Names

Bhagwan fitted suit

Back in school, we had a funny story about the guy who went overseas and returned, introducing himself as R.A. Jappan. Turns out, in the days before his sojourn, the fellow was merely good old Rajappan. I thought about this story as I was shopping for a suit at the Kuppenheimers in Conyers, GA, when I was a graduate student. Being a PIGS (Poor Indian Graduate Student – a moniker no doubt coined by a vengeful ABCD), I was compelled into this indulgence due to requirements of a formal research presentation. I was quite relieved, therefore, to be accosted by a Desi-looking salesman. I wanted all the help I could get to find that cheapest suit at the highest discount. He introduced himself as Bob Chagh, sporting a name tag to prove it. As I hesitated thinking … and I am Don Klinghoffer …, he apologetically muttered something in Hindi, the gist of which was that the sales job required a slight amendment to his name and he is actually Bhagwan Chaghwani.
Quite a leap from Bhagwan to Bob. But, unlike in the days when I heard the R.A. Jappan story, I was in no mood to poke fun at Bob. It was not just that poor Bhagwan was fighting for customers in the heart of the Deep South, an area not exactly hospitable to names with Rajasthani root. After all, within a matter of a month after my arrival in the country, my own name had morphed from N. V. Jayachandran to Jay Variyam. That sobering episode had left me with plenty of empathy for name changers.

P V Narayanan became Pavanayi

Our general tendency is to sneer when we hear a Shankunny becomes Shank. We think of Pavanayi in Naadodikkattu (a Malayalam movie) who explained to Thilakan’s character that his real name, P.V. Narayanan, didn’t carry enough “weight.” But, in all likelihood, there is more than vanity involved in how a name gets altered. I admire Pavanayi for his honesty, but I wouldn’t fault him if he changed his name after one of his “assignments” brought him to America. Have you tried getting an American to say Narayanan properly? I have. The resulting mangled mess would be so depressing and damaging to the self-esteem of those so named that I would fully understand P. V. Narayanan’s impulse to pass off as Pavanayi.
I was perfectly happy as N. V. Jayachandran. However, while filling out the passport application for my F-1 Visa, the clerk instructed me to spell out my family name. Now, I am no onomatologist, but I had learned enough about naming conventions to know that Jayachandran can’t be my family name. So I reluctantly spelled out Njerukkavil Variyam. To avoid the prospect of scaring the hell out of the unsuspecting Georgia Social Security office clerk, I didn’t expand the ‘N’ when I filled out the form to get my social security number. Thus, on official records, I became Jayachandran N Variyam. From there, it was only a small step to Jay Variyam as my Chinese classmates—who were perplexed by my first name; talk about irony!—took to calling me Jay. I tolerated, noting that all of them, without the slightest remorse, had slid comfortably into their new avatars as Ken, Charlie, Angela, Francis, and Peggy! My new name stuck. And if you press me today, I will admit that it has a nice ring to it.

Evolution of a name

But if you think that my name-related woes ended there, you would be sorely mistaken. Shortly after Jayachandran became Jay, I introduced myself to a fellow graduate student saying, “I am Jay”. Now, I am not sure how those two simple words could be confusing. But, as I have discovered over the years, my Malayalee accent is a major impediment to speaking clear English. And simple remedies such as twisting the tongue and replacing all the ‘R’s with ‘Zh’s just won’t cut it. In any case, after that brief introduction, my acquaintance started calling me MJ—and I am certain it was not in tribute to my musical talent. Years later when we met again, I reintroduced myself, this time more assertively as “I am Variyam, Jay Variyam.” Although it wasn’t in the same league as “Bond, James Bond,” it did the trick. The look of disappointment on his face in having misled him all these years was unmistakable.
While changing one’s birth name remains anathema to many Malayalees, things have begun to ease. Businessmen dreaming of riches running call centers quickly realized that having Balasubramanian answer the phone call from Chattahoochee, TN is a guaranteed road to quick bankruptcy. Under such pressure, there is less resistance to a brahminical Moorthy becoming a more business-like Murphy, a quite remote prospect in any other circumstance. Granted party theoreticians will see a sinister CIA plot behind such moves, but a practical course starts looking more attractive when you have to actually work and earn a living.
The antagonism towards changing names stems more from certain cultural norms rather than blind hostility to Westernized names. Because of its unique history, Kerala leads India in the diversity of names. We are equally comfortable with Peter and Padmanabhan as we are with

Girly Anto became Gopika

Damodaran and Dominique or Kumaran and Cletus (who ably served as our wellpump repairman for many years). Plamena and Padmavati are good neighbors without ever falling under the spell of name-related animosity. Sadly, a reverse undercurrent is eroding some of this diversity as traditional names are giving way to Indianized names. Movie stars have added a touch of glamour to this trend. Nary an eyebrow was lifted when Girly became Gopika. The Abrahams, Michaels, Zacharias, of the erstwhile generation are today typically the Anands, Manojs, and Santhoshs. Authentic Malayalee names such as Gopalan, Sudhakaran, and Pankajakshan have succumbed to rampant North Indianisation and are now commonly foreshortened as Gopal, Sudhakar, and Pankaj.
The onslaught of modernization and the proliferation of nuclear families and mixed marriages are wrecking havoc with whatever is left of the naming conventions that existed in Kerala. Lately, a new trend has emerged in which women are taking their husbands' first names as their last names. Tessy Mamplackal shed the aristocratic family name and became Tessy Baby after

Cantabrian Mountains

her recent marriage to Baby Verghese. It is hard to fathom what factors led her to favor Baby over Verghese, a name steeped in history tracing back its origin to Cantabria, Spain.
But with respect to confusion and disharmony in naming conventions, none can beat the Variyar clan. Much of the disagreement can be traced to the uncertainty brought on by transliteration from Malayalam to English—specifically, the choice between V and W, a perpetual source of linguistic misery for Malayalees. Some Warriers spell their last name with a W, others with a V, and some, reeling from the dilemma, go with both in the same name: As in K. V. Chakrapani Warrier. If Mr. Warrier is a descendent of Kizhakkepurathu Variyam, should he be a Variyar or a Warrier? Or perhaps Varier? I am not making this up. It is all on the record anywhere names are printed. You could look it up. I am glad to have played my little part in carrying the tradition forward.

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