1

All in the Name

The entire family had gathered in the room. The name of the newborn had to be decided and time was running out. If the child’s name was not registered by the next day, the municipality wouldn’t allow its ratification.

On the bed, facing the window, sat the mother with the child, delicately cradled in her arms, wrapped in a soft white Turkish cloth. Each time the child was mentioned in the conversation, she hugged him. For several minutes, no one spoke. And then a sigh, a small cough or a mere rustle of the curtains thickened the silence. Then someone spoke in between, and another threw a rebuttal. Silence descended again. The process went on in circles. And the mother hugged and kissed the child as her soft, emotion-filled eyes caressed him.

What was at stake was the name of the ‘lamp of the kula (family)’, born after a series of daughters in the clan. It could not go wrong, for if it did, it would be akin to the slaughtering of the pedigree itself. The stalemate on the choice of the ideal ‘name’ refused a breakthrough.

“Let his name be Vishnu,” suggested the proud grandfather.

“Maybe Ganesh would serve better,” said the granddaughter of the old man, giggling. “Given the tradition of the family, he would certainly develop a paunch as he grows up. Just like Ganesh!”

The mother hugged the child again and spoke something inaudible in his ear. The child in deep sleep did not seem to care.

“What’s wrong with that name? Lord Vishnu is the preserver of the world. Each time we call him, our lips will hold the Lord’s name. Will it not be a blessing for all of us?” the upset old man argued.

“What if he commits a misdeed and you need to scold him?” threw the elder granddaughter back, laughing mischievously. “Would you not be scolding the Lord then? What if the Lord curses you?”

The brightness in the old man’s face deserted him that instant as he leaned on the backrest of the chair and exhaled. It was difficult to read from his expressions whether he had it in him to contribute further to the discussion.

“Let the name be something modern, about something around us that is meaningful,” the aunt said, and then abruptly turning towards the father of the child, added, “What do you say?”

The father, who had maintained a studied silence all along, blinked rapidly. Driven by that sudden shove to perform, he inhaled deeply and made a quick scan of the faces around him. He watched those expressions helplessly—his sullen father seemed to be thinking something, the expectant faces of his young nieces, the cold stare of his mother, and his excited aunt. A cursory glance at his wife promised another set of issues. He knew he had not spoken to his wife on this subject, and this gaffe demanded immediate rectification. He had observed that his wife did not utter a word during the entire discussion, apart from those inaudible monologues in the child’s ears; visibly inert to the developments around her.

But no one knew better than him that it was not true. That she was actively listening and worse, was tucking away each word in her mind, was clear to him, just as clear as his sense that it was a symptom bound to explode at any moment if not contained in time. He had to get his act together and do it fast. In a moment’s consideration, he instinctively arrived at a strategy which appeared as freedom to him—evade the situation and come back to address it when a conducive setting arose.

“Give me some time,” he said. “By today, we will decide one. Let me talk to the child’s mother as well.”

The mother’s head sharply swivelled at him, seemingly half-shocked, half-angry, but it swiftly acquired the quality of a fang—a deadly possibility and a sinister intent at once.

The father took in that glare, deciphering the meaning it conveyed and the command her jaws communicated. He wished that all moved away from the room. Luckily for him, even before he could request privacy, all the participants moved out of the room one by one.

“That is a good idea. Let them discuss and keep a name.”

The old man concluded softly. “He is their child. They would know better.” Something in his tone stole the wisdom and draped it with a hue of wounded sentiment. He got up and moved out of the room. Soon, each one in the room followed him. The father of the child breathed again as silence fell.

Now, in the privacy of the room, the wife gained momentum. She carefully laid the child on the bed and looked straight into the eyes of her husband.

“Why bring my name into public?” It was a rebuke in the garb of a question.

“What public? They are your own people! Aren’t they?” The husband reasoned.

“Unfortunately, yes, they are my in-laws. For me, they are irrelevant. I don’t allow them to interfere in my affairs.

That is why you should have kept quiet.” The husband could hear her breath. “You kill it the moment you open your mouth. What a pity!”

The husband could not structure an immediate response to douse the scorn. It upset him that he failed to stun her with a fitting reply. Straightening his arm, he lounged forward to pluck a cigarette from the packet.

“Now apply your common sense. What sort of a father are you? Smoking in front of your child?” The wife scorched.

“Get out of the room.”

He was even more deflated now. That he made this cardinal blunder of choosing to smoke a cigarette in the presence of an infant sucked all air out of his sails. Now he had forfeited his right to even speak, let alone craft a stinging response to his unjust wife. Leaving the pack of cigarettes untouched, he straightened his back. His face, which usually glowed from his regular practice of Kapal Bhati pranayama, was now in eclipse. He watched his wife folding sarees and keeping them in the cupboard, maintaining a studied silence, although it was clear to him that she was merely pretending to be occupied to disregard his presence. When he heard her loud silence ambush his heart, he made a cautious exit to the adjacent balcony.

From the balcony, he tried to fathom what inflamed his wife whenever his family was mentioned, but he found no answer. The open air, the moving vehicles on the street,

the busy pedestrians, and the street vendors offered him no solace in distraction. Just then, the mobile in the room buzzed, and he heard his wife answer it with a giggle.

“Yes, Maa,” she said in a mellowed, happy voice. “All is well here. . . Names like Vishnu, Ganesh. . . I don’t know what to say, medieval to say the least. My poor fate is to blame, or else how could we get tied to these half-educated ancient people. . . yes: you are most welcome, please suggest a name for him. . . don’t worry about who would say what. . .‘Vivaan’! Wonderful name. . . Baba must have thought of this name. He is so good at it. . . Yes, we will keep that name. . .Thank you so much, Maa. I love you. . . Tomorrow at 10 o’clock the registration will be done. . . I will talk to you then. Ok. Bye.”

When the conversation ended, the father walked gently back from the balcony, crossed the room, and stepped out into the street. It was not a conscious decision, but his instinct drew him into the cacophony of the busy street. Strangely, he felt crowded as he meandered aimlessly through the alleys. He ambled through the street towards the market, head downcast, hands tucked in the pockets, watching the pavement on which his feet tapped, kicking a pebble or two on which his eyes fell. It was a long walk to nowhere.

And then, after a long while, he lifted his head and his eyes caught the yellow signboard mounted above the entrance: Tarakacharya—Astrologer. He stood beneath the board, waited for something in him to develop, and then stepped in.

“Good horoscope,” Tarakacharya pronounced with a beaming smile. “Only that the debilitated Saturn is in the sixth house watching the twelfth wherein Jupiter resides.

This may be a case where the income would be equal to expenditure. . .”

But the father waved it all off.