Navigating through the name maze

I was on the phone with a Brigadier. We were about to end our conversation when he said: ‘Sir, my wife wants to talk to you.’ Since I had never met her, I was surprised.

‘Uncle, I am Pooja. Are you Roopali’s father?’

I confirmed it guardedly, unsure of the context.

‘Roopali and my sister Aarti were together in Sophia College, Mumbai, and are very close friends.’ To join the dots further, she added in the same buoyant tone: ‘My sister still has very fond memories of the Sikkim trip you had organised for their college in the 1980s.’

With a rusty memory, I could not recall the cited trip. But under the circumstances, saying so would have been rude. ‘I felt happy doing so,’ I said, without elaborating.

She recounted several other episodes highlighting the girls’ friendship. She also said how happy she was to know that Roopali was doing so well in the media. I could only respond with brief non-committal interjections like ‘I see’, ‘Oh really?’ and ‘How nice’.

‘I will mention it to Roopali,’ I said when there was a pause. ‘I’m sure she will be delighted to hear about Aarti through her sister.’

Her opening question — ‘Are you Roopali’s father?’ — set me thinking. Growing up in a rural agrarian society, I was always known and addressed as someone’s son. Most elders did not know the names of children in the neighbourhood and identified them only through their father. This being the norm, one never felt conscious of it. Such sentience comes only on being singled out.

I got enrolled in the college that my four elder brothers had joined. Seniors addressed me as so-and-so’s brother. The botany lecturer, who had also taught one of my brothers, often got our names mixed up and addressed me by his name.

This practice of my name having a qualifying prefix followed me even in later years. On being commissioned, I joined a regiment where my three elder brothers were serving in different battalions. My name was always coupled to one or the other of them. I had no standalone identity.

Much after all my brothers had retired, I got elected as the ‘Colonel’ of my Regiment, a military tradition. The post carries great honour and prestige. During our quadrennial regimental reunions, the old-timers still referred to me as ‘the brother of MS’; my eldest brother was known only by his initials. I never looked at it as any kind of an affront to my individuality. In fact, over time it had become a non-issue.

Pooja’s call brought a new realisation. From having long been someone’s son or brother, now I am known as my children’s father. But this identification is different. Playing the deuteragonist to one’s children brings a great sense of pride. The prefix issue has acquired a new meaning. Inexplicably, I now feel the real ‘me’.