Call Me By His Name

I am a feminist. The kind who frowns upon the kind who change their last names post marriage. A very persuasive argument in that regard is fighting over whether or not you are going to take one man’s last name is a futile exercise, especially when most of us are already carrying another man’s.

My last name is Chandra. That’s not my family name, but my father’s middle name. My father was born in Kolkata on Netaji’s birthday, in 1950s. As soon as he was born, the nurses started shouting that Subhash had come. Understandably, he was named Subhash Chandra ‘Roy’. And thus began the middle name of Chandra for the Roy guys in that generation.

I was born in Bihar, when casteism was the word, and hence, had begun the trend of double names or two first names, wherein families deliberately tried to avoid the family name so as to not be discriminated against in any way.

And thus became my last name my father’s middle name, with no casteist significance whatsoever.

One can fight that I carry that name with immense pride, that I carry my father’s name with immense pride. So much for feminism.

But the truth is, to me, it is more than that. The name is very special and important to me.

You see, I lost my father when I was 8. So, i don’t have a lot of memories with him. I didn’t know the man very well, and I don’t know his stories. There are very few threads that actually tie me with him. My name is one.

In fact, for people who know me, would remember that whenever somebody tries to compliment me on my hair, I unfailingly revert with a ‘that’s genetic’ comment, pointing out that my father had great hair.

Like I said, very few ties.

I picked up smoking in college. And like everything I pick up, became quite addicted to it. Even in those days, I remember I would often remember how my mother used to tell us that Papa was a chain smoker during his college days. And not that I would justify smoking, or that was why I smoked, but to be honest, there was a strange kind of comfort in knowing we were alike in certain aspects.

Small things, small ties. I drink a lot of water, and guess who else used to? I am addicted to tea, and guess what?

I even look like him. I mean, a bit. I don’t have his eyes, or nose, or smile, or ears. But, the face cut has resemblance. Some resemblance.

It’s a weird feeling. When you don’t know a parent. At all. Like, was he a sea person or a mountain person. What kind of music did he appreciate? Was he a good person? Would he have approved of what I have become? I wonder what kind of chemistry would we have had.

Honestly, I have never been very sad about having lost him that young. Because you mourn losing what you have. When you don’t know a bit about the person, losing isn’t nearly as tough. That’s why, while my sisters have a sense of grief, all I have is a sense of wonder. I can only imagine stuff.

Sometimes, I even convince myself that maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing. Because, had we not lost him then, we would all not have been on our own, and then, maybe, I wouldn’t have become as independent as I have. Maybe.

I don’t know. And what you don’t know, you can only imagine. And the thing about imagination is that it lets you wander. Into the world of make-believe. And we can each weave our stories. Like we would want it to be.