Among the worst things that happen to you in the aftermath of your birth – as if that journey down what is euphemistically called ‘the birth canal’, with all its constituent fluids, were not bad enough – is being given a name. I have no idea why parents get to choose names. Most of their poor decisions – such as the haircuts they saddle us with for the first four years of our lives – are reversible, but this one you’re stuck with for the rest of your life.
To start with, most of us land up with truly awful names. There are the generic ones, the desi equivalents of ‘Peter’ or ‘John’. It’s as if they didn’t give a damn about you for those nine months when you were being fed by second degree, and spent your time lolling about in your own filth. Having conceived you, they forgot about you till you landed up; then they scratched their heads. Eventually, they gave up and threw a random name on the birth certificate. Being called ‘Pooja’ or ‘Fatima’, for instance, must be the human equivalent of a cat named ‘Mr Whiskers’. I mean, really, you couldn’t do better than that?
The only thing worse than a generic name is a unique one. The kind that people will ask you to spell out twice, and then frown and go, “But what does that mean?” They will then feel obliged to comment on the meaning. Or, they will feel obliged to comment on the incongruity of your having that name.
Of course, there are names that don’t fit into either category, such as mine. I’ve met a few Nandinis in my life, but it’s not the first name that pops into one’s mind. Most people who are not from South Asia pronounce it to rhyme with ‘Maldini’, and that’s occasionally useful when I’m craving male attention. But most men who seem keen to hit on me when they think I’m Brazilian or Italian – I have the advantage of a geography-free face – lose interest when they discover I’m Indian. The question that follows “How do you pronounce it?” is “What does it mean?” I tell people it’s the name of a Hindu goddess, which it is. Most nod. Some ask, “But wasn’t it the name of some sort of holy cow?” I don’t know, maybe the cow was named after the goddess. I don’t think I was named after a cow.
[quote]There are those people who seem to have children for the express purpose of declaring their admiration for
a sports star[/quote]
There are those people who seem to have children for the express purpose of declaring their admiration for a sports star. There’s an entire generation called ‘Sachin’ in India. For others, a first name is not enough. I remember glancing at the sheets while filling out my personal details on a list for the national census, and finding a ‘Bill Clinton’, ‘George Bush’ and ‘Mahatma Gandhi’. How the hell are these kids supposed to introduce themselves to people? “Hi, I’m Bill Clinton Kapoor”? “I’m George Bush Selvaraj”? “I’m Mahatma Gandhi Jacob”? The saddest example of these, though, was a girl who went to the college I did. Her parents had intended to name her ‘Anna Karenina’. However, one assumes they hadn’t read the book, because they went with ‘Anna Kanina’. What must it be like to spend your entire life being told you’ve spelt your own name wrong?
I once met a man called Paul, whose father was an atheist and had decided to rebel against religion by giving each of his sons a name that corresponded to a different religion. The first was Raja, the second was Mohammad, and the third was Paul. He sent them all to a Catholic school, and Paul ended up with imposition for not knowing The Lord’s Prayer “despite being Christian”. As an eight-year-old, he had to get his principled father to sign off on ‘From today, I promise to be a good Christian’, written a hundred times.
Some families decide that giving you a name that is your own will not quite cut it. They find it imperative to recycle names. This means you share your name with a family elder, and so at least half the people in your khandaan cannot address you by your first name, because that would be disrespectful to the said elder. This spawns a nickname.
Now, nicknames are not entirely bad. But, somehow, every family I know veers towards particularly embarrassing nicknames. There’s no surer way of undermining one’s stature. I mean, think about it. What kind of dictator would Hitler have made if reporters had gone to his home and discovered he was called ‘Dolly’ or ‘Papoo’ or ‘Adi’?
It’s bad enough that no one can spell my name right, even while responding to emails. I’m ‘Nandani’ to the Punjabis, and ‘Nandhini’ down south. The Bengalis usually manage to spell my name right, but make up by pronouncing it ‘Nondini’. But, what’s even worse is when people decide to shorten a name I already dislike. I’ve been ‘Nandu’, ‘Nandy’, ‘Nanz’, ‘Nan’, ‘Nunny’, ‘Nanny’, ‘Nandz’ and ‘Nans’.
I often wish babies were assigned names like vehicle number plates. It would make our phone contacts list a lot easier to decode too.
To start with, most of us land up with truly awful names. There are the generic ones, the desi equivalents of ‘Peter’ or ‘John’. It’s as if they didn’t give a damn about you for those nine months when you were being fed by second degree, and spent your time lolling about in your own filth. Having conceived you, they forgot about you till you landed up; then they scratched their heads. Eventually, they gave up and threw a random name on the birth certificate. Being called ‘Pooja’ or ‘Fatima’, for instance, must be the human equivalent of a cat named ‘Mr Whiskers’. I mean, really, you couldn’t do better than that?
The only thing worse than a generic name is a unique one. The kind that people will ask you to spell out twice, and then frown and go, “But what does that mean?” They will then feel obliged to comment on the meaning. Or, they will feel obliged to comment on the incongruity of your having that name.
Of course, there are names that don’t fit into either category, such as mine. I’ve met a few Nandinis in my life, but it’s not the first name that pops into one’s mind. Most people who are not from South Asia pronounce it to rhyme with ‘Maldini’, and that’s occasionally useful when I’m craving male attention. But most men who seem keen to hit on me when they think I’m Brazilian or Italian – I have the advantage of a geography-free face – lose interest when they discover I’m Indian. The question that follows “How do you pronounce it?” is “What does it mean?” I tell people it’s the name of a Hindu goddess, which it is. Most nod. Some ask, “But wasn’t it the name of some sort of holy cow?” I don’t know, maybe the cow was named after the goddess. I don’t think I was named after a cow.
[quote]There are those people who seem to have children for the express purpose of declaring their admiration for
a sports star[/quote]
There are those people who seem to have children for the express purpose of declaring their admiration for a sports star. There’s an entire generation called ‘Sachin’ in India. For others, a first name is not enough. I remember glancing at the sheets while filling out my personal details on a list for the national census, and finding a ‘Bill Clinton’, ‘George Bush’ and ‘Mahatma Gandhi’. How the hell are these kids supposed to introduce themselves to people? “Hi, I’m Bill Clinton Kapoor”? “I’m George Bush Selvaraj”? “I’m Mahatma Gandhi Jacob”? The saddest example of these, though, was a girl who went to the college I did. Her parents had intended to name her ‘Anna Karenina’. However, one assumes they hadn’t read the book, because they went with ‘Anna Kanina’. What must it be like to spend your entire life being told you’ve spelt your own name wrong?
I once met a man called Paul, whose father was an atheist and had decided to rebel against religion by giving each of his sons a name that corresponded to a different religion. The first was Raja, the second was Mohammad, and the third was Paul. He sent them all to a Catholic school, and Paul ended up with imposition for not knowing The Lord’s Prayer “despite being Christian”. As an eight-year-old, he had to get his principled father to sign off on ‘From today, I promise to be a good Christian’, written a hundred times.
Some families decide that giving you a name that is your own will not quite cut it. They find it imperative to recycle names. This means you share your name with a family elder, and so at least half the people in your khandaan cannot address you by your first name, because that would be disrespectful to the said elder. This spawns a nickname.
Now, nicknames are not entirely bad. But, somehow, every family I know veers towards particularly embarrassing nicknames. There’s no surer way of undermining one’s stature. I mean, think about it. What kind of dictator would Hitler have made if reporters had gone to his home and discovered he was called ‘Dolly’ or ‘Papoo’ or ‘Adi’?
It’s bad enough that no one can spell my name right, even while responding to emails. I’m ‘Nandani’ to the Punjabis, and ‘Nandhini’ down south. The Bengalis usually manage to spell my name right, but make up by pronouncing it ‘Nondini’. But, what’s even worse is when people decide to shorten a name I already dislike. I’ve been ‘Nandu’, ‘Nandy’, ‘Nanz’, ‘Nan’, ‘Nunny’, ‘Nanny’, ‘Nandz’ and ‘Nans’.
I often wish babies were assigned names like vehicle number plates. It would make our phone contacts list a lot easier to decode too.