Shareef (Good Man)

A few days ago I had a discussion with a friend over a community website. He said something to me, which I didn’t associate myself with. So I responded by saying “Don’t tarnish the reputation of a good man.” To this, he responded, “How do you define a good man?”

And that made me think…my mind took me to my childhood days.

In my childhood, I often found grandmothers, middle-aged ladies, and school and college going girls often appreciate guys who spoke less, didn’t look directly into eyes and blushed often while talking. They were tagged Shareef. But, as time passed by, I observed the same guys getting changed entirely— many a time I often saw them becoming just opposite to their images given to them by those beautiful ladies of different generations.

How did this change come about in those shareefs?

The same shareef guys were sent to boarding schools for further studies because of the lack of good schools in their home town. Suddenly finding themselves in a new place with no restrictions from parents and nobody in the neighborhood to watch them, they did what that desired. When a human being suddenly finds independence, his wildness finds a way out and his hidden and suppressed part becomes visible. Something similar happened with these shareef guys. Their angel-like images were a product of their parental guidance and the neighborhood they grew up in.

When a human being lives in his home, he has to follow rules of the home. In a subtle, but powerful way, rules of the neighborhood and the whole society also affect human being’s life. His actions outside home or inside home are watched not only at home but are of interest to the neighborhood as well, and so the human being adjusts to live in a shell of family and neighborhood, trying to create an image that doesn’t create any trouble for him.

But in hostel life was different. No more conformances to rules and no restrictions. What do you expect from young guys? Unless they carry some sense or the teachings of their parents are mixed entirely with their blood, they are generally directed towards something wild. Bunking often from classes, waking up the whole night, and spending time outside watching some movie in a nearby theatre are a few of the things that the young blood likes. Things like rules and so called sense don’t remain so important then.

That is what happened to these guys, so they couldn’t remain the same.

On holidays, when these different looking chaps came home, a striking difference was visible in their demeanor. The way they talked and walked was entirely different. The same beautiful ladies frowned looking at them this time and said “Shareef bacchon ko pardesh ki hawa lag gayi (City has changed these good chaps).”

I grew up hearing these lines and often wondered that the same Sushant who hardly let a single word come out of his never opening lips was blabbering those abuses starting with B and M. Cigarettes and tobacco had become his close associates, and he would often be spotted with his group—all equipped with iron chains and nickels. In some cases, I even saw somebody being thrashed by Sushant and his group.

I forgot to tell you that he was no more called Sushant. He was now Michael, the reason for which was he now danced well, fluttering his bamboo shaped legs, accentuated by his tight jeans, unstoppably whenever somebody played an adrenaline pushing dance number. His dance supported well by alcohol was one of the reasons of his popularity. Without caring about his image, I often observed girls looking appreciatively toward him while he danced. Even though I never saw a single girl falling in love with him, I noticed most of them liked teasing him and being teased by him. I often overheard some such exchanges of those moments, and I mostly found them senseless.

Sushant had remained a very close friend of mine till the time he set off to his hostel in a remote location. On the day of his leaving for his hostel the first time, I remember him being a quiet, fear stricken guy standing on the roadside waiting for the bus. Sun shone brilliantly on his white skinned face, which was intruded by thick lines of mustard oil finding way from his scalp. He wore black polished shoes and clutched a big square shaped iron suitcase with his name printed in white bold letters. His father stood on the opposite side of the road, and his mother peeped from the half open window—her face covered by a part of her Saree and tears rolling down her cheeks. In such occasions, I often found every mother doing the same. They don’t come out and show their emotions to children. They are emotional, but they don’t want their children to be emotional.

I had noticed that as the bus approached Sushant, his fear had grown stronger. The fear of going to an unknown place was evident in him.

But within one year of remaining in that new unknown place, the fear stricken and innocent looking Sushant got changed. For the first time, he failed the exam and his involvement in a list of activities forwarded by the school authorities made his parents call him back.

This one year time period was his transition period from Sushant to Michael. A shy, quiet guy metamorphosed into a guy who now preferred to be among groups of hooligans who were often spotted whistling at girls. He didn’t do these activities in front of those ladies who once admired him, but the change in his aura was enough to let those ladies say, “Sangati kharab hai iski (His company is bad).”

Like Sushant there were others too who were once tagged as shareef, and now they all could be seen with all those iron chains and nickels cramped in different areas of their clothes.

During his one year in the hostel, Sushant had come home 3-4 times on holidays, and I had observed all the changes in him. His hair style changed, his dressing style changed, his walking style changed, and his vocabulary changed. In fact, I can say quite confidently I saw all the developmental phases he went through to become Michael.

I was somehow unaffected from the so called bad practices, and in the entire village which was divided by a long road I would often see older people, while talking among themselves, pointing at me and saying ‘Bishtji’s son is the only one who is unaffected’. There wasn’t even a temptation of doing those filthy things in my mind, but when it came to being a part of cricket tournaments, I broke the rules. I remember bunking my school in quite a few occasions just to participate in some.

Being a reliable opening batsman and a handy leg spin as well as medium pace bowler (not like Manoj Prabhakar), I found respect among this group and we often roamed with each other. Once my maths teacher, who used to appreciate me a lot, made me stand up in the class and reprimanded me “Aur ghumo un logon ke sath. Tabhi itne acche number nahi aye tumhare (Be in the company of hooligans. That’s why you haven’t scored well this time).”

Teasing girls was one thing that I never supported. I considered it to be a very cheap act—a few bunch of guys passing comments on a lonely girl and seeing those strained marks of fear on that girl. What bravery is that? That’s not being a man at all. But I saw those so called friends of mine doing that often whenever one passed by. At those moments, I would change the angle of my neck and would feel very bad, but at the same time I liked the adventure of sitting with these directionless youths near the roadside on a small bridge hanging over a small canal. We would often talk till darkness engulfed the houses around and there were chirpings of only crickets (insects found in villages) emanating from no particular direction. There were only voices telling stories—faces were invisible in the dark. Ghosts were the favorite topics that occupied strong interest. It’s hard to express, but they were the golden moments—a spherical shaped bridge, water flowing under it producing a music that fused well with the sounds produced by crickets, and wind caressing our faces in a flirtatious way.

After completing my schooling, I came to Delhi for higher studies. During the time in Delhi, I kept getting updates about Sushant and his group. They failed the exams and couldn’t pursue further studies. Their family member almost shunned them. That was enough for a wake up call, so they looked for some source of income.

A few years ago when I went to my place, I heard that Michael had opened a restaurant with his group. They serve people in a different way—not with chains and rods of course.

I heard ladies say ‘Sudhar gaya time pe, nahi toh gaya tha hath se chhora (He changed his habits on time; otherwise, he would slip away from his parent’s hands.’)

I met him and found some touch of realization in him. He retained his old image back.

Experiences change people. After a lot of experiences of different aspects of our lives, we form conclusions, which are based on what we did that made us feel good and what brought us trouble. And then rules are formed—rules telling what one should do to get good results and what will bring bad results.

Some people have to go through a lot of experiences to realize for themselves what is good for them while some don’t even require one experience because they are already realized by their deep observation.