The Nameless Face

I know there are a million stories out there that start with “Well, there I was, minding my own business,” but this is one story where that line holds true to every word. I didn’t even want to start off like that, but that’s exactly how it happened.

Well, there I was, minding my own business, when this crazy drunk fool swung a huge fist at me. The whisky went flying from my hand, and I went flying down on to the floor. That hurt.

I was helped up by two men in the pub, while the third man was screaming at the burly fellow who had knocked me about. Winston, they kept calling him. Winston on his part looked quite sorry for what he had done, and from what I could gather from the conversation (which was tough, since I could still see stars around my head), I understood that this Winston guy had thought I was someone else.

“Sorry about that man,” Winston said to me once we both had settled down. “I thought you were someone else.”

That confirmed what I had thought. So I told him, “I know.”

We sat down at a table, and that’s when I got a good look at him. He looked Indian, just like me. That was confusing, so I looked around again. We were at a very desi pub, playing Bollywood numbers and such. It wasn’t really the place for a Winston to be hanging around, and he certainly looked nothing like a Winston either. Still, my father had always told me, “You never make fun of someone’s name.” He was a devout Brahmin, and still lived by those rules. No meat, no alcohol, no tobacco.

I took a sip of my beer and a bite from the Tandoorii Chicken in front of me, and keeping my father’s words in my mind, didn’t say anything about Winston’s name.

From where I was sitting, Winston looked something like a brown barrel which had been forced into a T-shirt and faded jeans. He didn’t look that tall, now that I wasn’t lying on the floor anymore, but he was fat. Those weren’t his biceps; they were rolls of fat hanging out of his sleeves. I try not to judge people by their looks, so I quickly looked down at my chicken again. It looked delicious.

“So, Winston. Where are you from again?” I asked him, just to keep the awkward tension out of our way.

“I’m from Kanedda,” said Winston, in a thick Punjabi accent. I guessed he meant he was from Canada, but again didn’t say anything. My father’s words were still ringing in my ears.

The waiter arrived, with the Coke that Winston had ordered. He took one of the pink straws from the glass (even though they had green ones!) and sucked the drink. The black cola moved up and down the straw like the mercury bobbing up and down in the sphygmomanometer. I noticed I was staring, and quickly averted his eyes and down onto my plate. All that was left from the aforementioned chicken were the bones.

I made to grab the glass of beer in front of me, when Winston spoke up again.

“I’m sorry I hit you. I thought you were someone else,” he repeated.

“It’s ok. I’m not hurt that bad.”

“No, really. I shouldn’t have hit you like that. I was just very irritated,” he said, in a very irritated tone of voice.

I should never have asked the question I asked after this. I would never have had to know anything about Winston, had I not asked the next question. I could have shut up, drank my beer, and just walked out of the pub. I could have forgotten the whole incident, but I found myself looking straight into Winston’s eyes, and asking: “What happened?”

“Well, like I’ve said, I’m from Kanedda. I’ve come here to attend my cousin’s marriage. I’m not exactly the kinda guy a girl looks for, so I never really had a girlfriend back at home. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been with a girl, but I’ve never really had a girlfriend. So, when my cousin told me about the nice girls in India, I thought I’d come down here and see for myself. I mean, we’re not getting younger here – I’m almost 30 and…” he lowered his voice dramatically, “I’ve never seen a girl naked!

“So, I came down to India to, well, amongst other things, get laid. But here too, for some reason, I wasn’t really lucky.” He paused to take a bit of the Tandoorii Roll he had ordered, and took a bite out of it while all his chins wobbled rhythmically. He swallowed, sucked a bit more on his Coke, and continued, “So my cousin, being the good guy that he is, said he would hook me up with a nice Indian girl. I trust him completely, so I was naturally very happy to hear that.

“In the evening, I got a call from a man named Sarath. He told me that his employees could massage some clients, and he gave me an address. I was really excited about the whole thing, so I slipped out of the house as quietly as I could. Catching an auto in this city isn’t really easy, but luckily the driver was also going to the same place. So, he took me in without much haggling or arguments.

“Sarath’s ‘office’, as he called it, was quite a seedy place. There was a funny smell around, but it was pleasing at the same time. Sarath smiled broadly, and his teeth twinkled along with the thick gold chain he was wearing around his neck. ‘Myself Sarath,’ he said as an introduction. He then waved his ring-laden hand around, and a line of young girls came out of the other room. ‘No hurry, Mr Winston Sir. Take time and choose. All of them A One quality, and they suit your special needs as well’ and the smile came out again.

“The girls weren’t that pretty, but I thought I didn’t have much of a choice. Finally, I settled for the one who seemed to be the youngest one of the lot, and went inside the room. ‘Good choice for your special needs, Mr. Winston. She knows his way around,’ said Sarath and closed the door. His comment seemed a little odd, but I didn’t really think much about that.

“I was shaking with excitement, and that’s when the whole thing happened. Sarath’s girl… well, wasn’t really a girl!”

“What do you mean?” I asked Winston, bewildered.

“The girl was a man, dressed like a girl. A ladyboy!”

“Oh, “I said, “You mean a Hijda. Yeah, I got that. So what did you do?” I asked Winston. He looked confused, somehow, as though he expected me to know the answer to that question. I thought that was unfair.

“Well, I ran out of the room, of course. I asked for my money back, but Sarath didn’t give it to me. He threw me out of his office instead.”

“Ohh, I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah. That’s why I hit you.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah. That’s why I hit you. I thought you were Sarath,” he said matter-of-factly. I think I looked offended, which is fine because I was offended.

“You thought I was a gold-chain-wearing ring-bearing eunuch-hiring pimp? And you hit me because of that?”

He shoveled some more of the roll into his large mouth and said, “Yeah. You look exactly the same from behind. You’re not his brother or something, are you?”

I was feeling furious. This fat pretend-canadian named Winston, with his wobbly chins and his leaking fat arms, thought I was a gold-chain-wearing ring-bearing eunuch-hiring pimp! This was absurd!

“This is absurd! Why would I be a pimp? Tell me, Winston, are all Canadians this dumb, or is it just something that happens with people named Winston?”

He grinned and said, “I wouldn’t know, my friend. My real name isn’t Winston.”