Monthly Archives: March 2025

The beautiful burden of a name no one ever gets right

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Names and religions, the two things parents hand down without so much as a consultation. Shakespeare might claim a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but trust me, life isn’t as poetic when your name is a never-ending puzzle for the world to solve.

I was named ‘Chencho,’ which sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. Over the years, I’ve been called ‘Chinchu, Chanchu, Chanchal, Chenco,’ and every possible variation except my actual name. As if that wasn’t enough, Abba, in his infinite wisdom, added ‘Tsering’ as my second name, a spelling conundrum pronounced ‘Shring,’ a guaranteed disaster at every school roll call. Yes, he was the predecessor of Elon Musk when it came to naming his children.

To make matters worse, my cousins and friends called me ‘Cherang,’ a Malayalam word for eczema, until I learnt to fight back. Even Amma, in moments of exasperation, would sigh and say, “There were so many sweet, beautiful names in the world, and yet…”

When I joined St Mary’s for my third grade, I decided enough was enough and took matters into my own hands and rebranded ‘Tsering’ as ‘Sherin,’ a name popular in Kerala. For the first time, people actually got it right, and I felt a quiet victory.

Do I hold a grudge against Abba for this whimsical naming experiment? Perhaps a little. He picked ‘Chencho Tsering’ after a short but exciting and memorable stay in Thimphu, Bhutan. No deep meaning, no family tradition, just a random pick that set me up for a lifetime of mispronunciations.

Blame it on Bhutan

In the 1970s, Abba was already an established artist, winning a Lalithakala Academy Award while still in college. He also secured a rank in MA Philosophy from Maharaja’s College despite rarely attending classes (something I later heard from a classmate of his, who described him as the epitome of hippie culture in those days, spending most of his time under the shade of a tree, lost in books, dressed in long kurtas and a worn-out pair of jeans or mundu). Many of his collegemates went on to excel in their respective fields, including a Malayalam superstar, a former finance minister, and prominent businessmen, journalists, and artists.

I never quite realised the extent of his connections until I started looking for internship opportunities during my degree. Securing a spot at ‘The Hindu,’ one of India’s most respected publications, was no small feat, but I managed it, thanks to Abba’s friends, who knew me only as ‘Thomas’s daughter.’ A title that, let me tell you, was anything but easy to bear. More of that later.

After completing his MA at Maharaja’s, Abba was promised a lecturer’s position at the same college. However, before he could step into the role, an unexpected offer came his way, an opportunity to work as a drawing teacher in Bhutan for a year. Perhaps he was inspired by his father’s stint in Zambia as a mathematics teacher, who returned home with the aura of a rich foreign man, or maybe he took it on a whim. Either way, he packed his bags and set off for Bhutan.

From what I’ve heard, Abba was completely enchanted by the breathtaking landscapes of Thimphu and the carefree abandon that life there offered. But when he returned to Kochi a year later, expecting his promised position at Maharaja’s to be waiting for him, reality hit hard. His spot had been handed over to a classmate, who would later go on to become the university’s vice-chancellor, talk about an unexpected plot twist.

Still, Bhutan clearly left an indelible mark on him. When his only sister had a beautiful baby girl, Abba, as the proud eldest brother, named her ‘Tashi,’ a name he had picked up during his time there. Though we all knew her as ‘Tashi,’ her official name became ‘Elsa Tashima,’ much to Abba’s disappointment. So when he had a daughter of his own, he didn’t hesitate, another Bhutanese name it was. Thanks to his creativity, my name has been an unintentional icebreaker for years, especially in moments when I struggled to blend in or find my place in a crowd. Because, really, when your name is ‘Chencho’, fading into the background isn’t an option.

Years later, he revisited Bhutan with Amma, eager to relive the magic of his youth. Instead, he was left disheartened by how much the country had changed, a stark contrast to the untouched beauty he had once known. That journey, and his reflections on it, were later featured in ‘Kerala Kaumudi,’ a popular newspaper in Kerala.

A name fit for a princess? Think again

For nearly twenty-five years, Abba made me believe that I was named after a young Bhutanese princess, as beautiful as the morning dew. And I believed him, blissfully unaware.

Even when my friends joked that when the hospital called Abba to name his newborn, he sneezed mid-sentence, let out a dramatic “Cheee…chooo,” and the nurse, assuming divine intervention, promptly wrote it down, I still believed him.

One day, in the golden era of Orkut, a message popped up in my inbox from a man from Bhutan. His name? You guessed it, Chencho Tsering.

“Your name sounds a lot like mine!” he said.

Beaming with misplaced pride, I replied, “Yes! I got it from your land!”

He casually shot back, “It’s a common name for men in Bhutan.”

And just like that, my fairytale came crashing down.

Abba had conned me. I told this self-proclaimed Bhutanese prince, the man who single-handedly crushed my royal dreams, that my father had led me to believe it was a princess’s name. His response, laced with sarcasm, was, “I’m sure there aren’t many girls named Chencho in Bhutan.” So much for my princess syndrome. The least Abba could have done was name me after one of his Bhutanese crushes. Sigh!

His flair for unconventional names didn’t stop with me. On a Srikrishna Jayanthi, when his son was born, he proudly named him Ghanshyam, meaning dark as the storm clouds, a poetic nod to Krishna. But as fate would have it, my brother struggled to pronounce Ghana, and Abba, perhaps for the first time, conceded defeat. Reluctantly, he trimmed it down to Syam Thomas, though I’m fairly certain his birth certificate still reads Ghanshyam Thomas, a name that would have raised quite a few eyebrows in India.

What’s in a name, you ask me?

In the early 2000s, while still pursuing my degree, I juggled multiple side hustles, including working as a reporter for a television magazine, an ambitious start-up run by a media mogul’s wife. She had no other reporters but me, so I zipped across sets on my run-down Scooty, interviewing TV actors and directors.

Upon her mention of needing a marketing person, I roped in a trustworthy classmate. On one of those lazy days in the office, he casually remarked, “No one will marry you because of your name.”

My feminist soul bristled. “And why not?”

He unhesitatingly replied, “Because it’s weird. No one’s ever heard of such a name. Even calling out to you is difficult.”

I scoffed and said, “If a man can’t even accept my name, why would I consider marrying him?”

Then came his curveball. “If that’s the case, would you marry someone named Chellappan?”

For those who are uninitiated, ‘Chellappan’ is an old-fashioned Malayali name, mostly found in history books and among grandfathers. I hesitated before boldly declaring, “Of course I would!” But deep down, I knew that unless he looked like Hrithik Roshan, I probably wouldn’t.

Like his prediction, when my marriage was fixed to a naval officer barely a year later, his entire family conveniently chose to call me ‘Sherin,’ as if ‘Chencho’ had never existed.

Branded forever and ever

My own time to choose the perfect name came a year later when I was pregnant with my son. I had desperately wanted a girl and had the simplest name picked, ‘Ila,’ meaning Earth, another name for Seetha. But when he was born, I had no idea what to name him, so Amma took charge and chose a name rarely found in Kerala – Ujjwal, meaning brilliant, radiant, luminous etc.

It wasn’t until we moved to Mumbai that I realised Ujjwal was as common there as any Amit or Rahul. But to me, he has always been my Kunjunni or Kunju, inspired by my love for Kunjunni Mash, the poet known for his witty haiku-like verses. Still, I couldn’t let him escape without my imprint, so his official name became Ujjwal C Jacob, with C for, yes, you are right, Chencho.

Stepping into the corporate world came with its own set of challenges, including my name. When I landed my first major job at McKinsey & Company, I quickly developed a survival strategy. Whenever I had to place the team’s breakfast order, I used someone else’s name, just to avoid spending ten minutes explaining mine over a phone conversation. In an office comprising over 400 employees, including ‘Chinjus’ and ‘Chanchals,’ I wasn’t taking any risks.

Later, when I moved to the UK for my master’s, people often mistook me for Latin American. Turns out, ‘Chencho’ is also a common Spanish name.

To my closest friends, I am ‘Chens.’ To my journalist friends, I am ‘Cho.’ To some others, ‘Chenko.’ To Amma and some close cousins, ‘Che.’ Despite the teasing, confusion, and decades of mispronunciations, I never disowned my name. Even when people tried calling me ‘Sherin,’ I never responded. Because I never identified as anything but ‘Chencho.’

And over the years, I have come to love it.

Once people finally get my name right, it stays with them, like a tune they never intended to remember but can never quite forget.

Of beloved friendships and broken promises

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The earliest memories are stubborn little things, staying sharp and vivid no matter how many times life tries to smooth them over. A few people have left a lasting impression on me, mentors, friends, or those rare souls who simply stayed. But this time, I want to tell you about someone who was closest to my heart, someone who left without saying goodbye, someone with whom I do not even have a single photograph.

It was the late ’80s when we moved to Trivandrum, known today as Thiruvananthapuram, and settled into a modest rented house in Kamaleswaram. Close enough to the city yet far enough to retain the charm of small-town life, the area had a simplicity that felt almost untouched. Kovalam Beach was just a short ride away, though that hardly mattered since we did not own a car, not even a scooter. The neighbours were the kind who dropped by unannounced, but always came bearing gifts, Trivandrum-special fish curries and banana fries.

Festivals blurred the lines of religion and community. Onam was celebrated at one house, Christmas at ours, and Deepavali with everyone in the neighbourhood. No one cared who was Christian, Hindu, or Muslim until Babri Masjid happened, but that is a story for another day. Even after we moved to Jawahar Nagar, one of Trivandrum’s most sought-after neighbourhoods, or so we believed, these traditions carried on, binding us to the warmth of the people and the place we once called home.

Crafting bonds, creating memories

Our new house was a tiny, red-tiled affair, tucked into a dingy lane that was technically part of Jawahar Nagar, but hey, we made sure everyone knew our elite address. It was here that I met my soulmate, not the kind you marry, but the kind you miss for a lifetime, my Chinnu Ammoomma. She lived right across the lane, already in her seventies, yet she carried herself with an undeniable grace and intelligence that made you pause and take notice. Even in her frail frame, draped in cotton sarees, she carried a quiet dignity, as if time had shaped her into something unshakable. Somehow, I could tell her everything more easily than I could my own parents.

Her husband, Gopi Appooppan, was a tall, stout man with a commanding presence. He had worked as a PS to some of the ministers at the Secretariat, and my parents always told us to be respectful to him. But to me, he was simply the coolest grandfather figure I had ever met. He tried to get my brother and me to call them Uncle and Aunty, but it was our parents who took the cue instead.

There were hushed whispers, the kind that float around in close-knit communities, about how, in her younger days, Ammoomma had moments of unpredictability, the kind often found in those whose minds stretch beyond the ordinary. Some said it had given Appooppan much grief, but if it had, he never spoke of it. Through all of it, he remained by her side, unwavering in his quiet strength.

With Amma and Abba busy juggling their jobs and my new baby brother, I was mostly left to my own. But loneliness never stood a chance, not with Ammoomma around. I also found friends in two sisters who lived in a house behind mine, slightly older than me, but who went to the same school. They had beautiful features and flawless skin, a grace often seen in Muslim girls. I either spent my time with them or with Ammoomma.

I would spot her on her verandah and sprint over to tell her every tiny detail of my day. Their mango tree, conveniently hanging over our wall, was the highlight of my summers. She would grin as I climbed up to pluck raw mangoes, munching them with salt and chilli powder until my mouth burned. Those were the days when I had the metabolism of a rabbit and the energy to match.

She was my person, my confidante, my partner in crime. She was also intimidatingly well-read, something I discovered soon enough. Her intellect was so sharp that even OV Vijayan, the Malayalam literary legend, who had been her peer in college, had deeply respected her. I think it was Abba who told me this. We both loved books, so every time I found a new one, it went straight to her. We would talk for hours about stories, poems, and everything in between. Then, I would hold her hand and walk her back home, which sounds sweet until you realise she was the one steadying me most of the way.

When I was sent off to boarding school in ninth and tenth grade to focus on studies, with my own aunt as the hostel warden, it was Ammoomma who said she would wait for me. After my not-so-great second stint there, where I dramatically believed life had reached its lowest point, (ha, how naïve was I), I came back a little more bruised and way less trusting.

The Ivanios chronicles

At 15, right after my boarding debacle, I joined Mar Ivanios College for my pre-degree, what would now be called 11th and 12th grade. Those five years, from pre-degree to graduation, were probably the best of my life. Ivanios was great fun, it had a library that smelled like old paper and possibilities, poetry competitions where even mediocre writers like me could shine thanks to the lack of Malayalam entries, and lively, close-knit groups of friends who made life infinitely more interesting. There was campus politics and, most importantly, boys. After years in an all-girls school that had felt like solitary confinement, being in a co-educational college was exhilarating.

Speaking of the library, I made a special friend there, our librarian. She was the chatty kind, the sort who could turn a question about library timings into a 15-minute conversation about her life, family, and worries. She also had a soft spot for me and always made sure to hide the latest books from other students just so I could get them first. It felt like having my own VIP section, minus the velvet ropes but with far more bookmarks.

During my degree days, my poem and illustration were published in Malayala Manorama’s college edition, and I rushed to Ammoomma first. She read it with the kind of pride that even my parents had not managed to muster and, true to her nature, pointed out a mistake, telling me to be mindful next time.

On weekends, the routine was simple. In our dainty house, which looked like it had been lifted straight from a child’s innocent scrawling, with large open windows adorned with concrete patterns that let in ample sunlight even through the bamboo screens, I would devour books in a day or two before eagerly passing them on to Ammoomma. Those plain concrete forms were eventually replaced with elegant wooden rails adorned with intricate designs, each curve trying a bit too hard to impress. The house even had an attic, where hedgehogs rustled about, startling us in the dead of night. My brother was so inspired by these intruders that he wrote a poem titled Burglars in the Attic, which my parents enthusiastically showed off to every guest who visited. The attic was later transformed into a room for my brother and me, with a small window resembling the one on a cuckoo wall clock, as if we had been expecting a tiny guest at all times.

The air was often filled with the wistful verses of ONV Kurup, his poems drifting softly from the old cassette player, or Yesudas’s melodious voice reciting the Bhagavad Gita. The melancholy of ‘Bhoomikkoru Charamageetham’ and the evocative lines of ‘Ujjayini’ lingered long after the music stopped, making the house feel like it had a tragic backstory of its own.

When my parents sold that house a few years later to move into a bigger space so my son would have enough room to move around, I was heartbroken, as if a part of me had been left behind within those walls.

The missed goodbyes

Then came the day Ammoomma left for Palakkad. Her daughter lived there, and it was home for them. I was 19, trying hard not to cry or make a scene, but when their car left for the station, I could not hold back. I wailed like a little girl who had lost her way in a crowd, calling out for someone who was already too far to hear. During our brief farewell, she pulled me aside and, in her distinct Valluvanadan dialect, said, “Chencho, when you get married, marry someone from Palakkad or Bangalore, (where her son was settled), so I can see you once in a while.”

I promised her I would, but of course, life, in its grand, mischievous way, had other plans. In just over a year, I was married off to someone who was neither from Palakkad nor Bangalore but from Bombay, a city I had only heard dramatic things about. That marriage dissolved faster than aspirin in hot water. I came back to Trivandrum within a year.

Soon after, I heard the news. Ammoomma was gone, and Appooppan was barely holding on. I cried that day, partly for her, partly for all the promises that life did not let us keep.

Years later, during one of those sweltering Kerala summers, we stopped by Palakkad on our way back from Wayanad. Time had shrunken Appooppan, leaving behind a ghost of the man I remembered. His voice was soft and slightly wobbly, but his words landed heavily. Till her last breath, he said, she remembered you and asked about you.

And that was all I needed to hear.

Because in the end, the ones we love never really leave us. They stay, nestled in the small corners of our hearts, in the memory of a hand that steadied ours. I do not have a photograph of her, but maybe that is for the best. Memories are far clearer that way.

In pursuit of authenticity and love for words

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There was a time when writing felt as natural as breathing, or as inevitable as overthinking at 2 AM. But lately, with AI churning out poetry, essays, and probably even my grocery list, I can’t help but wonder, would anyone believe my words were truly mine?

Maybe that’s where the greats had it right, those who turned language into their fortresses – the likes of Dostoevsky, Camus, Kafka, Gabo, Tagore, Murakami, Neruda, and Umberto Eco. They wrote in their mother tongues, honest and unfiltered, never bending their words to suit the world. Even the titles of their books transformed across languages. The only exception, it seems, is ‘Les Misérables’ because misery, it appears, sounds the same in every language.

Maybe that’s the honesty I’m searching for. Even though English rolls off my fingers more easily than Malayalam these days, if I ever write a book, perhaps it should be in the language of my childhood, my first heartbreaks, my first poems and hurried exam prayers. A language that never needed any pretense.

That brings me back to a book and a journey that shaped me in ways I still don’t fully understand.

Where weekends offered a breath of relief

When I was six, my parents decided to move to Thiruvananthapuram, a city that promised better schools, better opportunities, and, as I later discovered, better sadyas. Amma got transferred first, Abba stayed behind in Wayanad, and I, a quiet child with wide eyes and restless thoughts, was shipped off to a convent boarding school in Amma’s hometown, Pala.

My memories of Pala begin with my mother’s ancestral home, a wooden house that carried the faint scent of rubber from the surrounding trees and the sheets spread out on the ground to dry.  Perched atop a steep climb opposite Poovarani Church, that house was a world of its own, holding all my favourite things – Valiyammachi (my grandmother), whose heart was as vast as her frame, Kochachan (Amma’s brother), who made me feel special as the youngest, and Thankammayi (his wife), one of the kindest souls I’ve known, along with their seven children (six girls and a boy, all way older than me). A flock of chatty Chedathis (elderly Catholic women from the neighbourhood) roamed about the house every morning, seeming to talk more than they breathed.

Then, there was Pillechan, always vigilant on the verandah, responding to every call with the seriousness of a guard entrusted with a palace. I still remember vividly the stone path stretching from the house to a well that seemed straight out of a fairy tale, its dark waters holding secrets nobody knew. In the courtyard, a guava tree stood proud, the first tree I ever learned to climb, its branches always ensuring my safety. The mulberry bushes were my favourites, their ripe berries leaving my little hands stained in shades of purple. As if that wasn’t enough, the house was surrounded by a lively menagerie of chickens, ducks, turkeys, cows, and dogs. We never had to go to the butcher for meat or the market for eggs, butter or milk. Even vegetables were plucked fresh from the garden, making every meal feel like a feast.

My childhood in Poovarani House was brief but beautiful. Maybe that’s why I didn’t protest when they sent me off to St. Mary’s Boarding School so abruptly.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be seven years old and wake up at 4 a.m. for masses at 5 a.m., let me tell you, it’s just as delightful as it sounds. The nuns weren’t thrilled about my unorthodox upbringing, and I wasn’t too thrilled about their ironclad discipline. But I adjusted, as most children do. My escape was my grandmother’s home, a short bus ride away, where I spent weekends basking in the warmth of her kitchen and my cousins’ endless banter. For those two days, I forgot all about the five days of misery. Instead, I jumped and rolled on the rubber sheets spread out in the sun, devoured caramel candies made by Shiny Chechi and Mariyammachechi, talked nonsense with Sonichechy, Leemachi and Sibychayan and fell asleep with my head on Valiyammachi’s tummy.

But that year, liver cirrhosis took Valiyammachi away. The next year, I was transplanted to Thiruvananthapuram, to Cotton Hill, the largest girls’ school in Asia. Within a year, Amma’s ancestral home too became a memory.

Madhavikkutty’s Baalyakalasmaranakal ( Childhood Memories)

Amid this blur of change, my father handed me a book, Baalyakalasmaranakal by Madhavikkutty (pen name of poet Kamala Das). I can’t quite recall if it was before I left for boarding school or during one of his visits, but I remember each chapter like an old friend. It felt oddly familiar to a child who found solace in her mother’s home. The protagonist (the author herself), another seven-year-old, spent her days wandering around the house, asking questions no one seemed to answer, clinging to her grandmother while always sensing a distance with her parents.

Her words were raw, unpolished, and disarmingly honest. The book was certainly not meant for a seven-year-old. Unlike the sugar-coated fairy tales that lulled me to sleep, this one kept me up at night. It spoke of casteism, untouchability, matriarchal societies, the male gaze, and the taboos surrounding love, all seen through the eyes of a child. For the first time, I realised how, even in the early days when polygamy, untouchability, and casteism were prevalent, women in matriarchal Kerala had the freedom to decide their fate.

The simplicity of her perspective made these harsh truths even more powerful, stripping them of any pretense or polish. It was an unsettling and strangely comforting world, a reminder that honesty, however bitter, was far more soothing than the sweetest lies.

Over the years, she transformed from Madhavikkutty to Kamala Das to Kamala Suraiyya, but never stopped being Aami, the small, brown, wide-eyed girl from Punnayurkulam. Those nights, beneath the dim light of the boarding lamp, I found a companion in Madhavikkutty and her words, raw and untamed, echoing the questions I never dared to ask aloud. It was as if the book wasn’t trying to shield me from the world but rather inviting me to see it as it truly was, without apology or disguise.

The books I have read over the years have shaped the way I write, and perhaps without realising it, they shaped the way I live. Of course, Madhavikkutty’s influence runs deep. In the corporate world, where everything has to be optimised for clicks and SEO, a storytelling style is not always welcome. But it’s the only way writing feels true to me. That’s why, despite my degrees in journalism, I never went into hardcore journalism and became a feature writer instead. Weaving words into stories that, if nothing else, felt honest.

This is for those writers who stayed true to their language and origins, their words still echoing in our conversations, in cinema, in the nostalgia of those who grew up reading them. If I ever write, I want to write like that. Without pretense, without dilution. Words that cut straight to the core, whether in English, Malayalam, or whichever language feels most like home at that moment. Because the only words worth writing are the ones that can’t be unwritten.