Author's Note: Those who have read The Namesake can skip this post. Or, while they're here, they can choose to read it.
Clearly, William Shakespeare never met a Bengali in his life. On second thought, it would have been pretty alarming to see a portly Bengali gentleman walking down the street in sixteenth century Stratford-upon-Avon, wearing a starched dhuti and bullet-proof glasses in thick black frames, unruly hair turned into a neat side-parting with copious amounts of hair-oil and mother's love, huge umbrella tucked under an arm, complaining about the English weather. Anyway, had Shakespeare managed to see the multitude of intricacies involved in selecting Bengali names then he most certainly would not have asked his famous question.
Most cultures on the planet have the parents look at the baby when it's born, count it's fingers and toes, thank their deity (or not, atheists not to be offended) and then select a name, which takes all of an hour. The pool of names has all of five names: the most popular saints/kings for boys and the most popular flowers for girls. In the rare case that the name chosen contains more than a syllable, a nickname is chosen which consists of shortening the name into a single syllable. There. Now on to more important things like choosing the right diapers and saving for your child's college education. No self-respecting Bengali would ever subscribe to a system as easy as this. After all, we are a people that democratically elected a Communist government into power. And re-elected them. With thumping majorities. Six more times. Clearly, we like making life tough for ourselves.
Every Bengali in this world has at least two names. The "bhalo naam" (literal translation: good name), the name written on one's certificates, diplomas and the most important family document of them all, the wedding invitation. This is also the name one carries for approximately five minutes into a new social setting after which people revert to the other name: the "daak naam" (literal translation: calling name). This roughly corresponds to the western notion of a nickname, although the scope and the social importance of the former is much higher.
Unlike the practice detailed above, the process of finding a bhalo naam begins well before a child is born, in fact it begins almost as soon as conception is confirmed. A round-table conference is convened in which all the well-read members and the family heads of the extended families of both the parents are invited. Most of them attend (unless they have a tiff with the matriarch of this section of the family). Once pleasantries and gossip are exchanged, the members comb through their brains and the works of Sarat Chandra, Bankim Chandra and the immortal Gurudeb to come up with suitable candidates. The candidates are evaluated in a complex system of grading, which takes into account the obscurity, complexity in word structure, ambiguity in meaning, difficulty in pronunciation, number of syllables and so on. Finally, after hours of deliberation and multiple cups of tea, a 'winner' is chosen. This process is repeated for the opposite sex. The two names are communicated by the matriarch to the unsuspecting child's parents. Bengali people generally do not have middle names, apart from the occasional (and now dated) 'Chandra'. This ritual, although tried and tested through the ages, often buckles under the whims and egos of the various stakeholders involved. For instance, I was first assigned a name chosen by my rather well-read maternal grandfather, but was ultimately given a name which came to my paternal grandmother in a dream after I was born. As evident from the process, our names are incredibly diverse, and very easy to butcher by anyone not extremely well-versed in the nuances of Bengali pronunciation, and our fondness for the 'o' and 'sh' sounds.
Contrary to the rigor and formality of the bhalo naam, the daak naam is neither unique nor is there a well-defined process of selecting it. While a carefully chosen bhalo naam can be used as a weapon to fluster people in formal settings by getting them to pronounce it fully and correctly, a daak naam is usually chosen to cause maximum embarrassment to its owner. Apart from rare cases, it bears no relation whatsoever to the bhalo naam or even the physical characteristics of the owner. Another difference is that, for the incredible diversity that we have in our formal names, there are probably twenty or so nicknames that every Bengali child has. For instance, most boys are usually called by some variation of baba, shona, khoka or other terms of endearment. Also, multiple people have multiple forms of address for the same person. Family dynamics make this situation especially delicate. For instance, my brother has three different daak naams (one used by my parents and immediate family, one by my father's extended family and one by my mother's). I have a nightmare composing my yearly Shubho Nobo Borsho (Bengali New Year greetings) and Shubho Bijoya (Durga Puja greetings) emails when I press enter after writing 'From'. On various occasions I have used merely my bhalo naam, on other occasions I have written all my various names separated by slashes.
Apart from these, one also acquires various names all throughout the places they go through. Due to the rather curious circumstances of my naming, I was blessed with one of the most common Indian name in existence. As a result, I was called by various corruptions of my surname throughout school and college. My personal favourite of all my acquired nicknames was 'Bong', which my college roommate used to call me in our final year and a half at college, and that was an in-joke that could easily be explained off as the famous corruption of Bengali.
When the zombie apocalypse happens, I would be waiting near Shakespeare's grave with a copy of this post and get him to redact his famous and oft-quoted question. To bolster my claim, I would have Mithun Chakraborty, the greatest Bengali of all time, accompany me.
Clearly, William Shakespeare never met a Bengali in his life. On second thought, it would have been pretty alarming to see a portly Bengali gentleman walking down the street in sixteenth century Stratford-upon-Avon, wearing a starched dhuti and bullet-proof glasses in thick black frames, unruly hair turned into a neat side-parting with copious amounts of hair-oil and mother's love, huge umbrella tucked under an arm, complaining about the English weather. Anyway, had Shakespeare managed to see the multitude of intricacies involved in selecting Bengali names then he most certainly would not have asked his famous question.
Most cultures on the planet have the parents look at the baby when it's born, count it's fingers and toes, thank their deity (or not, atheists not to be offended) and then select a name, which takes all of an hour. The pool of names has all of five names: the most popular saints/kings for boys and the most popular flowers for girls. In the rare case that the name chosen contains more than a syllable, a nickname is chosen which consists of shortening the name into a single syllable. There. Now on to more important things like choosing the right diapers and saving for your child's college education. No self-respecting Bengali would ever subscribe to a system as easy as this. After all, we are a people that democratically elected a Communist government into power. And re-elected them. With thumping majorities. Six more times. Clearly, we like making life tough for ourselves.
Every Bengali in this world has at least two names. The "bhalo naam" (literal translation: good name), the name written on one's certificates, diplomas and the most important family document of them all, the wedding invitation. This is also the name one carries for approximately five minutes into a new social setting after which people revert to the other name: the "daak naam" (literal translation: calling name). This roughly corresponds to the western notion of a nickname, although the scope and the social importance of the former is much higher.
Unlike the practice detailed above, the process of finding a bhalo naam begins well before a child is born, in fact it begins almost as soon as conception is confirmed. A round-table conference is convened in which all the well-read members and the family heads of the extended families of both the parents are invited. Most of them attend (unless they have a tiff with the matriarch of this section of the family). Once pleasantries and gossip are exchanged, the members comb through their brains and the works of Sarat Chandra, Bankim Chandra and the immortal Gurudeb to come up with suitable candidates. The candidates are evaluated in a complex system of grading, which takes into account the obscurity, complexity in word structure, ambiguity in meaning, difficulty in pronunciation, number of syllables and so on. Finally, after hours of deliberation and multiple cups of tea, a 'winner' is chosen. This process is repeated for the opposite sex. The two names are communicated by the matriarch to the unsuspecting child's parents. Bengali people generally do not have middle names, apart from the occasional (and now dated) 'Chandra'. This ritual, although tried and tested through the ages, often buckles under the whims and egos of the various stakeholders involved. For instance, I was first assigned a name chosen by my rather well-read maternal grandfather, but was ultimately given a name which came to my paternal grandmother in a dream after I was born. As evident from the process, our names are incredibly diverse, and very easy to butcher by anyone not extremely well-versed in the nuances of Bengali pronunciation, and our fondness for the 'o' and 'sh' sounds.
Contrary to the rigor and formality of the bhalo naam, the daak naam is neither unique nor is there a well-defined process of selecting it. While a carefully chosen bhalo naam can be used as a weapon to fluster people in formal settings by getting them to pronounce it fully and correctly, a daak naam is usually chosen to cause maximum embarrassment to its owner. Apart from rare cases, it bears no relation whatsoever to the bhalo naam or even the physical characteristics of the owner. Another difference is that, for the incredible diversity that we have in our formal names, there are probably twenty or so nicknames that every Bengali child has. For instance, most boys are usually called by some variation of baba, shona, khoka or other terms of endearment. Also, multiple people have multiple forms of address for the same person. Family dynamics make this situation especially delicate. For instance, my brother has three different daak naams (one used by my parents and immediate family, one by my father's extended family and one by my mother's). I have a nightmare composing my yearly Shubho Nobo Borsho (Bengali New Year greetings) and Shubho Bijoya (Durga Puja greetings) emails when I press enter after writing 'From'. On various occasions I have used merely my bhalo naam, on other occasions I have written all my various names separated by slashes.
Apart from these, one also acquires various names all throughout the places they go through. Due to the rather curious circumstances of my naming, I was blessed with one of the most common Indian name in existence. As a result, I was called by various corruptions of my surname throughout school and college. My personal favourite of all my acquired nicknames was 'Bong', which my college roommate used to call me in our final year and a half at college, and that was an in-joke that could easily be explained off as the famous corruption of Bengali.
When the zombie apocalypse happens, I would be waiting near Shakespeare's grave with a copy of this post and get him to redact his famous and oft-quoted question. To bolster my claim, I would have Mithun Chakraborty, the greatest Bengali of all time, accompany me.
