'What is in a name' thus spoke Juliet in Shakespeare's immortal tragedy. How false are those words, for there is everything in a name. Confused dear reader ? Worry not, for the tale about to unfold bears testimony to the same.
It all began when I left the confines of school and entered the big bad world of college life. Everything went surprisingly smooth - no ragging (one of my biggest fears of joining college), decent hostels and great roommates. What else could one ask for in college life ? Alas, my friends and teachers were not so happy. Their problem ? My name. I suppose to have a name that is 14 letters long (name + surname not counting the space in between). My name had been a problem since time immemorial with teachers and people in the wide variety of schools i happened to attend (2 in Delhi, 2 in Gujarat, 1 in Kolkata). Barring the last one, my name had undergone several interesting variations. But in college, people had difficulty in uttering even one syllable leave alone the entire name. Every lecturer and student alike struggled through the task of pronouncing my name with the air of an exhausted mountaineer scaling the last few steps of Mt Everest. Almost every day i heard new variations of my name which were interesting (also embarrassing sometimes) and it became a regular game of my classmates to guess which variation of my name would be called forth during attendance.
Those were dark times. People were finding it impossible to communicate with me and i faced the risk of being ostracized from society. Then suddenly one day one of my classmates came bearing a beacon in the darkness. He put forth the argument that since i was from kolkata he could call me 'dada' (big brother in bengali). Never mind the fact that i was no older than them, that there were many other people from kolkata and that also happened to be the nick name of a certain cricket player. I was to be called 'dada' whether i liked it or not. Foolish me, how readily i agreed to it, blissfully unaware of the repercussions to follow.
Then began a new age - the age of 'dada'. My new name spread like wildfire through the entire college. People were now happy as communicating with me was not a problem anymore. The hostel and college corridors resounded with calls of 'hey dada'. The lecturers still had to call me by name but were saved by my enterprising classmates who shouted 'DADA' right on cue just when the lecturer powered by sheer grit had started pronouncing my name. I had one hitch though. Were even the girls going to call me 'dada' ? That would be preposterous. Imagine every single girl in your year calling you 'big brother'. But by God's immense grace the girls still called me by my original name.Everyone was happy, but what about the fateful individual upon whom the name had been conferred ? My new name, though a source of happiness for all other people was slowly and steadily taking over my identity. Almost 99% of my classmates did not know my real name. My original name had been relegated to the depths surfacing only when any exam forms needed to be filled. I tried hard to maintain both identities but the new name was overpowering me. The fact was confirmed when i happily ignored a classmate who was calling me by my original name (ignorant fellow) thinking all the while he was calling someone else. People even called up at my home asking for 'dada'.
3 years passed by since that fateful day when this name was conferred upon me. I had a new identity now. There were only a few days left in college after which i would proceed to do my project. There was a feeling of melancholy but somewhere there was also a small fleeting happiness. I was to leave college and my new identity behind. My original name resurfaced with renewed vigor. Some of my classmates who were doing the project with me tried to persuade me to write that fateful name on the office identity card but my better sense prevailed and i put my foot down this time. Ah! the joy of rediscovering your own lost identity. Apart from the occasional 'dada' from the handful of classmates i had in office, rest all called me by my name. Life was filled with happiness once more. Then one day i went for dinner as usual to the small eatery near our house. I had gone alone that day and the proprietor came up to me and casually asked me about my native place. Just as i mentioned, his face split into a broad grin and he asked 'Ki dada ? Kemon Acho ?' (bengali for what's up dada).
Argh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The horror - it was darkness all around. My nemesis had finally caught up with me.
The second age of 'dada' had begun
It all began when I left the confines of school and entered the big bad world of college life. Everything went surprisingly smooth - no ragging (one of my biggest fears of joining college), decent hostels and great roommates. What else could one ask for in college life ? Alas, my friends and teachers were not so happy. Their problem ? My name. I suppose to have a name that is 14 letters long (name + surname not counting the space in between). My name had been a problem since time immemorial with teachers and people in the wide variety of schools i happened to attend (2 in Delhi, 2 in Gujarat, 1 in Kolkata). Barring the last one, my name had undergone several interesting variations. But in college, people had difficulty in uttering even one syllable leave alone the entire name. Every lecturer and student alike struggled through the task of pronouncing my name with the air of an exhausted mountaineer scaling the last few steps of Mt Everest. Almost every day i heard new variations of my name which were interesting (also embarrassing sometimes) and it became a regular game of my classmates to guess which variation of my name would be called forth during attendance.
Those were dark times. People were finding it impossible to communicate with me and i faced the risk of being ostracized from society. Then suddenly one day one of my classmates came bearing a beacon in the darkness. He put forth the argument that since i was from kolkata he could call me 'dada' (big brother in bengali). Never mind the fact that i was no older than them, that there were many other people from kolkata and that also happened to be the nick name of a certain cricket player. I was to be called 'dada' whether i liked it or not. Foolish me, how readily i agreed to it, blissfully unaware of the repercussions to follow.
Then began a new age - the age of 'dada'. My new name spread like wildfire through the entire college. People were now happy as communicating with me was not a problem anymore. The hostel and college corridors resounded with calls of 'hey dada'. The lecturers still had to call me by name but were saved by my enterprising classmates who shouted 'DADA' right on cue just when the lecturer powered by sheer grit had started pronouncing my name. I had one hitch though. Were even the girls going to call me 'dada' ? That would be preposterous. Imagine every single girl in your year calling you 'big brother'. But by God's immense grace the girls still called me by my original name.Everyone was happy, but what about the fateful individual upon whom the name had been conferred ? My new name, though a source of happiness for all other people was slowly and steadily taking over my identity. Almost 99% of my classmates did not know my real name. My original name had been relegated to the depths surfacing only when any exam forms needed to be filled. I tried hard to maintain both identities but the new name was overpowering me. The fact was confirmed when i happily ignored a classmate who was calling me by my original name (ignorant fellow) thinking all the while he was calling someone else. People even called up at my home asking for 'dada'.
3 years passed by since that fateful day when this name was conferred upon me. I had a new identity now. There were only a few days left in college after which i would proceed to do my project. There was a feeling of melancholy but somewhere there was also a small fleeting happiness. I was to leave college and my new identity behind. My original name resurfaced with renewed vigor. Some of my classmates who were doing the project with me tried to persuade me to write that fateful name on the office identity card but my better sense prevailed and i put my foot down this time. Ah! the joy of rediscovering your own lost identity. Apart from the occasional 'dada' from the handful of classmates i had in office, rest all called me by my name. Life was filled with happiness once more. Then one day i went for dinner as usual to the small eatery near our house. I had gone alone that day and the proprietor came up to me and casually asked me about my native place. Just as i mentioned, his face split into a broad grin and he asked 'Ki dada ? Kemon Acho ?' (bengali for what's up dada).
Argh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The horror - it was darkness all around. My nemesis had finally caught up with me.
The second age of 'dada' had begun
