When I was around eighteen or nineteen years old, my father sent several loads of plums from the village to sell in Tehran. I took them to the only vehicle that traveled from Karaj to Tehran, owned by Dr. Arab’s father, a wealthy family of Arab origin who lived in Karaj. After loading the plums onto the vehicle, an unexpected influx of passengers led the co-drivers to attempt to unload my cargo, suggesting they would transport it the next day. Armed with a walking stick, I climbed atop the vehicle, grabbed its upper handle, and refused to let them touch my goods. A scuffle broke out between me and the co-drivers; I fought back fiercely, punching one and kicking another. The driver joined in, trying to pull me down, but in the heat of the moment, I grabbed his tie, wrapped it around my hand, and started pulling hard, nearly choking him. Despite their pleas to let go, I persisted until someone hit my hand with an iron rod, forcing me to release the driver, who collapsed to the ground. I was taken to the police station, the only one in Karaj at the time, newly opened on Daneshkadeh Street. My nose was bleeding from the altercation. The police chief, after assessing the situation, expressed surprise that the co-drivers couldn’t handle me. Mr. Kamali intervened on my behalf, and I was released.
This experience taught me that one must not only endure hardships but also strive within those challenges, live life to the fullest, succeed, and enjoy the fruits of success.