The Real Namesake?

For those of you who are not aware, 'The Namesake' (by Jhumpa Lahiri) is set in a Bengali family - from a similar background to mine, although the fictional family is in the engineering profession and in the US, while mine are medical and, of course, are in the UK.  Jhumpa Lahiri was actually born in London before her family headed to the East Coast.

The Namesake, both the book and the movie, were a eyeopener for me onto the world of Bengalis, and the Bengali diaspora. Families were tight-knit, in those days sending many letters home each week. They visited Calcutta almost each summer to ensure their children connected with their relatives. Bengalis also believed they were the “chosen ones”, with their emphasis on literature and music, often to the detriment of their economic success. I also learnt about many Bengali traditions - such as the “bhat” (rice) ceremony, the equivalent of a christening.

The scenes in the film where the family visit Calcutta one summer almost exactly mirror my own trip when I was 19. We were shocked by the poverty and the stark differences in lifestyle between our cousins and ourselves.

But the main interest for me in the Namesake was the focus on names. After I read the book I said to friends I should sue Jhumpa Lahiri for stealing my story. To recap, the main character was given the formal name of Gogol, his father’s favourite author. Details of his real formal name had not arrived in time from Calcutta. Teachers at his American kindergarten refuse to accept his revised formal name, and so he is known to his chagrin as Gogol throughout his schooling. But before going to college he finally tires of the teasing and changes his name to Nikhil, shortened for the benefit of Americans to Nik. The rest of the book focuses on the pull of Bengali culture despite his being an American.

My proper name is Susen, chosen I believe by my uncle in Calcutta, but approved by my parents. It’s a name I’ve never been comfortable with; firstly, it’s a name my parents never used (they used my nickname which is so embarrassing I won’t reveal it; but as an example my brother’s nickname is that of Yogi Bear’s friend. More Gold Points for anyone who knows what that name is). So I had no idea how the name is pronounced. A toddler would generally hear their name thousands of times before they went to school whether the name is unusual or not.

Jhumpa Lahiri’s first name is her nickname but is to my mind a rather good name. Lahiri herself remarked about her proper name:

"I always felt so embarrassed by my (proper) name.... You feel like you're causing someone pain just by being who you are (USA Today).

Lahiri’s proper name is Nilanjana Sudeshna.

I have heard of many embarrassing nicknames for women in particular, like Mumpy and Dumpy.

Secondly, the name is a very close relative of a girl’s name in the West. That really did not make for a happy time at school. I thought I had escaped at my last school, a public school, where everyone was referred to by their surname only, but the name leaked out. You might argue that my parents were not aware that Susan was a girl’s name but my father had been in the UK for 3 years before I was born, working as a junior doctor, seeing female patients when Susan was a very popular name. One of their close friends had a daughter named Susan.

In Bengali culture most people have two sets of names: their formal name for documents and work perhaps, and their family nickname. I don’t understand how this works in practice; how would I call someone on the phone when I only know their nickname? Or even worse know only their identification by their position in the family hierarchy; so, for example my father’s eldest brother has a specific designation, and almost everyone else in the family. There are relatives I only know by their designation, not their nickname or proper name. So, for example, my cousin in Seattle has four names: his formal name, nickname, the bastardised form of his formal name as Americans can’t pronounce it (so he’s Bob, which bears no relation to his proper name), and his hierarchical name, which I use. I’ve tried to get in touch with people on Facebook and been asked “who are you?” since they only know me by my nickname. In Western society most people have only one name, and even nicknames are diminutives of their proper names e.g. Susan becomes Sue, or Christine become Chris etc.

I should perhaps have changed my name as the chief protagonist in The Namesake did but it was never the right time and I had too much (misplaced) respect for my parents together with an inability to express my own identity. This was compounded by the fact that I had almost no exposure to Bengali names; what would I change my name to? I knew Uncles as Uncle, had no Bengali friends, and cousins would be referred to by their nicknames. In retrospect a name that works in both Western and Bengali societies would be the best compromise; my nephew is Robin (named after Tagore); other possible names are Nikhil, Krishnan, and I’m told, Josh. A little thought when I was christened would have been welcome.

I guess my parents weren’t aware of the importance of names in Western society; how your name is your brand, your face to the world. Conclusions are reached based on your name: your class, your age. Something that’s easy to understand and pronounce is important too; I’m sure my name has inhibited me, it makes communication difficult when even working in an organisation for 3 years your name is pronounced 3 different ways. I should probably have been more assertive; nowadays I have stopped apologising for it, and cut off anyone who mispronounces it, or asks for me as “Susan”. If I get a call for Susan I put the phone down. I’ve only recently stopped introducing myself as Mr. My mother says the problem is that not enough people know the name; that’s the rub, if there were thousands of Susens that would solve the problem. Yes, some names are ambivalent but they are well-known. I sometimes joke that if I had a son he would be called Leslie Hillary so he might appreciate some of the issues I have had.

While I do appreciate that my parents were immigrants by the time I was born it they should have realised the importance of names in British society, and later it would have been apparent that they’d made a mistake. It is hard enough growing up the child of immigrants, and been differentiated as almost the only brown boy in a particular school, but it doesn’t help if matters are compounded by having a girl’s name. Most parents take great care over their children’s names to ensure they are not a focus for teasing, and the name is reasonably well-known. I don’t want to renounce my Bengali heritage as it is a great part of who I am, and I respect the general naming conventions, but I would have appreciated a simple, bland name.