“What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any
other name would smell as sweet.”
A Bangali would beg to differ, thank you very much.
What’s the big fuss about, you might ask. I mean yes,
nicknames aren’t just limited to us Bangalis alone, and logical segments of a person’s name can very rightly be considered as sobriquets.
For instance, ‘Nivedit’ (pronounced Nibedito by old
school Bangalis, but you’re not an old school Bangali now, are you?) can be
broken up into variations of either ‘Niv’ or ‘Dito’, and this would not raise
any eyebrows.
Then again, I’m not talking about regular, conventional
nicknames. I’m talking about Bangali Daak Naams.
Here’s what happens. Bangalis, by virtue of their eagerness to gift their children something unique, bless their offsprings with two names
– one is the Bhalo Naam, which will appear on birth certificates, marksheets
and pretty much any official document. The other name in question is the Daak Naam, one to be used primarily by family and very close friends.
Coming up with a bhalo naam is a tedious process, I have
heard. The process is far simpler these days, but doing it the orthodox way
requires the presence of a Purohit (priest) and a Ponjika – the Hindu
astronomical almanac prevalent in West Bengal, Odisha and Assam, among other
states.
Depending on the time of birth, charts are drawn and
propitious letters from the almanac are shortlisted. On the sixth day after the
child’s birth, a wick with each of the letters (plural, yes) is lit on a lamp,
and the wick which burns the longest indicates the letter which the
child’s name is to begin with.
For this reason, more often than not, the daak naam is decided upon before the actual name. It's easier to come up with, and there usually isn't any connection between the bhalo naam and daak naam.
Don't believe me? Let me present some examples.
Pranab Mukherjee, the former President of India, was a
disciplined individual since his early childhood. So much so, that he would
bundle his clothes in paper, tuck them under an arm, and march off to school on
rainy days. His mannerisms resembled that of a marching platoon, and since a
platoon is called a polton in Bangali, he was affectionately called Poltu by
his family and close friends.
Rahul Dev Burman was initially given the daak naam Tublu by
his maternal grandmother. However, this nickname was later amended, when people
observed that whenever he cried as a child, the sounds were (apparently) in
tune with the fifth note (Pa) of the G# Major scale. And lo and behold, Pancham
was born.
Amartya Sen’s nickname is Bablu, Saurav Ganguly’s is
Maharaja, Aishwarya Rai’s is Gullu, and Sabhyasachi Mukherji’s is Pepsi. Bappi
Lahiri has used his nickname as his stage name, and his real name is Alokesh. The list goes on, and on, and on.
I read a Quora answer which elucidates the nomenclature of
Bangali nicknames, and the observation is primarily this: nicknames with the
segment ‘Ba’ would be assigned to Bangali males, such as Babu, Bapi, Bappa,
Baabla and Babai. The reason for this comes from the practice of referring to
the son as ‘father’ (Baba), just as daughters are referred to as ‘mother’
(Ma) – giving rise to nicknames such as Mamoni, Mampi, Moni and Manai for
Bangali females.
Of course, exceptions do exist, as do a multitude of other
nicknames not incorporating ‘Ma’ or ‘Ba’.
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| Fields not usually filled by Bangalis. |
Let’s take things up a notch. While the world might know a
Bangali by his/her bhalo naam, and the family might know the person through the daak naam, there’s a different set of adjectives which can only be used by the
Bangali’s mother.
Subject to the words themselves, as well as the intonation, cadence and other finer
auditory dynamics with which they are uttered, a Bangali would get a precise
idea, as to how badly they have messed up.
As a child, when I was called Shona or Babu by my mother, I
knew I was safe and had added a point in my bhalo chele (good boy) report card.
If I was called Oshobbo (uncouth) or Hototchhara (good for nothing) or Nirlojjo
(shameless), I knew I had disappointed her yet again.
Luckily, I’ve been called oshobbo only on rare occasions,
and have not been awarded the other epithets for quite some time. So far, so
good!
It might seem that we Bangalis are in constant dread of
people finding our nicknames out, since they’re horribly embarrassing – well,
mostly, they are. In fact, it could just be the common facet which unites
Bangalis all around the world – the second name which we dare not speak of in
public.
But psst, I’ll let you in on a secret: we feel an instant
connection with people who can pronounce our nicknames properly, and know when,
where and in front of whom to use it. Ask us nicely, perhaps offer us another
drink, and we might just divulge our daak naam.
As Shakespeare put it in Romeo and Juliet, what’s in a name?
Image Source: Brown Paper Bag Comics
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