What’s in a name? A lot, actually

Raaja Bhasin

Place a person or an object out of context and it could lead to an issue, even a crisis of both identity and identification. Where did I meet him or her? Not being able to remember the name can be taken as a measure of snobbery, or hopefully, just be passed off as plain forgetfulness. Something like that can happen with objects if they are out of place — or if they become ‘something that was put somewhere safe, and now cannot be found’. In the same vein, worse, if something, someone or somewhere is wrongly or inappropriately labelled.

I was in a grand government house where some artefacts and utensils had been pulled out of an old storeroom or pantry for display. There were spoons and ladles, knives and forks that one would be hard-pressed to know the use of. One large container stood out. This was labelled as a ‘coffee maker’. Going by its size, there must have been a regiment of coffee drinkers to make use of this substantial metal barrel. I tried looking closer to see where the beans or power went, and could find none. Nor could one locate the place from where the beverage poured out. Then, as happens, one was told to move along. But that ‘coffee maker’ parked itself in an unresolved corner of my brain. Back I went. Some more digging and this wondrous contraption revealed itself as an old-fashioned butter-churn.

Now repurposed, the same venerable building has a ballroom — which on the first visit was explained as the place where ‘ballroom performances’ took place. There are alcoves where the spectators could sit and cheer the ‘performers’ along. On the second visit, the sprung floor, which gave a level of elasticity to the floorboards, was interpreted as being thus as it helped in ‘jumping’. The mental picture that immediately, and appropriately, sprang to mind was a delight to behold — scores of high colonial officials jumping and leapfrogging while outside the gates, away from the skipping and cavorting, India spun its way to freedom and slipped out of grasp.

Another once grand and now repurposed palace had the storm-water drain marked as an escape route for British viceroys on the run. The wine cellar, with its iron-bar door, was explained away as the prison where freedom fighters frittered away their fighting hours, and the meat hooks in the kitchen were where others of their ilk were supposedly hung till all traces of sedition vanished. In the same vein, the honorary secretary of an elite club decided to name the basement as ‘The Torture Chamber’. The ostensible purpose of this ‘cool name’, chosen by a middle-aged gentleman, was to attract the club’s younger members for parties and other events. Soon after, the building underwent an extensive restoration and all its innards were pulled out. In the process, in some pipes, bones were found and this led to a flurry of agitation.

Rumours flew thick and fast — that how under a stage’s floorboards, people were tortured while actors acted and singers sang just a few feet above. Expectedly, someone stepped forth to claim that he had seen prisoners being taken to be tortured from the police room close by. Not to be outdone, another reported how his father had heard screams emanating from the building. An explanation, that the building housed a theatre and that some plays do have a fair amount of screaming and wailing, was put aside for the moment. The police were called in. The bones were sent for forensic examination. The result came back after a few days. These were chicken and meat bones that had got stuck in the pipes that led from the kitchen.

As education spread in Himachal and as the number of primary schools increased substantially, there was a greater demand for teachers. Many came from the districts of Hamirpur and Kangra, and found postings in far-flung and remote areas. Kibber in Spiti was celebrating its status as the world’s highest village to be connected by a motorable road when one had a glass of very welcome chai in the home of a couple who had been posted there. The pupils were few, and while life may have been hard, this couple was very happy teaching and living there. With the additional allowances they received for this posting and minimal overheads, they expected to save enough for their evening years.

There was another interesting aspect of this movement of teachers to the Trans-Himalayas and primarily Buddhist areas. Coming from low-lying districts, these educators were not familiar with the Buddhist names that their pupils had — like Gomphel, Topdan, Dorje or Dolma. They circumvented what were tongue-twisters to them, by giving their pupils names that they were familiar with — Ram or Sita, Arjun or Rita. The result was that every child had two names — the ‘home name’ and the ‘school name’. While it may have made things easier at roll call, there was trouble ahead when it came to school-leaving certificates — what name would go there? Would it match with the name entered at the time of admission? This led to affidavits, visits to red-taped offices and delayed admissions.

Subsequently, many of these youngsters from Lahaul, Spiti and Kinnaur found employment in various services. The long-term upshot of this is that now, they have a ‘home name’ and an ‘office name’.

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