What’s in a name?

One of the most exciting tasks that a married couple anticipates is the arrival of the proverbial stork with their first born, or for that matter, second or even third born. Rarely in our straitened times do couples go for more than two kids, three being a bit of a stretch, probably accidental. Unless, of course, you are Elon Musk, in which case after the announcement of the birth of the eleventh baby, he has just got down to spitting on his hands and getting into his stride. More of Musk anon. It is superfluous to add that in our enlightened age, marriage is not a necessary pre-condition to add to the world’s head count. In fact, as a wedded couple you are not even called upon to be of a different sexual orientation. Same sex couples can have children, just like anybody else. That should cover the whole gamut, unless some new development has taken place in the sphere of human behaviour and physiology that has escaped my attention.

My preoccupation this week is more to do with how couples and their near and dear ones get into a right, royal tizzy over what to name the impending arrival along with the patter of little feet. Those who do not wish to know in advance the sex of their bundle of joy that is still blissfully swimming in its mother’s amniotic fluids, run around with reference books while frantically Google searching, scouring names of boys and girls. In any case, Indian law does not allow parents to know the baby’s gender in advance. Depending on which religious denomination you belong to, Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Sikh, Parsee, Jain, Buddhist or any other, there are loads of names for you to sift through during those nine months of cozy captivity for our little wonder.

Fierce debates rage in the homestead as all kinds of names are scattered about like so much confetti. If it happens to be a boy, Amar, Akbar or Anthony or their variants should do just fine. Sticking with the Bollywood motif, if it’s a girl, one could turn to that notorious vamp Bindu’s cabaret dance line from the 1971 hit film Kati Patang, ‘Neena ya Meena, Anju ya Manju, yaaa Madhu!’ Not that it makes a blind bit of difference, but the vamp’s name in the film is Shabnam, though she is affectionately called ‘Shabbo.’  That is a translation from the opening line of the song. The context is different but still, I think you can see where I am going with this.

To further complicate matters, many couples are keen on nailing both the official registered name for the baby as well as a nick name or pet name. ‘Right, we have all settled on Krishnamoorthy Venkatasubramanian as the final name, if it is a boy, as it incorporates in some shape or form the names contained in the father’s and mother’s family genealogy. However, he shall be known as Kittu to the world. If he migrates to the United States and becomes a billionaire software czar and covets the White House, he shall change his name to Kittu Venky. The same rules apply if the arrival is a girl. Full name, Anahita Ambegaonkar, converted in America to Annie Amby.’ This principle will hold irrespective of which religion the child belongs to. As an aside, I find it rich when Americans moan about difficulties in pronouncing Indian names with more than three syllables, and find the need to shorten them, Yank style. What about former U.S. National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski then? Wrap that round your tongue.

The process of naming a child, in this modern age when the world is our oyster, or as the poet Wordsworth had it, ‘the world is too much with us,’ has become somewhat universalised. Westerners, who notoriously make a fuss about pronouncing names from the southern hemisphere, have become just that much more familiar. They still behave as if the cat has caught their tongues, but they muddle through. Kamala Harris poses no problem, that’s easy-peasy, Vivek  Ramaswamy is rapidly gaining currency with frequent appearances on American television debates. Britain’s Prime Minister Rishi Sunak is a walk in the park, though his first lady Akshata Murty could prove a handful, if not a mouthful. To the native Brit that is, not to the Asian migrants.

For reasons I am unable to articulate, Indians in India celebrating the impending new arrival with a ‘baby shower,’ a western concept, seems little more than something the marketing mavens of the gifting industry have showered upon us, to expand their business by showering the baby with gifts. Not unlike the ad blitz inflicted on an unsuspecting world on Valentine’s Day. There are those that aver that the idea of a baby shower was originally inspired by ancient Greek and Egyptian rituals. In traditional India, there are certain ceremonies held when the woman is still ‘carrying,’ but we tend to go a bit soft on the gifts!

Now that we have turned to the subject of names in the western hemisphere, I cannot but talk at greater length about Elon Musk and his rapidly expanding familial empire. While I have touched briefly upon the Indian diaspora and the unique challenges that their names could pose to a western audience, the Twitter now X mogul, Elon Musk, has blazed a new and enthralling trail when it comes to naming his eleven offspring. Across three partners (Justine, Grimes and Shivon Gillis), the prolific Musk has fathered eleven children, and I would not bet against more in the pipeline – more partners and more children.

While one gasps at the great magnate’s fecundity, it is more the names his children were burdened with that is noteworthy. Try these on for size. Nevada Alexander Musk, twins Griffin and Vivian Musk which was more conservative, Kai, Saxon and Damian Musk, X AE A-XII Musk (I kid you not), Exa Dark Siderael Musk, nicknamed Y as X AE A-XII had already appropriated the nickname X (makes sense), Strider and Azure Musk and the latest arrival, Techno Mechanicus, nicknamed (what choice did they have?) Tau. Somewhere along the way, they sadly lost Nevada, then resorted to IVF, Vivian declared she was a transgender, the IVF a second time produced triplets, the abovementioned Kai, Saxon and Damian.

At which point Elon and his first wife Justine decided she had had enough and separated, something the Americans do with elan. So with Elon. Presumably Grimes and Shivon Gillis are still in the frame, but honestly, my guess is as good as yours. If you have been able to make cogent sense out of all that, you are a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Overall, not that I am much of a Bollywood follower, I can’t help but paraphrase one of their big hit numbers in doffing my hat to the productive Elon, ‘Tu cheez badi hai Musk, Musk.’ Loosely translated, in case you are reading this Elon, it means ‘You are great, awesome, awesome!’

One thing that really gets my goat with Americans is when the father and the son are given the same name, as in George Bush Sr. and George Bush Jr. It gets no easier when both of them become President of the U.S.A. Obviously not at the same time, but still. In casual conversation at a party for instance, someone says something like, ‘That was quite a victory for George Bush.’ Your natural response to that comment would be, ‘Which George Bush are you referring to? The one that freed Kuwait of Saddam Hussein’s occupation or the one that smoked out Saddam from a hidey-hole somewhere in Iraq, leading to his execution?’ See what I mean? Merely affixing a Sr. or a Jr. just doesn’t cut it. That is taking the lazy way out. I know there is an H.W. and a W that splits the difference between father and son, but that doesn’t help. And why John Kennedy was called Jack at home is even more of a mystery, what with his wife being called Jackie. Ours not to reason why, I suppose.

If it was just the newborn’s name that parents and elders tear their hair out coming to grips with, that is nothing compared with the argy-bargy that goes on in relation to how to spell the name. This is particularly relevant in the Indian context where superstition and old wives’ tales count for a lot. The baby arrives on schedule, spittle generously foaming around the mouth, gurgling away while everybody goes coochy-coo. The father rushes in, brandishing a sheet of paper and announces with much fanfare, ‘I have it. From this day forth he shall be called Nikhil. I have checked it out with the priest. It’s all kosher and official. We can always call him Nikki or Niks at home.’ The mother then peers at the sheet of paper, smeared with sacred ash and kum kum, bearing the bold legend NIKHIL, scrunches up her face and says calmly, ‘The H will have to go. We cannot go beyond five letters, and my family guru says H, being the eighth letter of the English alphabet, portends ill luck. So let us settle on NIKIL.’ Given that the change suggested was not drastic, everyone agrees with a sigh of relief. This is a common occurrence in millions of households around the country. If the baby is a girl, the name could be Riya, Ria or even Rhea. It is all written in the stars.

When all is said and done, the newborn is the victim here, having no say in the matter whatsoever, lumbered with a name he or she will have to live with forever. Techno Mechanicus for crying out loud, you want to change your name? You can, but have a care. Your super rich dad could cut you out of his will and where will you be? What is the point of changing your name to John Doe if you are going to be left skint? Remember what Shakespeare said? ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Though on this occasion, I would prefer to sign off with James Joyce, ‘What’s in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.’

Way to go James, or should that be Jim?