When I was a child, working alongside my dad in Karaj, I was in charge of the horse and mule parking area. Charging five Shahis for a horse or mule and a Sannar for a donkey was my job. Once, when someone refused to pay and started to bully, I, despite my young age, clung to his horse’s neck, shouting and causing a scene. Eventually, the gathering crowd shamed him into paying, insisting, “Aren’t you ashamed? Pay him!” He had no choice but to comply.
Back then, I was around six years old, helping my father in his shop on Qazvin Street. He would entrust the shop to me; I was so short I couldn’t reach the scale, so I stood on a stump to do so. Of course, my uncle was there too.