The Man with No Name

The Man with No Name
By Harpreet Singh Soorae

Everybody calls me Clint because I remind people of him. Only my parents call me by my real name.

It is the way I walk around town, I don't flinch, I don't smile, I don't care about anybody else. Just chew a cocktail stick and speak as little as possible.

-Yeah Clint, w'happen?

(I just nod, and they get the message; he is too deep in thought to talk to us.)

I am so dangerous that people expect to see my face on posters across Handsworth saying WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.

Some people think it is better to live a quiet life and I agree. Don't let people know what goes on in your mind and they won't be able to know you. It is better if people don't know you. And if you don't have a name they cannot even know where you are from or who you belong to.

That's why I get a little vexed sometime when people call me Clint. It is just part of my confusion. Because Clint is a name. I want to be the man with no name. I want people to see me and say,

-What's my man there's name?

And people would say,

-Nobody knows. He just exists. Nobody knows where he came from. Nobody knows where he is going. Nobody knows what he thinks or feels or does. He has no name. He is the man with no name.

Being a man with no name would also mean being a man without shame and without pain. Names give you those things. In my house the name means everything. The village back in India, the caste and religion and all that stuff. My dad and uncles always going on about the family name and the honour and history attached to it. But to me, it's just a chain, claiming me backwards and turning me insane.

So there I was, two fifteen on a Thursday afternoon, and I bump into Sati.

-W'happen Clint?

-W'happen Sati.

-Nothing.

-What you got there?

-Oh just a TV and some stuff.

-OK

Sati looked around and then looked at his watch.

-You found a job yet, he asks.

-Naah

-Listen bro, d'you fancy a can of Special Brew? Sandhu is doing an offer, two cans for one ninety nine.

It had been a while since I had drunk Special Brew on a street corner in the afternoon, and I wanted to catch up with Sati, so I said yeah.

-Just keep an eye on my TV and stuff, yeah, my man Joshi is coming by to pick me up any minute now.

-Yeah man.

He went to Sandhu's Off Licence to get the Special Brew. The day was seeming much better. I looked at the TV. It was a brand new Plasma Sony, looked like it had digital, the works.

Just then a police car screeched round the corner and pulled up next to me.

Police officers jump out, and one white man looking irate starts pointing at me.

-That's him that's him that's the Indian man that just burgled my house.

The first copper says,

-Are you sure?

-Yeah I'm sure. I saw him running away. That's the Indian.

Police officer approaches me. The other one says something into his radio.

-Could I ask what you are doing with this TV, sir?

I shrug my shoulders.

-I was just looking after it, I was walking around the corner when I saw this TV sitting here. I thought it must have been left here by somebody, so I was watching it to make sure nobody steals it. You know what Handsworth people are like, Officer.

So he asks my name, but I don't say anything, and I have none to give him. Because I am the man with no name. Have to be cool and collected. So I squint at the police officer. Squint like Clint.

Two minutes later I am being driven to the police station. We pass Sati coming out of the Off Licence with two cans of Special Brew. He is lighting up a B&H. It falls out of his mouth when he sees me. I just nod to him. When you are a man with no name, a nod means a lot. It conveys everything. He knows I will not squeal.

But then when I am sitting in the police cell I wonder, what is the point? Sati would have grassed me. Everybody grasses everyone. Just because you are an Indian with an Indian name doesn't mean jack these days. Indians are eating Indians at a heavy rate in England these days. Whoever said Indians are a community is the biggest fool about.

So I am sitting in the cell on suspicion of burglarising a short sighted half wit who can't tell one Indian from another. I mean Sati was wearing a purple Fred Perry and I had my sky blue Adidas tracksuit top on. (With my matching Stan Smiths. It was an Adidas mood when I woke that morning. Maybe I should have been called Adidas Singh. But, no, I like it the way it is.)

I start meditating but soon become bored and so read the graffiti. Next to the small reinforced glass window there is scrawled:

BNP

Burn all Niggers
Burn all Pakis
Burn all Jews

I contemplate the origin of these sentiments and place them in the context of the dispossession felt by some working class white youth and their sense of alienation and reason that perhaps its source is not that different to the alienation felt by some Indians like me. So with a sense of solidarity I take my steel bangle off my wrist and scrape underneath the diatribe:

Burn all Toast

I like it.

Then I wait for the police officer to give me a solution.

Four hours later I am free. Massih is my solicitor and he sprung me because I have alibis because I was at the job centre. But the first thing that happens when I step into the yard is get sprayed with it all.

-What? Why? Shame! You!

That's just from my mother. The father isn't home from the pub yet. But it all boils down to one thing. By getting nicked, even if I am innocent, I have brought shame on the family name. That thing again. So I tell her I didn't ask for any of my names and if it makes her feel better I would change it. She asks me what to and I am about to say Clint when I stop to think it would be good just to leave it blank so the next time someone looks at my passport where it says NAME there will be a blank space, and the customs man will look at me and know that I am the man with no name.

A man can be walking along the street doing nothing and find himself in trouble these days. There is a lesson there to be learnt. Doesn't matter what you do in life, you can still get thrown into a cell and accused of thieving so its best to just put your head down and take what you can get and not worry about how others are doing. You can stand apart from everyone. One way would be to scrub yourself of all bonds by wiping away your name so nothing has a title to you except yourself.

Just then my mobile rings.

The Ring Tone: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The Colour: Blue

The Screen Saver: Bruce Lee

The name says it all: Skinny

(That's my name for Sati, because he used to be fat, before he started drinking Nourishment instead of eating food and lifting weights. It worked.)

-Clint?

-Sati

-W'happen?

-Nothing

-I got your Special Brew on ice here waiting for you man.

-That sounds nice.

-How'd it go at the shop?

-It was all good. Massih is the saviour and he saved me. Legal Aid. Got the alibi.

-I have some work for you if you want it?

-At your uncles Electrical repair shop?

-Yeah.

-Why don't you work there?

-I do. I get goods that he sells on.

-OK

- You wouldn't have to do any of that though.

-Yeah

-So you interested?

-Yeah.

-OK......I owe you a pint.

-Just keep a Special Brew chilled for me and we are safe.

-OK.

So we say goodbye and I think to myself, maybe Indians can look after each other and help one another out in times of pain and suffering. If you scrub yourself dry and take all you are and rip it up and spit on it, what are you? Maybe it is better to be claimed by all that nonsense that comes with your nonsense name. Even Sati is a good boy.

Ten seconds later he sends me a picture message, two cans of Special Brew chilling in his ice box. He is a good lad.

continue to page 2


home about contact policies submissions feature archives audio visual writing reviews forums art film & television food literature music society & culture elsewhere desilit parabaas sasialit sawnet upper stall	The Man with No Name By Harpreet Singh Soorae Everybody calls me Clint because I remind people of him. Only my parents call me by my real name. It is the way I walk around town, I don't flinch, I don't smile, I don't care about anybody else. Just chew a cocktail stick and speak as little as possible. -Yeah Clint, w'happen? (I just nod, and they get the message; he is too deep in thought to talk to us.) I am so dangerous that people expect to see my face on posters across Handsworth saying WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. Some people think it is better to live a quiet life and I agree. Don't let people know what goes on in your mind and they won't be able to know you. It is better if people don't know you. And if you don't have a name they cannot even know where you are from or who you belong to. That's why I get a little vexed sometime when people call me Clint. It is just part of my confusion. Because Clint is a name. I want to be the man with no name. I want people to see me and say, -What's my man there's name? And people would say, -Nobody knows. He just exists. Nobody knows where he came from. Nobody knows where he is going. Nobody knows what he thinks or feels or does. He has no name. He is the man with no name. Being a man with no name would also mean being a man without shame and without pain. Names give you those things. In my house the name means everything. The village back in India, the caste and religion and all that stuff. My dad and uncles always going on about the family name and the honour and history attached to it. But to me, it's just a chain, claiming me backwards and turning me insane. So there I was, two fifteen on a Thursday afternoon, and I bump into Sati. -W'happen Clint? -W'happen Sati. -Nothing. -What you got there? -Oh just a TV and some stuff. -OK Sati looked around and then looked at his watch. -You found a job yet, he asks. -Naah -Listen bro, d'you fancy a can of Special Brew? Sandhu is doing an offer, two cans for one ninety nine. It had been a while since I had drunk Special Brew on a street corner in the afternoon, and I wanted to catch up with Sati, so I said yeah. -Just keep an eye on my TV and stuff, yeah, my man Joshi is coming by to pick me up any minute now. -Yeah man. He went to Sandhu's Off Licence to get the Special Brew. The day was seeming much better. I looked at the TV. It was a brand new Plasma Sony, looked like it had digital, the works. Just then a police car screeched round the corner and pulled up next to me. Police officers jump out, and one white man looking irate starts pointing at me. -That's him that's him that's the Indian man that just burgled my house. The first copper says, -Are you sure? -Yeah I'm sure. I saw him running away. That's the Indian. Police officer approaches me. The other one says something into his radio. -Could I ask what you are doing with this TV, sir? I shrug my shoulders. -I was just looking after it, I was walking around the corner when I saw this TV sitting here. I thought it must have been left here by somebody, so I was watching it to make sure nobody steals it. You know what Handsworth people are like, Officer. So he asks my name, but I don't say anything, and I have none to give him. Because I am the man with no name. Have to be cool and collected. So I squint at the police officer. Squint like Clint. Two minutes later I am being driven to the police station. We pass Sati coming out of the Off Licence with two cans of Special Brew. He is lighting up a B&H. It falls out of his mouth when he sees me. I just nod to him. When you are a man with no name, a nod means a lot. It conveys everything. He knows I will not squeal. But then when I am sitting in the police cell I wonder, what is the point? Sati would have grassed me. Everybody grasses everyone. Just because you are an Indian with an Indian name doesn't mean jack these days. Indians are eating Indians at a heavy rate in England these days. Whoever said Indians are a community is the biggest fool about. So I am sitting in the cell on suspicion of burglarising a short sighted half wit who can't tell one Indian from another. I mean Sati was wearing a purple Fred Perry and I had my sky blue Adidas tracksuit top on. (With my matching Stan Smiths. It was an Adidas mood when I woke that morning. Maybe I should have been called Adidas Singh. But, no, I like it the way it is.) I start meditating but soon become bored and so read the graffiti. Next to the small reinforced glass window there is scrawled: BNP Burn all Niggers Burn all Pakis Burn all Jews I contemplate the origin of these sentiments and place them in the context of the dispossession felt by some working class white youth and their sense of alienation and reason that perhaps its source is not that different to the alienation felt by some Indians like me. So with a sense of solidarity I take my steel bangle off my wrist and scrape underneath the diatribe: Burn all Toast I like it. Then I wait for the police officer to give me a solution. Four hours later I am free. Massih is my solicitor and he sprung me because I have alibis because I was at the job centre. But the first thing that happens when I step into the yard is get sprayed with it all. -What? Why? Shame! You! That's just from my mother. The father isn't home from the pub yet. But it all boils down to one thing. By getting nicked, even if I am innocent, I have brought shame on the family name. That thing again. So I tell her I didn't ask for any of my names and if it makes her feel better I would change it. She asks me what to and I am about to say Clint when I stop to think it would be good just to leave it blank so the next time someone looks at my passport where it says NAME there will be a blank space, and the customs man will look at me and know that I am the man with no name. A man can be walking along the street doing nothing and find himself in trouble these days. There is a lesson there to be learnt. Doesn't matter what you do in life, you can still get thrown into a cell and accused of thieving so its best to just put your head down and take what you can get and not worry about how others are doing. You can stand apart from everyone. One way would be to scrub yourself of all bonds by wiping away your name so nothing has a title to you except yourself. Just then my mobile rings. The Ring Tone: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly The Colour: Blue The Screen Saver: Bruce Lee The name says it all: Skinny (That's my name for Sati, because he used to be fat, before he started drinking Nourishment instead of eating food and lifting weights. It worked.) -Clint? -Sati -W'happen? -Nothing -I got your Special Brew on ice here waiting for you man. -That sounds nice. -How'd it go at the shop? -It was all good. Massih is the saviour and he saved me. Legal Aid. Got the alibi. -I have some work for you if you want it? -At your uncles Electrical repair shop? -Yeah. -Why don't you work there? -I do. I get goods that he sells on. -OK - You wouldn't have to do any of that though. -Yeah -So you interested? -Yeah. -OK......I owe you a pint. -Just keep a Special Brew chilled for me and we are safe. -OK. So we say goodbye and I think to myself, maybe Indians can look after each other and help one another out in times of pain and suffering. If you scrub yourself dry and take all you are and rip it up and spit on it, what are you? Maybe it is better to be claimed by all that nonsense that comes with your nonsense name. Even Sati is a good boy. Ten seconds later he sends me a picture message, two cans of Special Brew chilling in his ice box. He is a good lad. continue to page 2