of things; laying them neatly on the sidewalk. Socks, handkerchiefs and undergarments lie in heaps as customers dig their way through them. Minibuses and taxis stand on the side of the busy main road, waiting for passengers.

Up above, the sky is blue for a change, dotted with white cotton clouds. The breeze is cool and soothing. It is clear that we are not in downtown Tehran anymore. The morning sun do not burn through your skin and roast your bones. It is nice and mellow. Pleasant, even.

Darband is about a 15 minutes’ minibus ride away from here.

When the Tehranis look for a quick getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life, the first place they look to is Darband. Here they can have a delicious plate of kebabs and laze around with a pot of tea while listening to the sound of the stream nearby. It’s an easy hike along the Darband street, which is lined with traditional cafes and restaurants. If you are up for a challenge, you can trek up to Tochal from here.

Trekking challenges are not my thing, however. I am here to just take a leisurely hike, followed by an even more leisurely meal. Maybe, pat a couple of donkeys on the way. Yes, that sounds more fun than a sweaty and tiring trek.

Within the first few minutes of walking along the winding hilly street, I start to understand why Darband is so popular here. The rugged stony mountains up close, the cosy tea houses, interesting snacks on offer, friendly people, cool weather …what’s not to like?

I take a walk along the street, tasting free samples of pickles and sweets from the street-side vendors. Visitors crowd the road, taking pictures of the cliffs and the river stream. Every now and then, we jump to the side of the narrow winding alleys, getting out of the way of speeding donkeys carrying heavy sacks on its back; its minder jogging along, warning people out of its way with his frantic yells.

It is mid-morning now and I admit that I am a little sleepy. I have had a hearty kebab rice lunch, followed by a pot of tea. The stream flowing nearby is singing lullabies. The pillow on my korsi is calling to me. A soothing breeze gently lays me down on the soft carpet and I let out a yawn. “Can I use that slow hike as an excuse for nap?” I wonder.

Laying down, I read flip through the pages of my guidebook to find my next destination for the day. Secretly, I am hoping to come out with nothing. The idea of a nap here, right by the stream, sounds extremely enticing. But, sadly Tehran has a lot of interesting places and my time here is running out fast.

Treasury of National Jewels or the National Jewels Museum is open for public only few days a week. And just to make matters more interesting, the timings are kept between 2 PM to 5 PM, when the afternoon sun is at its merciless worst. So, when you stand in the long queue, with your sweaty t-shirt clinging to your back, you know that you are not the only one.

The gallery is located in the basement of the Central Bank, in a huge hall sized locker. You walk inside the dimly lit locker, after several rounds of security checks, and explore the collection of gifts and loots of the Iranian kings of the past. A portion of them are souvenirs from Nadir Shah’s India visits. It is said that the Shah’s trips to India were so rewarding that he waived of all public taxes in his empire for three years.

Among notable mentions are the Globe of Gems, crown of Reza Shah, the Peacock Throne (Not to be confused with the one from India which was plundered away by rebels) and the Darya-i-noor diamond.

On the other side of the road from the museum stands the formidable barbed wired walls of the German Embassy, its flag is fluttering in the afternoon wind. A short walk away is Tehran’s Grand Bazaar; hundreds of shops, thousands of people, endless maze of alleys and sub-alleys. Not just shops, it also houses mosques, guesthouses, restaurants and a big busy courtyard at the front of the main entrance. Legend has it that this bazaar has existed since 6000 BC.

I flip through my guidebook while having a cup of tea from a roadside vendor when I come across an interesting story. A few years ago, someone sold a shop here for more than a million dollars. And the new owner, who used the space to sell knickers, earned twice the amount in less than a year.

Must have been some bitchin’ knickers!

Since the bazaar is centrally located, I have been passing through it almost every day while visiting places around Tehran. And every time, it has surprised me with something new. One morning, I came across an open auction. Groups of people just shouting on top of their voices. Another day, around mid-afternoon, I saw a religious procession passing through the narrow alleys; songs and announcements blasting through huge speakers. They did however, offer free sweets.

I take a seat on one of the concrete benches, overlooking the dry fruit shops with heaps of pistachios, almonds, dates and the like. They also sell saffron and sweets from different parts of the country. A little further away are the carpet sellers. The shelves and floors of their shops are lined with rolls of thick carpets of different designs and colours. Carpets are one of the specialities of Iran and the good ones may cost thousands of dollars.

“Money change? Dollars? Euros?” A middle-aged man holding a thick wad of Iranian Rials asks. I have heard that these guys, though not very reliable, often offer better rates than most banks and exchange offices. Today however, I have all the Rials I need. I watch as afterwards, he joins a group of men, sitting in a circle under a tree, playing black gammon.

After a walk around the market, I decide to call it a day and go back to my hostel. The idea is to have a nice long shower and a change of clothes followed by a walk around the neighbourhood and dinner.

“Anything but kebabs. Something vegetarian maybe.” I tell myself.

There is an eerie quietness in the hostel as I open the metal gates and enter. Afroz, the manager of the hostel, sits on the couch and gives me a half smile when he sees me enter. Rex lies under the couch, unusually quiet. He turns his head and then lets it fall to the floor. The chewed-up foam ball that he always plays with, lies unattended in the corner.

I find out later from one of my dormmates that Rex had bitten a German guest in the hand that day. Moiz, the caretaker of the hostel, beat Rex up with a stick and then put some sort of sedative in his food.

Rex, the poor little puppy.