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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.
The Next Day
Is there anything nicer than springtime in Handsworth? Of course not, of course not. I walk the streets and say hello to some people I know. Buy the latest Sahotas album. Relax on Soho Road and watch the Kosovan women begging.
All around me I feel people thinking to themselves, who is this mysterious man who walks with a wiggle in his off-step? I do a pimp roll then realise it doesn't look that good. I am happy. Maybe I have a job.
I walk past Harbans Singh Solicitors and Notaries and decide to make an enquiry. It's a sullen looking girl at the reception. Typical Birmingham Indian sour-face girl.
-I have an enquiry to make.
-Yes.
-I want to change my name by deed poll. How much will it cost?
-Shall I make an appointment for you to see Mr Singh?
-No. I just want to know how much it costs.
-I don't know. I will have to make an appointment and you'll have to ask Mr Singh.
-I'm unemployed.
-First appointment is free.
-Then?
-Then it depends what you want him to do. Rates are by the half hour.
-Can I get legal aid to change my name by deed poll?
The sour-face laughs.
-I don't think so.
-And this Mr Singh, he's a kosher solicitor? He's not just a travel agent who pretends he's a lawyer?
-No. Mr Singh has been a solicitor for twenty five years...
-Only there was this dude called Chatterjee in West Brom who pretended to be a dentist when he was really just a pharmacist...
-Do you want an appointment or not?
She thinks I am a bum. So I say,
-Do you ever feel as an Indian growing up in this country what is called the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, do you ever feel a sense of strangeness, of things being ever so slightly strange, like you are part of a misunderstood, invisible, marginalised community that exists, if it exists at all, on the fringes of the consciousness of the mainstream of this society, and that sometimes it would be better to negate yourself and bleach away all difference, because the struggle to preserve any kind of individual notion of difference is too strong and too heavy a burden to pay, given that the alternative is to preserve an ossified, communalist social paradigm, what is called the Indian community, and that it is just all too much? Do you ever feel that? Do you? Do you?
-No.
She starts filing her nails. I have talked too much. Clint never says more than a few words at a time.
-What's your name?
-Why?
-Just wondering...I'm gonna change my name. People call me Clint. But I am the man with no name. It's the best way to be. Indians are all snakes and backstabbers. But whitey is a bastard too.
All of a sudden she is looking at me, interested. She asks,
-So what is your real name?
-If I told you I would have to kill you.
She laughs. Something is happening. I walk out of there with her telephone number. Her name is Sunita.
Even the dog shit on the pavement looks good for the rest of the day. I meet Sati in the park. We crack open our cans of Special Brew in silence. After a while I speak.
-When you look at me Sati, what do you think?
-Clint in A Fistful of Dollars.
-Don't try and butter me up.
-I'm not, I swear.
-Like how?
-Like mysterious and deadly.
-Like as if I am a man who does not have a name because he is too deadly?
-Exactly like that.
-So do people say to you, Sati, who is that Indian? He is deadly and strange...
-All the people say that.
We contemplate the quietness, and I am shy to speculate if the quietness comes from within me or is just the silence of the world hushing in lethargy, where we sit park-benching, sipping the cool sweet Special Brew.
-What's your real name?
-Satwinder.
-You like it?
-God chose that name from the Holy Book. It's not mine to like or not like, know what I mean?
-Yeah. But we don't even have a choice. We are given these names before we even have a chance to make ourselves. No opportunity afforded by this community. And all the stress we get in this world is from these names. Cut the name and we cut the chain.
Birds tweeting chime timpani in the air's silence, then sound rushes back just as Sati speaks.
-Clint, you are the man with no name. But you still feel pain. You are trying to blame the name. But it's not the thing that makes you insane.
Whatever's rotting like a bad drain making you lame is inside you, alone in your brain. Your name is nothing. It's just the chaff around the grain.
I cannot argue with this. It is profound, and in all likelihood, this unexpected and shocking moment of insight will be the intellectual pinnacle of this idiot's life. I take a photograph of my can of Special Brew on my phone and send it to Sunita. Underneath it I write a text message:
All my life I have tried to be someone special and wanted to escape from what I am. But what do you do when you escape and it is cold in the new place you found and made? I am just an unemployed bum. I won't bother calling you. You deserve better than an Indian bum like me. I am drinking Special Brew in the park with Sati. Marry a lawyer or something. Best wishes, Clint.
Five minutes later I get a reply.
Dear Man With No Name;
I only gave you my number and smiled to get rid of you, you bastard. I meant to give you a false number but was so flustered to get you out of my sight that I gave you my true number by mistake. I definitely didn't expect you to text me. People like you make me sick. Get a job you loser. Don't contact me and don't think of me again. You're just a typical Indian male scumbag. I hate you.
I show the message to Sati. He sighs and says,
-Indian girls are getting feisty these days.
We drink another couple of cans in the park. The flowers flitter in an April breeze. The sense of the roots in the earth crouching, preparing the colours and fruits for summer is tangible, it feels like a chatter, a promise of something good and sweet to come. Some bumble-bees dance in the air for us. The traffic appears to subdue itself. I think for a moment of how it seems that life has no real epiphanies, no moments that alter it all, but rather is comprised of slow, steady gradations either upward or down, and there is no point trying to contain or explain it. It has no reason, just like my name has no reason. We are arbitrary, just like our names are, ultimately, arbitrary. We have no reason and meaning other than that which we provide for ourselves. And the man who has no name ultimately has no reason.
A dog waddles up to Sati and pisses on his leg.
I look at the leg, dribbling dog and bubbling piss, and think, 'My Life'.
Soon the sun will begin to set on another day of my sentence. It is a nameless and strange thing, my life, with no tides, high or low, just a soothing seep and drift. We rise and saunter past some girls who look at us disapprovingly. Then we hustle towards Rookery Road and make plans to burgle Sati's uncle's shop.