He wrote: I want such and such medicine and I can't find it no matter how I look. You are traveling the length and breadth of Tehran on a motorbike, please get it for me if you see a pharmacy on your way.
I wrote: Okay, assume it's taken.
He wrote: Where is your route when every pharmacy and healing house is on your way and okay!

I wrote:
Where is my route?

If you look out from the balcony of our house, you can see the dome of a mosque. Ali Ibn Musa al-Reza Mosque. It used to be known as Agha Zia Abadi Mosque. Haj Agha was from the Khoban tribe of Tehran, a mystic and a self-possessed person. They say that at the entrance to the mosque, his shoes would be tied in front of his feet. I didn't see it! But I was always fascinated by his words, he was captivating and enchanting. May his soul be happy, the companion of prophets and saints. Let's go, a few meters away from the balcony, on the steps, my shoes are clattering in front of my feet, as if I have to go all the way to the bottom floor to find the latch of each one. The daily journey starts from here. Sixteen kilometers to my workplace.
The first healing house is this Agha Zia Abadi Mosque and the remembrance of Haj Agha's righteous breaths. If I continue down this same mosque street, I will reach Iran Street. Right at this intersection is a prayer house, I don't know what it's called, I've bought masks from it a few times, its staff are warm and friendly, especially the lady cashier with her raven-chested chest, with her blonde, flowing hair and raven eyes, she's the ultimate in fairness and humanity... Ooof... Let's go. And then you know Baharestan and Daneshsara Street and Negarestan Garden. It's even called a prayer house. Right here, it says, stop briefly and look out the door at the garden and take a deep breath and save your oxygen. Hello to his happy memories.
The next stop is the Khanqah of Safi Alishah, a healing house for himself,  I am a victim of those days when I pass by it and its door is open, it doesn't matter if it's winter or summer, I brake and lock the engine and go into its courtyard, I go to the water cooler and cool my hot liver with its water and say to the soul of the owner of the tomb. I make my way through the back alleys to Pich Shamron - see, I always confuse Darvazat Shamron and Pich Shamron - I mean the intersection of Shariati and Enghelab,  there is a real estate broker right here under the bridge that is neither a hospital nor a medical house, but sometimes when I have time I stop behind its window and stare at the antiques. To be honest, I said nails, I remembered that old tasteless joke about going to the pharmacy and asking "Do you have nails!" If you haven't heard, remind me to tell you later. From Pich Shomron to Haft Tir, there are at least 4-5 brothels on the way, hopefully the first one will fill my wallet. From Haft Tir, when I enter Modares, to Sar Zafar, it's kind of empty. Don't look at the greenery around the highway, it's all fake, virtual, it has no authenticity or identity, especially that long, featureless bridge of nature or those crooked and crooked buildings west of the highway, they are the most unsightly patches of Tehran. From Modares, when I enter Zafar, to the junction, which is one street above Zafar, there are as many brothels as you want with experienced leopard staff and expert duffs that make it impossible for anyone to leave empty-handed.

I hate you so much, the neighborhood of Mirdamad and Zafar and its people, its atmosphere and geography, its hustle and bustle and traffic, the mannerisms of its businessmen and residents, its empty glamour, I hate everything about it. It's not a matter of one day or two, since I can remember, from the distant years, from my youth, from those nights when I would go to Midon Mohseni's house, from those days when I would distance myself from my roots and my roots because of his friendship, I hated and hated it right away. But there is no escape, I have to pass through this neighborhood to get to work and my life. It is true that I give Mirdamad and Zafar to everyone, but my destination and neighborhood are actually part of "Zarganda". Zarganda has always been a beautiful, fresh, and authentic patchwork of Tehran. Zargandeh and its canals, its gardens and alleys, its mosque and imamzadeh, you can still love it, the same way my mother loved it 46 years ago, the way she came from the depths of Tehran to Javaheri Hospital to give birth to Zargandeh and Majid.

My daily path is a return to the place I came from.