How we named our son Arul

Date : May 1994

Venue : A maternity hospital in suburban Bombay

A distinctly balding but still young man (YM), whose wife has delivered her second son three days back and is all set for discharge carrying the extra bundle of flesh and joy, is called into 5 ft x 5 ft room of a maternity hospital in suburban Mumbai. There a gruff, middle-aged Administrative Assistant (AA) sits with a pen in hand and too much oil in her hair, pouring over a register. 

The conversation goes something like this:

AA : “Birth Certificate ke liye details boliye. Babeee’s Father name?” 

YM : “Anuj Kacker. No no no , Not Kakkar. K-A-C-K-E-R. Spelt as in Packer. Aapne woh Australian, Kerry Packer ka naam suna hai? ” 

AA (ignoring the irrelevant cricket talk): “Babeee’s Mother name?” 

YM : “Archana Kacker”

AA : “Babeee's name?”

The last question catches the YM totally by surprise. It is clearly out-of-syllabus. He isn’t prepared for it. He glances left and then right not unlike the head movements of a number 10 batsman who has been caught totally off guard by Kumble’s googly and is wondering where the ball went.

AA (persevering) : “Babeee’s name?” “Baby ka naam”, she adds helpfully translating the question, with the previously drawn-out last syllable shortened in her Hindi version.

The young man, deciding that he’s not going to get pushed into improvising an answer on the spot for a question which has lifelong implications, is now more assertive.

YM : “Please write TBD”

AA (looking up, a little unsure whether she heard the name correctly) : “Tibidi?”

YM : “TBD matlab To-Be-Decided. We haven’t thought of a name for him yet”.

AA (digging her heels in) : “Yeh nahi kar sakte”

After some further discussion, AA and YM mutually agree that the hospital will issue a temporary certificate without the baby’s name. YM is to come back and sign the official Municipal Corporation forms within a month. The caveat is that, since the hospital is not allowed to hold the records for more than a month, if YM does not show up with a name within the stipulated time, the hospital will forward the records as they exist with them and the young one will have go through life being recorded as ‘Baby Kacker’. Try explaining that to any child when he grows up.

(Exit YM from the 5 ft x 5 ft room)

Date : June 1994, Mumbai

Venue : The Kacker home in Lokhandwala

In the initial 3-4 weeks of the existence of ‘Baby Kacker’, the few hours which could be squeezed out between feeding schedules and changing diapers are conscientiously devoted to brainstorming the name.  But we just can’t just think of the right one. We have set of criteria for ourselves which the name has to match upto:

1. It must be short and easy to pronounce (so that it won’t be abbreviated into something silly by doting grandparents)
2. It should begin with the letter ‘A’ - we were already 3 A’s by that time (Anuj, Archana, Arnav) and it seems a nice logical thing to do.
3. It should be unique for us, in the sense that we should not know anyone else by that name personally.
4. We will not consult grandparents or anyone else. The baby is ours and we will name him whatever we feel like. No interference from anyone.

As the deadline set by the hospital is drawing near and we have still not been able to come up with anything which matches all the above criteria an investment is made in Maneka Gandhi’s ‘Book of Indian Names’. And the search gets more systematic thereafter. After much ticking and crossing, we finally spot this name - ARUL . 

Bingo ! This seemed to meet all our criteria. We can finally let out the white smoke. ‘Baby Kacker’ has a name - Arul. I trot away to the aforementioned hospital. The registers are duly updated and signatures affixed and the records are despatched to the Municipal Corporation  for registration. The die now stands officially cast.

The grandparents are also duly informed. 

“What does Arul mean”, they ask.

"It means Brilliance of the sun ”, we echo words borrowed from Maneka Gandhi’s book.

Date : A few days later.

Venue : The paternal grandparents' home in Lucknow

Unknown to us, much research is initiated on this name by the grandparents. They too have not also heard it earlier so their curiosity has been aroused. Dictionaries are poured over. Relatives with impeccable credentials in Hindi are consulted.  And their collective research throws up a disturbing conclusion : “Maneka Gandhi is wrong. There is no such word as ARUL” 

The news is broken to us in as gentle a fashion as is possible. 

Date : July-August 1994

Venue : The Kacker home in Lokhandwala, Bombay

A general sense of consternation now hangs in the air. Our defiant attitude of independent decision-making has slowly given way to a feeling of wobbly unassuredness.

Further research at our end too is leading nowhere. Can’t find the word in any independent source. Thanks to Maneka Gandhi’s goddamn book we now have a meaningless name for our son. We feel guilty.

Then, one day while sipping my morning cuppa a thought strikes me. Leaving my cup on the balcony table I rush inside and grab that book again which automatically opens at the much-leafed page and my eyes rest on the blue tick placed to the left of the word ‘Arul’. I look at a few entries before and after it. My initial fears are confirmed.

I call out to Archana and gently place my right arm over her right shoulder as I direct her gaze to the list. 

“Arch, Checkout the list… Arpan, Arshad, Arth, Arul, Arvind, Arya….”, I tell her, running an imaginary finger down the page.

“So? We’ve seen it a million times”, she said

“Do you see what I see?, I continue, “Or rather, do you not see what I see. Actually, do you not see what I too don’t see”.

Realising that if I continue this rambling any further she would bonk me on the head, I get explicit. 

“Do you notice that there is no ‘Arun’. After ‘Arul’ there is ‘Arvind’. Where is ‘Arun’? There is no ‘Arun’”.

“And so?”, she asks. Taking this to be an indication that that she has missed the drift, I attempt to make things clearer. 

“I think there is a printing mistake. It was meant to be ‘Arun’ instead of ‘Arul’.  And ‘Arun’ does mean ‘Sun' "

I have no clear recollection of the sequence of the conversation from here onwards. But I do remember that it ends with her saying

“YOU MEAN YOU NAMED HIM AFTER A MISPRINT ? AND HOW EXACTLY DO YOU THINK YOU INTEND EXPLAINING IT TO HIM, WHEN HE GROWS UP, THAT YOU NAMED HIM AFTER A DAMN TYPO ?“

Before I could even protest against this subtle switch from  first-person plural, collective accountability to the second-person singular responsibility, she leaves the room.

Date :  A few months later

Venue : Cochin, Kerela

I am travelling in God’s own country and as the sun goes down between the coconut palms, my taxi slows down to let another car overtake. I casually glance outside the window at the passing shops.  I suddenly stiffen.

“Quick. Stop the car”, I tell the driver.

As soon as he brings the car to a halt, I jump out and walk back to the shop I had seen from the window. It was a pharmacy. The sign board read “Arul Chemists”.

I don’t remember what exactly I buy there but I pick up something. I need written proof of the name on the bill.

Later that evening, I learnt from a Malayali friend I was dining with, that Arul is indeed a common name down South.

As soon as I return to my hotel I call Archana. 

“Good news. Our 'name problem’ is solved”.  I then tell her about “Arul Chemists” and the rest of it.

“Phew!”, she exclaims, sounding relieved. “Explaining to him that we gave him a Malayali name is far easier. We can put it down to national integration or some such thing. It gels that our elder son, Arnav, has a Bengali name. I think it’s possible to sell the story. Let's stick to it.”