Nam’s Story
I had either read or heard somewhere that children’s dreams are incredibly important, and perhaps half of an adult’s personality lies hidden in their childhood dreams. Ever since I was a child, I always had four or five wishes; one of them was to write books and compose poetry. Later on, I even thought about writing a book on philosophy and the laws of nature; it was such a beautiful feeling! I always wanted to write a book about Imam Ali (PBUH) or even a story.
My father was an avid reader, and I take pride in having grown up in an environment that was relatively cultured and book-loving. He had a friend named Mr. Jalal, the owner of one of Tehran’s well-known publishing houses. Whenever we visited Mr. Jalal, they would joke around, reminisce about their youth, and share their memories. My father used to say that Mr. Jalal once worked for Mr. Jafari at “Amir Kabir.” I was about nine or ten years old when I visited their bookstore once. Mr. Jalal saw me looking at one of their new books. He asked, “Can you read it? Do you like it?” It was a book by the late Nader Ebrahimi.
I became more and more in love with books and bookstores. One of my favorite pastimes with my father, God rest his soul, was wandering around Enghelab Street, visiting Mr. Jalal, and listening to their political and historical discussions. When he would recount that, for example, a famous author had visited him, I would see my father become excited and admire him. I would imagine myself in Mr. Jalal’s place and think, “Booksellers become so famous!”
Later on, I met a wonderful man who was a friend of my father’s, Mr. Alireza Heydari. Whenever I saw him, we would chat, and he would gift me a few books. My father worked with him, and he had books from his publishing house, but for me, they were difficult, just like the name of his publishing house. Later, when I read the name “Khwarizmi” in school, the name of his publishing house became etched in my mind.
During high school, at the request of my parents, I went to Germany, the cradle of philosophy and sociology. After Tübingen, I went to Heidelberg, the main hub for prestigious publishers like Springer and Spectrum. Every day, as I rode my bicycle to the university and passed through the enchanting forests and meadows, one of my dreams was to establish a publishing house. I constantly thought about it, and sometimes, in despair, I would say to myself, “No, man! Is it even possible? Can you really do it?!” I struggled with self-doubt, but then I would remind myself, “Don’t they say where there’s a will, there’s a way?”
I don’t know how I came up with the name “Pegah.” Maybe it was because of the inspiring atmosphere of Heidelberg, especially when I passed by the Springer publishing house, near the Schwimmbadclub. At the university, I would draw up plans for the publishing house and daydream. Every morning when I rode my bicycle and saw the dawn of the sun, I would tell myself that my publishing house had to be called “Pegah,” a name I loved so much. It was both Persian and symbolized a ray of awareness.
But time passed, and my aspirations went unfulfilled! My efforts were fruitless, and life didn’t always go my way! Losing my father was deeply sorrowful, and after that, the loss of my little daughter was even more heart-wrenching. That passed, and again, a new wave of passion and energy swept through me. By the grace of God, the publishing license was finally secured, but alas, my mother was no longer with me either.
Yes, I thought my publishing house would be named Pegah, but it didn’t happen because some of my discerning friends had already chosen it. I was bewildered and dismayed that the name I had lived with was taken, but my dear wife came to my aid, becoming not only a spouse and companion but also a partner in thought and work. And that’s how we arrived at “Nam,” like a dewdrop at dawn, a droplet in the love of joining the ocean.
And friends, dearer than life and more precious than the finest gems, became not just companions and “trustees,” but also guides and “Mahdis,” and they became the pillars of this publishing house, full of life stories.
My father was an avid reader, and I take pride in having grown up in an environment that was relatively cultured and book-loving. He had a friend named Mr. Jalal, the owner of one of Tehran’s well-known publishing houses. Whenever we visited Mr. Jalal, they would joke around, reminisce about their youth, and share their memories. My father used to say that Mr. Jalal once worked for Mr. Jafari at “Amir Kabir.” I was about nine or ten years old when I visited their bookstore once. Mr. Jalal saw me looking at one of their new books. He asked, “Can you read it? Do you like it?” It was a book by the late Nader Ebrahimi.
I became more and more in love with books and bookstores. One of my favorite pastimes with my father, God rest his soul, was wandering around Enghelab Street, visiting Mr. Jalal, and listening to their political and historical discussions. When he would recount that, for example, a famous author had visited him, I would see my father become excited and admire him. I would imagine myself in Mr. Jalal’s place and think, “Booksellers become so famous!”
Later on, I met a wonderful man who was a friend of my father’s, Mr. Alireza Heydari. Whenever I saw him, we would chat, and he would gift me a few books. My father worked with him, and he had books from his publishing house, but for me, they were difficult, just like the name of his publishing house. Later, when I read the name “Khwarizmi” in school, the name of his publishing house became etched in my mind.
During high school, at the request of my parents, I went to Germany, the cradle of philosophy and sociology. After Tübingen, I went to Heidelberg, the main hub for prestigious publishers like Springer and Spectrum. Every day, as I rode my bicycle to the university and passed through the enchanting forests and meadows, one of my dreams was to establish a publishing house. I constantly thought about it, and sometimes, in despair, I would say to myself, “No, man! Is it even possible? Can you really do it?!” I struggled with self-doubt, but then I would remind myself, “Don’t they say where there’s a will, there’s a way?”
I don’t know how I came up with the name “Pegah.” Maybe it was because of the inspiring atmosphere of Heidelberg, especially when I passed by the Springer publishing house, near the Schwimmbadclub. At the university, I would draw up plans for the publishing house and daydream. Every morning when I rode my bicycle and saw the dawn of the sun, I would tell myself that my publishing house had to be called “Pegah,” a name I loved so much. It was both Persian and symbolized a ray of awareness.
But time passed, and my aspirations went unfulfilled! My efforts were fruitless, and life didn’t always go my way! Losing my father was deeply sorrowful, and after that, the loss of my little daughter was even more heart-wrenching. That passed, and again, a new wave of passion and energy swept through me. By the grace of God, the publishing license was finally secured, but alas, my mother was no longer with me either.
Yes, I thought my publishing house would be named Pegah, but it didn’t happen because some of my discerning friends had already chosen it. I was bewildered and dismayed that the name I had lived with was taken, but my dear wife came to my aid, becoming not only a spouse and companion but also a partner in thought and work. And that’s how we arrived at “Nam,” like a dewdrop at dawn, a droplet in the love of joining the ocean.
And friends, dearer than life and more precious than the finest gems, became not just companions and “trustees,” but also guides and “Mahdis,” and they became the pillars of this publishing house, full of life stories.
God willing, with His grace and your support, through both sorrows and celebrations, we will be like a drop of the ocean, standing by your side.
Mehdi Ghoreishi Esfahani
December 27, 2022