Adolescent Delight

© 2003 Candace L. Kenyon
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Adolescent Delight by Candace L. Kenyon
The keening of the voice rising rhythmically in haunting strains penetrated my sleep. In tingling anticipation I woke and lay for a while, listening. Doves rustling on the terrace outside of my room added their soft cooing to the piercing wail. I could hear hoofs, muffled in the distance at first, and then treading louder as fat-tailed sheep completed their waddling beat past the house. They scurried in front of children who tapped their sticks on the street behind the flock. Hoofs! I had been waiting for this day. I scrambled out of bed, eager for the coming of the buzkashi rider who was bringing horses today for my sister and me to inspect. If we were lucky, maybe our parents would let us keep one, but at least we were sure to get a horseback ride. Leslie was already up and waiting for me. I grabbed a couple of pieces of toast from the plate that sat in front of her on the dining room table. "Let's go, Leslie," I said and headed for the door. I could hear Latif, the cook, chattering excitedly in Farsi behind me. He always hated it when I didn't sit down at the table to eat the hearty breakfasts he cooked. "You're a growing young girl," he said. "You should have a good breakfast. Besides, if there are no dirty dishes, how can these lazy bachas of mine earn their keep?" I stuck my tongue out at him and laughingly replied, "Latif, you know they won't mind finishing early. Anyway, I don't have time this morning." Latif clucked disapprovingly behind us as we made our exit. Outside, the sun was already making its dusty, hot crawl into the corners of the compound wall. Expertly, I scooted myself up onto the lower ledge like a swimmer plopping his butt out of the water onto the edge of the pool. Twisting my torso, I got my elbow over the top of the upper ledge and twisted up onto the top of the wall. Leslie was right behind me. No doors for us! Our friends lived behind us and several houses away. It was faster to get there over the walls than to walk around the block on the street. It was just like cutting through other people's backyards, only we were perched ten feet above the domains, on top of the world. From the walls, we had a bird's-eye view into the secret, secluded world of the Afghan family. Running along the crumbling edges of the walls, we gaily called salaam aleikum to the women busily dunking small naked children and clothing into washtubs. Goats, sheep, cows, and chickens all shared the same space as the people. Hunkered down on their heels, some women kneaded dough, while others teased milk from the teats of cows and goats. As we neared our destination, we saw Martha and Roberta weaving their way towards us. Greeting each other happily, we raced back to our house. Sometimes we ran out of wall and had to run across rooftops. At the edge of a roof there would be a long drop onto the next roof. Our favorite spot was the gap between roofs. We had barely enough room to make a fast sprint towards the hole, gaining just enough impetus to hurl our bodies forward over the gaping hole, leaping nimbly to the other side. Once back at my house, we sat on the wall, dangling our legs out towards the street. Through the dust settling in my nostrils, I caught the warm, comforting aroma of baking nan. The smell of the flat brown bread, which is baked against the side of a sunken beehive oven, made me forget that I had just eaten. I thought of the kabob that can be purchased in the bazaar. The meat and fat is skewered and placed over hot coals that are gently fanned to keep them glowing. I could almost taste the sweet, smoked flavor of the fatty kabob sandwiched between pieces of nan charred just enough to bring out the pungent, sweet-sour taste of the bread. Spicy, sweet kabob, warm nan and a glass of steaming, sugary chai. I was ecstatic just thinking about it. My thought of food was distracted by the confusion stirring up at the end of the road. Young boys shouted to each other in excitement, gesticulating eagerly towards something out of our sight. Then I saw what was causing the commotion as a flurry of motion rounded the corner. A profusion of color assaulted my eyes, and clashed with the whirling clouds of gray dust that rose from the turbulence. The turban the rider wore burned like flame and his loose, flowing clothes flashed brightly, flapping fluidly around him. He sat sturdily astride a wildly prancing, dark brown horse that angrily shook its head as the rider whipped it into a gallop. As the horse and rider bore down upon us with terrifying speed, I yelled, "Baas! Baas! He'll never stop in time!" Closer, ever closer they came, without breaking speed. Just a few feet away from us, the rider reigned in his horse abruptly, and with a flourish, the horse shifted its weight back on its haunches, and rearing high, furiously brandished its legs as though pounding with its hoofs upon an unseen foe. We jumped down into the street and carefully, I stretched my hand towards the stallion. Its nostrils flared, and as my hand brushed its nose, soft warm air tickled my palm as I caressed the velvety softness. I moved around to its side and patted its muscular, rippling neck. Its eyes followed my movements, deep dark sockets bulging, and the whites of its eyes strained in its effort to keep me in sight. What a proud, perfect creature! I knew that this was the one. This was the horse I had to have. My heart filled in delight. Khoshi! Yes, that is what he would be named. He was Khoshi, and he was the delight of my life.

The keening of the voice rising rhythmically in haunting strains penetrated my sleep. In tingling anticipation I woke and lay for a while, listening. Doves rustling on the terrace outside of my room added their soft cooing to the piercing wail. I could hear hoofs, muffled in the distance at first, and then treading louder as fat-tailed sheep completed their waddling beat past the house. They scurried in front of children who tapped their sticks on the street behind the flock.
Hoofs! I had been waiting for this day. I scrambled out of bed, eager for the coming of the buzkashi rider who was bringing horses today for my sister and me to inspect. If we were lucky, maybe our parents would let us keep one, but at least we were sure to get a horseback ride.
Leslie was already up and waiting for me. I grabbed a couple of pieces of toast from the plate that sat in front of her on the dining room table. "Let's go, Leslie," I said and headed for the door. I could hear Latif, the cook, chattering excitedly in Farsi behind me. He always hated it when I didn't sit down at the table to eat the hearty breakfasts he cooked. "You're a growing young girl," he said. "You should have a good breakfast. Besides, if there are no dirty dishes, how can these lazy bachas of mine earn their keep?" I stuck my tongue out at him and laughingly replied, "Latif, you know they won't mind finishing early. Anyway, I don't have time this morning." Latif clucked disapprovingly behind us as we made our exit.
Outside, the sun was already making its dusty, hot crawl into the corners of the compound wall. Expertly, I scooted myself up onto the lower ledge like a swimmer plopping his butt out of the water onto the edge of the pool. Twisting my torso, I got my elbow over the top of the upper ledge and twisted up onto the top of the wall. Leslie was right behind me. No doors for us! Our friends lived behind us and several houses away. It was faster to get there over the walls than to walk around the block on the street. It was just like cutting through other people's backyards, only we were perched ten feet above the domains, on top of the world.
From the walls, we had a bird's-eye view into the secret, secluded world of the Afghan family. Running along the crumbling edges of the walls, we gaily called salaam aleikum to the women busily dunking small naked children and clothing into washtubs. Goats, sheep, cows, and chickens all shared the same space as the people. Hunkered down on their heels, some women kneaded dough, while others teased milk from the teats of cows and goats.
As we neared our destination, we saw Martha and Roberta weaving their way towards us. Greeting each other happily, we raced back to our house. Sometimes we ran out of wall and had to run across rooftops. At the edge of a roof there would be a long drop onto the next roof. Our favorite spot was the gap between roofs. We had barely enough room to make a fast sprint towards the hole, gaining just enough impetus to hurl our bodies forward over the gaping hole, leaping nimbly to the other side.
Once back at my house, we sat on the wall, dangling our legs out towards the street. Through the dust settling in my nostrils, I caught the warm, comforting aroma of baking nan. The smell of the flat brown bread, which is baked against the side of a sunken beehive oven, made me forget that I had just eaten. I thought of the kabob that can be purchased in the bazaar. The meat and fat is skewered and placed over hot coals that are gently fanned to keep them glowing. I could almost taste the sweet, smoked flavor of the fatty kabob sandwiched between pieces of nan charred just enough to bring out the pungent, sweet-sour taste of the bread. Spicy, sweet kabob, warm nan and a glass of steaming, sugary chai. I was ecstatic just thinking about it.
My thought of food was distracted by the confusion stirring up at the end of the road. Young boys shouted to each other in excitement, gesticulating eagerly towards something out of our sight. Then I saw what was causing the commotion as a flurry of motion rounded the corner. A profusion of color assaulted my eyes, and clashed with the whirling clouds of gray dust that rose from the turbulence. The turban the rider wore burned like flame and his loose, flowing clothes flashed brightly, flapping fluidly around him. He sat sturdily astride a wildly prancing, dark brown horse that angrily shook its head as the rider whipped it into a gallop. As the horse and rider bore down upon us with terrifying speed, I yelled, "Baas! Baas! He'll never stop in time!" Closer, ever closer they came, without breaking speed. Just a few feet away from us, the rider reigned in his horse abruptly, and with a flourish, the horse shifted its weight back on its haunches, and rearing high, furiously brandished its legs as though pounding with its hoofs upon an unseen foe.
We jumped down into the street and carefully, I stretched my hand towards the stallion. Its nostrils flared, and as my hand brushed its nose, soft warm air tickled my palm as I caressed the velvety softness. I moved around to its side and patted its muscular, rippling neck. Its eyes followed my movements, deep dark sockets bulging, and the whites of its eyes strained in its effort to keep me in sight.
What a proud, perfect creature! I knew that this was the one. This was the horse I had to have. My heart filled in delight. Khoshi! Yes, that is what he would be named. He was Khoshi, and he was the delight of my life.