The Cricket and the Frog

“What did you name him?” the nurse asks. “He will be called…..” I say his first, middle and last name with deliberation rhyming it with my first step as I cart the new born out in to the world.

My words sound to me as if I am announcing a monarch’s arrival in an African colony in the 18th century. However, the surroundings were far from it—I was in the maternity section of a hospital in the northern hemisphere, 42.23 latitude 83.33 longitude to be precise, in the small years of the newest millennium.

But, that was then. I had picked a name and acquired consensus amongst family members months before the birthing ordeal. The wife had preferred the name Saurav for her favorite cricket player—the captain of the Indian team. But the loss to the Australians in the World Cup final had put an end to that. The name we finally chose was very 21st century—from the Indian epics but with limited syllables such that the global economy would not spend time twisting its tongue. Even better, an improvised pronunciation sounded Dutch.

But, that was then. This time around is different. After having spent nights searching for names, I find myself sitting at the computer late tonight, way past my bedtime. I sift through the jungle of websites searching for a name for the next-to-be-born. I have tried every permutation of “Indian Baby Names” while searching web databases as I systematically descend through the alphabet list not even skipping obvious alphabets “O” and “Q.”

The very important task of naming the next-to-be-born rests squarely on my shoulders. The wife goes about her day unbothered having delegated this task to me. The rest of the relatives and friends assume I will come up with an appropriate name. Although, there is a little niece who periodically contributes to this very important mission. She is the only one aware about the historical significance of this undertaking.

It is 11.20 pm but I am not alone. I have Google in front of me, a cricket a few feet away on the patio and a frog in the garden pond who mocks my exhaustion with his high-pitched calls on this moonlit night.

I click on the alphabet E. Ekalinga, Ekanga, Eknath….on to F…. Phalgun, Phanishwar, Phaninath, Phanindra, Pholendu. With all due respects to all Pholendus in the world, I can’t imagine going with the name. I back click away from F and descend on to G.

Indian naming conventions have gone through phases of evolution. Almost a century ago, my grandfather, then employed by the Malwa British Agency, faced same challenges as I do today. I visualize him, his Dhoti pulled up by his right index finger and thumb, a scrap of paper handed by the high priest crushed in his left hand, he walks to a familiar Malwa Plateau to deliberate on the names. For each child born, he has an illustrious name ready—Prabhakar, Madhukar, Vishwanath and so on. These were well-constructed names steeped in Indian culture and values, like the noble men they grew in to. The names are unique but still sound mainstream.

But, that was then. Now, although the meaning of the name has some relevance, what is more important for parents is how easy would it be for people of all backgrounds to pronounce it. "Would the Chinese as well as the Americans be able to say it?," a question most ask.

People warn you. In a world of SMS and IM, your child’s name better not be an outlier. With this thought, a chill runs through my spine and I go at it at the website on my fingertips. The alphabet G….Gangavihari, Gangadhar, Gunaratna, Gurcharan, Gurmeet, Gurudutt…..as I read these my mind hops from olde Bollywood films to college Bhangra competitions. I give up on G, get up and walk towards the patio doors to converse with my companions of the night—the cricket and the frog.

I tell my two nocturnal partners the dilemma of the Gangulys in Mira Nair’s film “The Namesake.” The Gangulys await a letter from Calcutta that had a name for the newborn. The letter does not arrive. In desperation, the father ends-up going with the name Gogol, for the famed writer. The child lives the rest of his life struggling with his name. While watching the movie my wife cried through most parts, I cried when Irfan Khan (the father) is stuck in the hospital being forced to put a name down till they get possession of the new arrival.

Someone whose parents named her Jhumpa—the Pulitzer award winning Jhumpa Lahiri, wrote the story of Gogol. So, I tell my two friends outside the patio door that there is good precedence of parents going awry under pressure.

The last several weeks have been stressful. While traveling, I have found myself smiling, intrusively, to the person sitting next to me before uttering “Hello, do you have children and what are their names?”

Another time at work, as I walked in to a conference room, I introduced myself “Hi, I am Girish and if you have kids could you please share their names with me?” At the end of the line-up, a lady retracted her hand with a contorted expression on her face.

I am back on the internet and sifting through my favorite site—the Indian Constituent Assembly of 1946-1949—going through names of the almost 300 stalwarts who participated in the nation’s constitution making. Acharya, Govind, Ammu, Dakshyani, Ramnath, Hansa, Prafulla, Damber, Dhanonjoy, Damodar, Sucheta, Shibban, Vishambhar. None come close.

I go through the names that my friends came up with…Tara, Ria and other similar ones. Like my first time around, these names are ideal for the 21st century global economy. But, this time I have a revolutionary in me. I want to break this two syllable and simple sounding name convention. I don’t mind being an outlier.

One of my friends named his son Malhaar after the famous tune in Indian classical music. I love that name. I wrote to him for help a few weeks ago even timidly suggesting that I want to clone the name Malhaar on my offspring. He has not responded to my email and seems to have temporarily broken ties. That saying….A friend in need…indeed no such thing for me.

The clock shows 12.50 am. I conveniently turn it back to 9.15 pm. My eyes glaze over. I go and wash my face and click on the letter O. Ojas, Oojam, Oorjit.

By now, I am deep in disgust, a state that I have gotten to several times in the past few weeks. But, there is hope. I open a drawer, and pull out a small piece of paper with oil stains on it, that has served as a savior in similar nights past. I read Frost’s improvised poem.

The websites are lovely, dark and deep
But, I have a name to keep
And webpages to surf before I sleep
And webpages to surf before I sleep

I repeat the verse over and over again. I ignore the mocking laughter from the cricket and the frog in the background.

Ah!!! It has had its magical effect once again. Gradually, invigoration runs through my head to the toes. With a smile, I call out to my companions outside the patio door and start typing “Indian Bengali names.”

Click of the mouse and I pray for the Ganges of names to flow in to my Sunderban!

Ankolika, Baijayanti, Bijendra, Chandrabali, Debabrata, Devangi, Kommonika, Jishnu…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…Mrinmoy, Munmun, Nilotpal………….zzzzzz….. …….zzzzzzzzzzzz…..webpages to surf before I sleep….Niv, Orpita, Pauravi, Ratnabali, Satyajit….webpages to……zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……