Shakespeare once asked this question through the young heroine of his tragedy, ‘Romeo and Juliet’.
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
Indeed, a person’s worth cannot be measured by a name alone. In his tale of star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare was highlighting the ridiculousness of a generations-old feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. Juliet loved Romeo for who he was, and if not for his name, they could have lived happily ever after.
While I completely endorse Shakespeare’s line of thought, I must add my own two pennies’ worth here. You see, a name might not be everything, but it certainly is something.
Take the example of the actress Thandiwe Newton. After thirty years of being credited as Thandie Newton in her films, thanks to an erroneous acting credit that dropped the ‘w’ from her name, anglicising it in the process, she has reclaimed her name. Yes, she wants to be known as Thandiwe henceforth, and more power to her!
You see, names are deeply personal things. They have the weight of history and identity, of familial love and cultural coherence behind them. And as such, it is nearly impossible to divorce the self from the name. Unless you really, really hate it. Then you can have it changed by deed poll.
Take my name: Poornima.
When my mother chose this name for me, there was a lot of love, but there was also a significance there. She was from the South of India, from Kerala, to be precise. Hence, my name has the South Indian spelling of the two ‘o’s. In the North of India, my name would have been spelt as Purnima. The meaning is also one that connects me to her in a beautifully intimate way. Her name was Chandra, which meant the moon. Mine means ‘a full-moon night’. I love my name. It’s a tough one to pronounce, and an even tougher one to abbreviate, but it’s my name!
For nearly half my life, I’ve heard my name mangled beyond belief. From Purneema, to Poormeena, from Pooh to Poo, I’ve heard it all. I refuse to let it upset me. In fact, I find it laughable, because in the West, no one really bothers to ask – “Am I pronouncing this correctly?” Laziness and a comfortable sense of superiority allow them to anglicise anything unfamiliar. But woe betide anyone who can’t pronounce a ‘Sarah’ or a ‘Genevieve’!
Indian names aren’t the easiest to pronounce, I’ll accept that happily. But did you know just how much a name can reveal about a person? For instance, a name can tell you which part of India the person belongs to, drilling it down to state, religion and sometimes, even caste. Not always a good thing, but there you have it.
I can’t claim to understand every type of name that exists, or the connotations that go along with it, but I always try. Just making the effort is enough for the other person to cut you some slack if you get it wrong.
Which is why I insisted upon the constant mispronunciation of my protagonist’s name in my latest book, ‘A Quiet Dissonance’. Anu is short for Anupama, but everyone except her Indian family and friends call her ‘Anoo’. There is no emphasis on the ‘u’, but the ‘oo’ elongation of her name is just a symptom of the many tiny little misunderstandings that make up her story.
My editor and beta readers asked me why I insisted on keeping this little, seemingly irrelevant, detail in the book. But how could I not? To me it was symptomatic of a larger issue. One in which a compromise of identity takes place at every juncture in the character’s life. She accepts that to belong; she needs to let them pronounce her name in whichever way they deem easy.
You could accuse me of the same.
