Chapter 21 | The quests for breast

I still remember the first girl Altaaf pointed out to me in Pre-school. It was a walking distance away from home and I would often make an effort to either walk him there or back.

We would discuss school, his teachers and his friends. One day he mentioned a girl in particular, Shaista. I was curious to catch a glimpse of her, the girl who had captured the interest of my little brother.

I asked him to point her out and like a mother-in-law in search of the perfect daughter for her son, I approved.

She had on capri jeans, a white shirt and her black hair tied in two ponies. She smiled and waved at us as we walked away and I was mentally purchasing her Tupperware and AMC pots.

In Grade 7, I had moved schools yet again. This time round, the adjustment was an easier process.

Though, I can't say the same for my budding breasts.

Mama was the 'modest' type and the only discussion we had on periods was a brief moment after I accidentally blurted out that she wasn't fasting, in a room filled with women, at a taleem.

The 'talk' barely covered any aspect of interest and all I heard were the words 'period' 'when you big enough' and 'it's not something to speak about in the open.' All this meant for me was that I had to do my own research if I wanted to understand the transition from 'girl' to 'women' in more detail than Mama would provide.

I saw the evident bra straps beneath the sheer white shirts of my fellow class-mates, while I still contended with wearing a vest. Whilst others girls had breasts that resembled mountains that hadn't even started out as mole hills, I worried that my bosom buddies weren't being sufficiently fertilized and hence, the mole hills that barely touched the surface.

I read Judy Blume's 'Dear God, it's me Margaret' and to some extent, it made me accept that I was not alone in my quests for breasts.

I grappled with the concept of 'coming of age' and though I was forthright in thought, it wasn't easy to ask whether it was normal for my breasts to be competing in size. I can only imagine the giggling fit had I asked whether breast strokes were even permitted for Muslims.

I made new friends but I struggled indefinitely, to find 'the one'. We'd have sleep overs, sit with each other the entire break, we even read each other's journals but it wasn't enough for me to trust them.

So I made the school library my best friend. In just one year at my new school, I had made it as scholar patrol, I was a media monitor, I scored 100% in a computer skills test (I never knew I had the skills for), I was given an opportunity (which I had rejected) to be a part of 'soul buddyz' (a TV program back in 2000), I had bartered half of my possession in a bathroom stall (this was after a rather in-depth lesson in EMS on the concept of bartering in a century so far back even my great grandparents have no recollection), and I was awarded platinum in an English Olympiad I can't even recall writing.

It was an opportunistic year, unlike any other I had ever experienced. I read every book the school library had to offer,