What’s in the name?

It’s been very long since I wrote anything this lengthy. Please bear with me
  

 Just hold your thoughts for a second; I need to clear the air first. Don't go by the title. This post is not in any faintest way related to literature. If you know me well, then you know how far end of the spectrum I’m on when it comes to English literature. All I can read well is some mediocre fiction with excellent plots and that’s all.

Now that I have set your expectations low, let me dive straight into the topic.

Probably the first thing you came to know about me was my name. The moment you heard my name, especially if you are a Tamilian, you would have identified me with a particular region or particular caste or a particular food. Some may even go beyond that and try to extrapolate my possible relation to the infamous finance minister. I agree that our community is small and everyone could be related to everyone, but it is far stretched. The point is every time when I said my name, most of them assumed they knew one or other thing about me. You may ask, What now? Why are you cribbing?

Let me share this side of my story… the pride, joy, discomfort, and uneasiness of having such a unique name. I’m not alone in this journey; most of the children born in our community have such unique names. We have this rich tradition of being named after our ancestors, or Kula Devata. I’m really proud of this as it keeps me strongly tied to my roots and aligns me with life, both inside out.

But see, every good thing comes with a price in this world…so does my name. First of all, it is but natural to mispronounce my name. In my college days, a prof used this trick to intentionally mispronounce names to lighten up the sleepy post lunch sessions. Often, my name ended up crooked in his attendance register during roll calls, and the whole class would burst out in laughter. I didn’t have enough maturity to handle it at that time and I wondered why my grandparents had to name me like this.

When I came to Bangalore, after so many people unknowingly called me Nagamani, I became what I was called at home, simply Nachu. But my miseries were to still follow…People who were fond of Mexican food took the liberty to call me Nachos. Even some North Indian people thought it was funny to ask me if I could dance.

Often times, I have wondered what it is to have a name like Nivedita and stay mysterious in a quiet corner, people left without having anything to judge. All said, it doesn’t hurt or make a big deal anymore, but still, I cannot shrug it off lightly like Khalid Umar, the famous blogger in his recent post, comments that name is just an ID given by parents. For me, Name evokes complex emotions that we can rarely fathom. Surely, Name matters, and all the little things in between matter too.