Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 579 The Young Man's Itinerary
Baghdad continues to attract countless people from the east, with young people eager to come and try their luck, hoping to amass a fortune.

Ali also overcame numerous obstacles to get here. Despite the incomprehension of his friends and the blessings of his family, he resolutely boarded the train to Baghdad. He vowed never to return until he made something of himself.

The reason I came to Baghdad is because it's a young city, with 60% of its residents aged 20 to 40. And the population is still growing.

Opportunity always favors the prepared. While it's possible to earn money in places like Tehran, the opportunities are fewer compared to here. If I had come a little earlier, I might have been able to settle down there. Besides, since urban development is nearing completion, there aren't many opportunities left, so it's better to come here.

He walked along the cobblestone path beside the railway tracks, the sights taking his breath away. Low, mud-brick houses were gradually being replaced by brick and stone buildings. Occasionally, workers in Western-style overalls could be seen hurrying by, their cuffs stained with grease, their faces displaying a busyness Ali had never seen before. Not far away, a red-brick textile factory was billowing white steam, its massive gears turning outside the factory with a clattering sound.

"Young man, looking for work?" A middle-aged man pushing a wooden cart stopped beside him, with several rolls of coarse linen piled on it. The man had dark skin, calloused hands, and cotton lint stuck between his fingers. "The textile factory up ahead is hiring, but they need strength and the ability to endure."

Ali's eyes lit up, and he nodded quickly, "I'm strong, I can endure any hardship!" He followed the man toward the textile factory, and learned along the way that the man's name was Karim, and he had been working as a porter at the factory for three years. "This factory is owned by a Persian merchant, and they just added new machines last year, so there are plenty of people who need them," Karim said, pointing to the factory gate. "But the rules are strict; you have to work ten hours a day, they provide two meals, and you get 20 rials at the end of the month."

Ali calculated in his mind that he could save up some money to do some other small commodity trading. He took a deep breath and followed the people into the factory gate. The factory was as stuffy and hot as a steamer, with dozens of textile machines running side by side, their deafening roar hurting one's ears. The workers stood in front of the machines, their hands moving quickly between the cotton yarn. If they were not careful, the thread would get tangled in the gears, drawing a scolding from the foreman.

"New here?" A foreman with a thick beard walked over and looked Ali up and down. "Do you know how to use the machines?"

Ali shook his head, his palms slightly sweaty: "I haven't seen it before, but I can learn it, and I can learn it very quickly."

The foreman frowned, glanced at Karim's look, and finally waved his hand: "Go help me move cotton yarn first. If you do well, you can learn to operate the machine later."

And so, Ali became a porter at a textile factory. Every day before dawn, he would join the other workers in the factory, carrying heavy rolls of cotton yarn as they moved between the machines. The yarn, soaked in oil, was heavy and slippery; after only a few days of this, his shoulders were red and swollen from the weight, and his fingers were blistered from the yarn. But whenever he thought of his family's blessings and his friends' incomprehension, he gritted his teeth and persevered—he couldn't go back, and he couldn't disappoint those who were waiting for him.

As the days went by, Ali gradually got the hang of the factory. He discovered that the machine operators earned more than the porters and were less exposed to the sun and rain, so he secretly learned from the experienced workers nearby. During breaks, he would squat beside the machines, watching how the veteran workers adjusted the yarn tension and how they dealt with machine jams; during mealtimes, he would proactively fetch water for the veteran workers and take the opportunity to ask them about operating techniques. The veteran workers were moved by his persistence and would occasionally teach him a few tricks: "Machines are like people; you have to work with their nature. If the yarn is too tight, loosen the shuttle; if the gears are stuck, apply some machine oil." Over time, Ali saved up a considerable amount of money. He didn't forget his initial idea and began using his breaks to wander around the markets in Baghdad. He discovered that most of the cotton fabric there was coarsely woven, while the cotton fabric from his hometown was soft and durable. If he could transport it here to sell, it would definitely be popular.

Three months later, one morning, the textile factory's machines suddenly came to a complete stop. The moment the roar disappeared, the factory was so quiet you could hear the workers breathing. The foreman paced anxiously between the machines, and the boss himself arrived, his face as grim as a sandstorm.

"The gears are stuck; we have to take it apart and recalibrate it!" The old worker sighed, circling the most crucial machine. This machine was the heart of the factory; if it stopped, the entire production line would be paralyzed. The boss immediately promised a reward of 50 rials to whoever could fix the machine, and a promotion to machine operator.

The workers looked at each other, none daring to step forward. Ali clenched his calloused hands, recalling the machine's structure he had secretly memorized over the past three months—he would mentally "disassemble" the machine every night before bed, pondering the old workers' tips over and over again. He took a deep breath and squeezed through the crowd: "Boss, I'll give it a try."

All eyes were on him. The foreman frowned, "You're just a porter, don't cause trouble!" Karim tugged at his sleeve, but Ali walked to the machine and, following the steps he remembered, carefully cleaned the cotton yarn tangled between the gears. Then he found some machine oil and carefully dripped it onto the meshing points. He imitated the old workers, gently turning the gears, feeling where they were stuck, and adjusting the tightness of the screws little by little.

Sweat streamed down his forehead, soaking his coarse cloth overalls. An hour later, he tried pressing the start button. The machine emitted a slight hum before returning to its usual roar. A cheer erupted in the factory. The boss patted Ali on the shoulder, his eyes filled with delight: "Good lad, from today onwards, you're a machine operator!"

After becoming a machine operator, Ali's life became a little easier. He rented a small attic with a window near the factory, his monthly salary increased to 35 riyals, and he could even lean on the window during his breaks, watching the crowds coming and going in the market and planning for the future.

After finishing work, he took his savings and went straight to the post office next to the market. Through the post office's money order, he sent 100 riyals home, with a note saying that he was doing well in Baghdad and had switched from a porter to an easier job.

That night, Ali stood by the attic window, gazing at the myriad lights of Baghdad, his heart filled with hope. He knew his story in Baghdad had only just begun, and many more possibilities awaited him. He clenched his fist, making a silent vow to carve out his own niche in this city, to live up to his family's expectations, and to honor his initial choice.

(End of this chapter)