After months of deliberation (I think the word I was really looking for is procrastination), I have taken the plunge and migrated to WordPress. The bigger leap of faith is the move from the pseudonym iamart to my real name.
Hmm, my real name.
Amrita. Six letters. Within the first six pages of any self-respecting Indian baby name book. In fact, in the 80’s, a name like that would have featured on the first page itself, or the second at worst. What’s changed since then? Numerology – a recent addition to the Indian CultureScape, accessory of the astrologically-inclined, sugar daddy of superfluous syllables.
Numerology changes a lot of things. Printing space, scores in F.L.A.M.E.S. (the high school portent of compatibility) and your weirdo quotient, of course (And fortunes? Ah well, I am sure Ishaaaa Koppikkkar, Annuu Malllik and Randdomm Lowwlife would beg to differ)
Anyhoo, this blog post is not about numerology. It is about my name. I have long resented my parents for choosing such a ridiculously simple and common name (It is heartening to know that it won over Mansi and Namrata, though). Through the first 20-odd years of my life, my name has seldom been mispronounced (except the slight twisting into Amruta) and never been misspelt.
Forgotten? Often. Especially when I was 16.
But it’s understandable, I looked like a feminist then.
Last year, I moved to the US. And added my name to a long list of genocide victims. Yes, I am talking about the massacre of Indian names.
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Amrita’
‘Timara?’
(WTF is Timara!) ‘AMRITA’
‘Emera?’
‘Am-ri-ta’
(After several iterations) ‘Is it Um-ree-Tah?”
‘Yes, yes, you can call me that’
For a long time, I thought that I was to blame. I did most of my socializing at grad parties, over the blaring sound of Timbaland and in between rounds of beer pong. Alcohol, hip hop and Indian names. Bad combination, I told myself.
Cut to noon on a bright sunny day. An American classmate and I were talking about, surprise surprise, homework.
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Amrita’
‘Tamira?’
‘Am-ri-ta’
‘Amatira?’
(After several iterations) ‘You can call me Um-ree-Tah’
And soon, frustration turned to resignation turned to disposition. The number of attempts till Um-ree-Tah was spouted went down. And one fine day, at a cafe in San Francisco, the inevitable happened. A waitress asked me my name. Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, Um-ree-tah, I said. My Indian friend looked appalled. I was aghast. Genocide of Indian names, did I say? Make that suicide.
And no, you may not call me Um-ree-Tah.
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What’s in a name? Well, you should ask us Indians. We do not butcher English (the language) names. In fact, we take them on rather proudly.
Here’s the picture of the post: Hard Rock Cafe, desi style.
