“What's your name, son?”
"Sakib," follows a dramatic pause, "Salikine Sakib."
The clattering sound from typing a cheap keyboard's buttons came to an abrupt halt. A mid-aged man's seemingly blurry eyes' sharp gaze scanned him from top to bottom. Sakib just awkwardly smiled in response. The man, certainly annoyed, shouts, "You punk, who do you think you are, James Bond's distant desi cousin?"
"I'm new here. A bit nervous, I guess."
"Oh yeah, you better be. What was your full name again?"
"Sirajus Salikine Sakib, and that's real according to my HSC certificate."
The mid-aged man hurriedly typed something, printed it out, and handed him a new ID card.
It says, Serious Saline Sakib. Junior Sports Correspondent, GondoGoalnews.com
"Autocorrects", Sakib sighed. He didn't feel like arguing with that man. Does it matter though if he is Salikine or Saline?
Sakib, a 22-year-old young man, is a newly appointed junior reporter here and today starts off his day one at the office. But first, let's take a look at this chap who is too much into TV, but not books. He got this untamed, often-uncombed hair which he frequently tries to fix with his fingers but fails. He is wearing a t-shirt that says 'khela hobbeee' in the middle, and his favourite jeans, unwashed for 'god-knows-how-many-days'.
With beards unshaved for 3 days, even after knowing these pesky things itches a lot, he's too lazy to shave them off. So, as you might have already presumed, he is just a very regular guy nobody cares about.
Since childhood, he's been crazy about sports, all types. He spent hours after hours discussing the football matches he watched last night. Although his passion never seemed to help him with his college grades, still he has nothing against it. Mom already knows he's good for nothing and she seems to accept the fact that she gave birth to a useless child.
Sakib isn't a great player himself at all, but he is a great admirer of everything about sports and aspires to be a great sports journalist someday, interviewing Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar and all the big names. But first, he must start small: just like any other successful man in the world. Right after the completion of his HSC, he applied here, at Gondo-whatever online sports site nobody cares about except its employees.
Searching for his desk, he enters a small room which was already crowded with people working, some shouting. A guy at the corner was carefully itching his ear, with eyes closed, probably in profound pleasure. Suddenly a gust of wind blows inside and all the papers become airborne; a young boy tries to catch them. Flies fly on someone's coffee, the man doesn't seem to care, he takes a sip anyway.
Sakib's entrance, however, hadn't gone unnoticed. There was no chair, just a plastic stool. Sakib sits on that and tries to think why things always go wrong with him. He takes a pause and ponders. Every time he types his name on Microsoft Word, there are red underlines beneath his first, middle, and last name. He wonders if he is a mistake. But if you ask Sakib's mom, she would shake her head no and say, "Sakib is our first child. Why would he be a mistake? He is very much planned. Well, one day Sakiber abba…." Okay, that's another 10-page-long story. Let's get back to the poor fellow.
The scattered thoughts almost made him doze off, and then the call of duty came. A grumpy-looking man appeared out of nowhere and said boss apnare bulaay (boss asked you to come). Sakib stood up and followed the man. Before entering the boss's room, he tries to look less unkempt. However, that doesn't appear to work. He enters. The room is slightly bigger than a cubicle.
The boss, Mr. Ahad Ali, is a man of small stature but let the height not deceive you, he knows how to get his job done. Mr. Ali fakes a smile and says, "Ah, Sakib shaheb, such a young lad. Welcome to the family".
Sakib nods and smiles in response, unsure of what to say. Mr. Ali quickly starts talking business. "Mr. Sakib, you will go cover today's football match between XoXoboys Dhaka (XD) and Lonely Old Lads (LOL).Sakib nods.
The match was a local one which, obviously, ended with lots of fights and calling names. That makes Sakib ecstatic. What a crispy news that would make! Not a bad first report, he thinks.
A few years later
Sakib is sitting in the press section of the stadium. He got promoted in the meantime. Here at the stadium, he could see the players practicing. And there, at a distance, stands Shakib Al Hasan, yawning. He takes notes. Life's been boring since he got the job. But that wasn't supposed to be the case.
Sakib closes his eyes and starts dreaming: he's at Camp Nou, covering a high voltage match for a renowned newspaper which pays a lot. There's an interview schedule with Mohamed Salah, next day with David Beckham and next day...oh God! He can't even remember.
He's too busy. Sakib decides, he would write an autobiography depicting his glamorous career. He quickly forms a title: "Surely You're Cool, Mr. Sakib!" which he probably copied from "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feinmann!" as the man next to him kept reading that book instead of watching the game.
Sakib's daydreaming got disrupted as there was a sudden loud explosion and rapid gunfire. Some Army dudes landed with ropes from two fat Russian-made helicopters. "God, what's happening?"
Sakib froze in shock. His brain stops working when it's needed the most. Should he run by screaming "Bachaaaaao"? Someone from behind says, "Relax, man. This is our dudes. It's just a drill"
"A drill for what?"
The guy stays quiet. Maybe the answer is so obvious that he doesn't even care to respond. And suddenly an air raid siren starts making dreadful noises. Some jet fighters rumbled over the stadium. The sirens continue to scream. And suddenly, Sakib faints. It felt like falling from heights, to a dark abyss. The sound slowly started fading away.
Moments after, a pair of eyelids slowly opened with the face glistening with sweat. A siren still can he heard. But it's not at the stadium. Here at an air base, Flying Officer Salikine Sakib abruptly woke up at 3am as the siren squeaks. Call of duty. Hey wait, so he had been dreaming?
He smiles. Living another life in the dreams doesn't feel bad, actually. He did want to become a journalist, though. He quickly gets off. He looks at the mirror. 6 feet in stature, strong built with a sharp, flawless clean shaved face. Hair chopped short with dark and piercing eyes. He looks handsome and charming from any angle. And oh, there's a mole on the left side of his nose to complete the list.
He puts on his uniform and within minutes he appears inside the cockpit of a metal bird. The engine begins to make soft growls. Sakib thinks again, what a wonderful world!
Wait, do you hear it? Where this harsh noise of a bloody alarm clock is is coming from? Oh God, this made me wake up.
What a weird dream it was! I just dreamt someone else's dream. I quickly pulled out the pen from my reading table's drawer and tried to jot down things to make a lame story out of it. C'mon, that's what I do for a living!
The writer is a student at Dhaka University
