In school, I was surrounded by friends who were very ambitious. Someone wanted to become a doctor, someone a scientist and someone else a tennis player. I harboured very average ambitions that way and all I wanted to do was change my name. As silly as it may sound, that was my only significant dream as an eight-year-old.
You see, my first name and surname together were 23 letters long – I say ‘were’ because it only became longer after my marriage. But length was never the issue. My name was that name in the attendance register that teachers would halt to read to themselves first, making sure they were pronouncing it right and then call it out aloud and mispronounce it anyway. My name was subject to change depending on the native accent of the person saying it. The ones from the south mostly called me Priya-Vada. Some even said Prema-Veda. Then there was the Hindi teacher who called me Priyam-Bada. Most would get stuck at ‘Priyam’ and not be able to pronounce after that.
Oh, how I hated my name! And how I hated my parents for naming me so. One look at the class and there were plenty of girls with popular, easy-to-pronounce names – Divya, Soumya, Aparna, Anita, Nandini and so many more. Why did my name have to be so long and unusual?
When someone asked me my name, I would be sure that I will have to repeat myself. I don’t recall meeting anyone in school who would not ask me my name at least twice. When my father got posted in Delhi for a few years, I was taunted and referred to as the Madrasan whose name was Idly-Vada.
Every year, every new school and every new friend was a traumatic experience. So one night over dinner, I told my parents about my abysmal situation and pleaded for them to change my name. Strangely, they both seemed unperturbed. “What do you want your name to be?” my father asked. Elated, I also suggested that my last name be changed to Sen or Malhotra. “But you have such a beautiful name,” my mother said. At this point, the child in me burst out crying. “It’s not a pretty name. It’s a funny name. No one names their child after a breakfast snack. You like my brother more. And you hate me!” I sobbed, before dashing into my room in a fit of tears.
After a while, my father walked into my room. He didn’t try to console me. He just sat next to me and told me the meaning and origin of my name. “Priyamvada was Shakuntala’s best friend in Kalidasa’s classic Abhigyana Shakuntalam. Your name in Sanskrit means someone who speaks sweet and loving things. And I think it suits you just fine. You are a lovely girl and you always speak lovely things. You should tell this to your friends who make fun of you,” he said.
“You are making this up,” I retorted, trying to control my sobs. “Why should I? Ask your Sanskrit teacher if you don’t believe me,” my father said. I was hesitant to believe him, but I somehow felt good and positive. At least, I now had something to say to people when they called me Idly-Vada.
Over the years, I eventually came to love my name. It is unique. I’m actually happy that my parents chose this name over anything else that they may have had in mind.
Twenty years later, my husband and I are waiting to welcome a baby into our family. He spends hours browsing for the ‘perfect name’. “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet,” I want tell him. After all, Shakespeare was right all along: What’s in a name, eh?
(Priyamvada.Avinash@ril.com)