|Getting Some (standard:drama, 4163 words)|
|Author: Bobby Zaman||Added: Jul 04 2002||Views/Reads: 1727/1068||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Sixteen year old boys grow up.|
GETTING SOME Shahriar was a god. At sixteen if your best friend could talk to the sexiest girls around, yes, that would make him a god. And not just talk to hear his own voice (which he also enjoyed ravenously;) he would court out of them the very responses he wanted, ultimately getting a yes to all his queries. He d do it as easily as though he was picking teams for a game of cricket, telling them what he wanted and what he expected from them, and how he wished them to fulfill his requirements. Believe me, this was at sixteen. His tongue never faltered, never found itself swimming aimlessly and groping for words, and conveyed his thoughts in precise and concise language. I battle with saying the right thing to this day, and more often than not, blurt out the exact opposite of what I m thinking. This made Shahriar the bolder of us by a landslide, and on the day of my initiation into the world of being sixteen, my dear friend was responsible for my enlightenment into the wonders of becoming a man in ways that taunt the rest of the adolescent years like a perpetual nightmare. It was March and the annual cricket match between Dhaka Club and Chittagong Club was the highlight of the season, the trip that I looked forward to all year, and sunk into severe depression when it ended. The train ride, all the families gathering and huddling at Kamlapur station before crack of dawn, excitement fighting through hazy, sleepy eyes, and the busy staff of Dhaka Club lugging the iron trunk packed with the team s equipment, Spring Break, was only the prelude to the weeklong fantasia at hand. And then there was Shahriar who d be charging up the platform the minute our train would pull in at Chittagong to sweep me away and directly into the welcome pandemonium that was to last seven days and nights. The year was 1991 and Shahriar s boldness on a dark, humid evening made this birthday a lot more than balloons, presents, and many happy returns. He d alluded to this trip being something different than any of the previous ones, a lot more stimulating that the feeling of holding a Gun and Moore bat and swat at a brand new ball. Cricket was the center of all our gatherings, and we would contentedly bake away under the midday sun, inning after inning, over after over, much to the chagrin of our mothers (mine especially) who wished for fair, healthy little boys with plump pink cheeks and ample flesh on our bones (we wouldn t eat all day either,) and those hours would give us enough hits, misses, outs, fours, and sixers to talk about for a whole year till the next trip. But, as we were smacking away our pre-adolescent years in pitches and wickets, the next phase emerged out of the rubble that had burned away with the energy we were putting into every toss and swing. Girls were suddenly much more desirable to the touch and welcome to the sight over a brand new pair of batting gloves from Lily Whites, and being proficient cricketers was just another way to get attention from the fairer sex. Stepping off the train I saw him chugging up the platform. Dapper as ever, Shahriar hugged me so hard I almost cracked a rib, then yanked my bag off my shoulder. When I m around, I ll do everything and my jaan will enjoy, he said and slapped my back. He d been telling me, over the phone for the last few days, that spring was in full bloom in this part of the country. All those little chickies that looked like boys last year with no boobies, he said and held out both hands in front of him to indicate that breasts had amply filled the void. You remember Shaheena? Holy shit is she hot. Word s out that she had sex with an uncle already. (Uncle being a man old enough to be her father, and arguably an acquaintance of her father.) We re gonna have some fun this week! said Shahriar and whooped and clutched the back of my neck and shook it with joy. We always stayed with my parents old old friends, as they said about anyone they knew more than a decade, Qadir Malik (from here on Qadir Uncle,) his wife, and ten daughters. It was also at this trip that the oldest daughter, Mehreen, would begin to hug me at the end of every sentence we exchanged. Disarming at first, but eventually I had no problem closing my arms around her wispy waist. Click here to read the rest of this story (415 more lines)
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