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Getting Some (standard:drama, 4163 words)
Author: Bobby ZamanAdded: Jul 04 2002Views/Reads: 1889/1180Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sixteen year old boys grow up.


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. 

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