Whose name is it anyway?

I have never liked my name although it is somewhat unusual. At least in many parts of India. But, growing up in north India, it was alien in places where monikers such as Usha and Preeti were more the norm. Each time I went to a new school, I had to pronounce my name several times before people got it. Then I was asked the inevitable. What did it mean? I had no answer as my parents didn’t either. They, or rather my father, picked the name as it was familiar to him. To my mother, who was from the northeast, it was as alien as any other south Indian name. But she was given a list by my dad and, according to her, this was the best of the worst. Not a very auspicious beginning one would think.

I wonder how different a name she would have chosen, but I am not sure I would have been happy with her choice either. Where she came from there were names such as Streamlet! I kid you not.

So, I was convinced that every child should be allowed to choose what they want to be called. However, this too presented a problem. Tastes change over the years and those I liked as a child I shudder to hear as an adult.

Then there is the mispronunciation issue. Most people put the stress on the wrong syllable and oftentimes it is too much trouble to correct them. And if you do, you sometimes get an odd look as if to say “What do you expect with a name like that?”

Another grouse of mine is the starting letter of my name. Most class work involved calling out names and you were sure to be one of the last to be called on if you were following the alphabetical order, which many teachers did.

Then, with a south Indian heritage, there comes the mystery letter before a name which denotes the family name. So you have ‘K. Vanaja Rao’. Should anyone be saddled with such a mouthful? In school, I was always asked what the ‘K’ stood for and I usually maintained a stoic silence. Of course, the longer you kept quiet, the more you were ribbed as your so-called mates started a guessing game, usually coming up with hilarious suggestions.

But somehow, the thought of disclosure was much more daunting than any of the answers they came up with. The laughter lasted until the next victim was sighted, but you knew that you were condemned to relive this situation again and again, just like Sisyphus of Greek mythology (Sisyphus was condemned to rolling a boulder uphill eternally and watching it roll back).

And then a new girl joined school. And she had the initial ‘P’ before her name. I was no longer alone in my misery. We soon became good friends and exchanged the expansion of the mystery letter. Imagine my surprise when I learnt that hers represented an even longer sound than mine with many more letters. I had found a kindred spirit indeed.

Somehow, I never thought of taking the easy way out, that is, dropping the initial. It just didn’t occur to me. It was like having a scar and learning to live with it.

Then a strange thing happened. We had some guests over and we had to wish them and say our names. When it came to my turn, imagine my surprise when I heard one of them say, “What a lovely name that is. I have never heard it before, but it sounds lovely.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Was she okay? Did she have a fever? Then it struck me. My name wasn’t so bad after all. It just might be an acquired taste!