Touchstones: Names matter, and why not

What’s in a name, you may ask. After all, as the Bard observed, a rose would still smell as sweet by any other name. While that may well be true, names fascinate me because they may be an apt description of the person or a complete antonym. One of my favourite poems is by the redoubtable Kaka Hathrasi: ‘Naam bade aur darshan chhote’. Kaka then goes through a list of ill-named characters whose nature is the opposite of what their names suggest. Do please Google it and laugh as you hear of a Nainsukh who has only one eye or a Munshi Chandalal who is as black as tar, while Gyanchand has failed six times in the 10th class.

Jokes apart, names in my little community of Kumaoni Brahmins from Almora were often chosen from the vast pantheon of our gods. Generally, women were named after revered goddesses, while names of rivers were considered unlucky for girls. So, I had a few aunts named Ganga, Jamuna or Godavari but nearly every clan had a daughter called Laxmi, Parvati or Gaura. Other unlucky names were Sita and Rahul, because Sita was banished and Rahul abandoned by his father Gautam Buddha soon after he was born.

Given this tradition of choosing names, there were many called Ramesh, Jiwan or Govind in the Kumaon of my childhood. This could lead to confusion (and often did), so the wicked wits of the town gave them nicknames that were like identity markers and descriptions that made for some really funny stuff. Thus, we had an uncle called Ramesh Convent (perhaps because he spoke in English after he was educated in a missionary school), a Jiwan Jaundice to set him apart from other Jiwans, a Girish Holdall (no idea where that came from) but another Girish was called Girish Chocolate. And one merry tippler was aptly named Bhuwan Botal. I could go on but there’s more to follow.

When I got married and landed in Punjab, what threw me off were the unisex names. Gurinder, Satinder, Harinder could be either man or woman, and once when behind a bus carrying a baraat to Patiala with ‘Harinder weds Narinder’ pasted on its rear, we spent the entire drive trying to figure out who was the bride and who the groom. Later, when I started teaching at Panjab University, each year brought a fresh selection of Harvinders, Navjots and such confusing names to befuddle my poor brain. I am convinced that my inability to remember names now is only partly due to a failing memory: it has everything to do with that chip in my brain that was burned out by this yearly onslaught of similar names. Again, there were also the Sweetys, Happys and Lovelys to contend with.

Outside Punjab, don’t ask how many were named Rajiv and Sanjay after Mrs Gandhi’s handsome boys in the next generation. Just as there are many Priyankas in this one. Other repeater names are Ananya or names such as Maya and Anita that sit comfortably here or abroad. Up to this point, I am cognisant of the lineage and history of names that parents choose for their babies. Come now to Gen X and new parents whose children are called after characters from unknown histories and mythologies. There are many websites that give them a list of exotic names to choose from, nudging aside Maneka Gandhi’s pioneering book on baby names from another time.

How can I not mention the South Indian names that have a logic of their own? Most South Indian Brahmins have at least three capital letters before we encounter the name they are known by. The three alphabets stand for clan, village and father’s names, such as VKRV Rao or PV Narasimha Rao. There’s a large clan of foreign affairs worthies and another clan of journalists who always confuse me with their introductory names. This tradition was probably adopted so that when you said I am so-and-so, your host knew exactly who you have descended from and where your natal family lived. As a wicked friend once quipped: ‘All they now need to add is their post-code to make it a complete identity card, better than an Aadhaar!’

The pioneers here were our dear Parsi community, who helpfully adopted their trade name to make their identity clear to an alien community. Soda Bottle Openerwala, Bandookwala, Poonawala, Taraporewala and so on. The late Keki Daruwalla, one of the most lovable and sober poets, once met the legendary Firaq Gorakhpuri at a mushaira and was so impressed with his poetry that he went up to ask whether he could visit him when he was next in Allahabad. ‘Zaroor,’ Firaq Sa’ab replied. ‘But what is your address, sir?’ Keki Daruwalla asked. ‘Just give your name to the rickshawala and he’ll bring you to me,’ drawled Firaq. This apocryphal story was probably created by someone else because when I asked Keki if it was true, he just twinkled his eyes and shook his head.

My own mother, a formidable Sanskrit scholar and writer, named my older sister ‘Mrinal’, as she was a great admirer of Mrinalini Sarabhai, her senior at Santiniketan. One day, when her guru, Acharya Hazari Prasad Dwivedi, had come to visit us, he asked my mother, ‘Did I never tell you that Mrinal is not a feminine noun? Mrinalini is.’ How we pulled her leg after that!

— The writer is a social commentator

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