A name and the damage done

If I were born in the seamier side of Fort Cochin with a name like Selwyn Da Costa, I would have pursued a career as a rock guitarist. (read elegy to False Alarm, in this blog) But with a name like Surendran Pandarathil, I was destined to the dustbin of irrelevance in later life. So blame it on your parents. My father was an NRI for many years and wasn’t clued in on fashionable names of the time in India. Back in the sixties distorted names like Riteeeysh were not much the rage since numerologists and other woozy con artists were yet to arrive at the scene. So my name was recorded as Surandran; an apparent spelling mistake committed by the Chinese / Malay clerk in records- no surname, or father’s name as appendage. No one bothered to correct it also.
When we came to India in the early seventies, my maternal grand uncle took me to the school near my village and corrected what he saw was an abomination of a spelling mistake in my name and rather cruelly added my family name for good measure in the school records. He belonged to a generation that wore family names like a badge of honour. He couldn't have imagined difficulties filling up various visa forms and other application forms. My family name sounded very close to an object of disgust in Malayalam. I would be teased endlessly about it. In school and college I was given nicknames by friends and adversaries that sounded variously like ‘beanpole’ and ‘chickenlegs’- not a very flattering reference to my thin emaciated looks that resulted in a permanently tarred and rather unsuccessful track record with the opposite sex.
The other issue was that my name without expansion of initials gave rather hazy clues on my ancestry. Although it was embarrassing initially, I rather started to enjoy being classified by many of the kerala subcastes as one of their own. I swear I could have run for elections disguised as belonging to any of the leading castes of the constituency and achieved a modicum of success in competitive caste politics. This had some interesting outcomes as one grew beyond marriageable age and one would hear leading questions as to one’s ancestry so as to hook you up with a similarly placed spinster. I loved to keep them guessing without giving any clue. One could masquerade as a goldsmith, toddy tapper, tiller, carpenter, harijan or whatever the occasion demanded. Growing up in Kerala in the 70s’ and 80s’ we were more influenced by Karl Marx than Groucho Marx and it was clearly amusing to watch others trying to slot you into the complex social hierarchy of our land.
I finally met up with Robin Jeffrey, the Canadian academic who wrote a book on the decline of Nayar dominance in Travancore, in Canberra, a fortnight ago. He brazenly asked me my ancestry. I candidly admitted that I am a Palghat Nair. I made an allowance for the white man who asked me the question; for if it was any one from Kerala, I would have kept them guessing. Robin said good for you that Shashi is contesting elections-Shashi being Shashi Tharoor, another Palghat Nair. I said I didn’t see how it is good for me for I have never even met him. Two Palghat Nairs only have to try a little hard to become close relatives. Try a little harder and you can make matches between unmarried souls or start a chit fund with family names attached to it. The family names invariably have an unromantic, rather longish, strange sounding ring to it- Tharoor being a nicer sounding one. The rules are simple. One carries only the mother’s family name. And when you marry, your wife doesn’t carry your family name. (Brinda Karat is breaking a major rule here). Your children don’t carry your name or your family name but their mother’s family name. My senior Punjabi civil servant friend once quizzed me on my full name and my son’s full name and asked me rather bluntly, ’Beta tera hi hai ?’ (Is your son really yours ?) And one is never addressed by the family name which is also a surname. I try to explain this to Australians who call me Mr Pandarathil, but they don’t seem to get it. I get calls and letters from credit card companies, cab services, tax office, library, immigration department and others addressing me as Pandarathil and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Here I am stuck with a name I can’t disown.
So it was that I read Sidin Vadukut’s blog on single south Indian males. It is really a hilarious piece. And I knew exactly how it feels.
http://www.whatay.com/2004/05/17/the-travails-of-single-south-indian-men-of-conser/#disqus_thread
I sent this link to all the female friends I have had the privilege of knowing in my rather unspectacular life. One college friend promptly wrote back. She said don’t blame your name for your failures with women. Look within and you shall know that the reasons run deeper than that. It did wonders to my self esteem….
I don’t believe in after life. If there be one I‘d rather be born Anglo Indian in Fort Cochin with a name that sounds somewhat like a Portugese marauder. Then maybe I‘ll pursue the true calling of my life, ie music. Maybe …..(a remote outside chance here) achieve success with women too…..