Name on the Wall

"That's Besi Mari," he said quietly to another spectator. "An enforcer for the Black Dragons."

The words were soft, almost casual, spoken with the same tone one might use to identify a brand of coffee or a model of car. But they landed in the humid air like stones dropped into a still pond, rippling out with a weight that far exceeded their volume. Besi Mari. Iron Steel. A name that sounded like a weapon itself.

I looked at the man slumped against the brickwork, gasping for air, his eyes wide with a terror that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with recognition. He wasn’t just afraid of my father’s strength; he was afraid of what my father represented. He was afraid of the order that my father enforced.

In that moment, the world shifted. It wasn’t just a random act of violence. It was a transaction. A correction. My father hadn’t attacked a stranger; he had disciplined a subordinate. He had reminded Besi Mari of his place in the ecosystem. And by naming him, my father was reminding everyone else of theirs too.

Look, his silence said. I know who you are. I know what you do. And I am not afraid of you.

To a seven-year-old, this was fascinating. It was like watching a scene from one of the superhero movies I loved, but without the costumes or the special effects. This was real. This was raw. My father wasn’t just strong; he was connected. He was part of a hidden world, a shadow network of power and consequence that operated beneath the surface of ordinary life. He wasn’t just a man who drove a nice car; he was a player in a game I didn’t even know existed.

And I wanted in.

I wanted to know the names. I wanted to know the rules. I wanted to be the one who could say, "That’s Besi Mari," with such casual authority that it made other men flinch. I thought that if I could learn the language of this shadow world, I would finally be safe. I would never be the victim again. I would be the one holding the leash.

But looking at Besi Mari now, rubbing his bruised back, I see the tragedy of that hierarchy. He was an enforcer, yes. A man who likely used his own strength to intimidate others, to collect debts, and to keep the peace for the Black Dragons. But in front of my father, he was just a boy. Small. Breakable. Afraid.

My father had stripped him of his power with a single throw. He had shown him that no matter how tough you are, no matter how many people fear you, there is always someone stronger. Someone colder. Someone who doesn’t care.

And that is a lonely place to be.

My father stood at the top of that pyramid, but the view from the top was empty. There are no peers, only subjects and enemies. There is no trust, only compliance. There is no love, only respect born of fear.

I spent years trying to climb that pyramid. I tried to become an enforcer of my own making, using my intelligence and my social skills to control those around me. I tried to learn the names of all the players, to understand the leverage, to master the game. I thought that if I could just be smart enough, cold enough, connected enough, I would be untouchable.

But I was wrong.

Because the game is rigged. The pyramid is unstable. And the higher you climb, the harder you fall.

Now, I don’t want to know the names. I don’t want to know who owes whom, or who fears whom. I want to know the people. I want to know their stories, their hopes, their fears. I want to connect with them not as assets or obstacles, but as humans.

My father knew Besi Mari’s name. But he didn’t know his pain. He didn’t know his story. He only knew his utility.

And that is the difference between power and connection.

I am done with power. I am ready for connection.

Even if it means being vulnerable. Even if it means being weak. Even if it means being just Saransh.

Because Besi Mari is alone. My father is alone. And I am tired of being alone.