What's in a Name?

Thanks to Woody Allen and Rushdie for some 'inspiration'.

"You know, there are some books and movies that I cant bring myself to watch simply because of their names?"
"What bullshit!"
"No. Seriously. If someone told me, 'Go watch Waisa Bhi Hota Hai Part II, its really good,' I'd stop trusting his movie tastes immediately, even without watching the movie."

I backhanded another dosa on the tava as I listened to this conversation in the background. Of course I understood the feeling, having a bias against something because you don't like its name. I have suffered from it for twenty-one-and-a-half years myself. My name is Mona Lisa Devi. Yes, I am serious. That is my name. Apparently, when the news of my mother's pregnancy reached my father, he had just come back from seeing the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, and was awestruck by its beauty. I shudder to think what my name would have been if he liked Da Vinci's Virgin of the Rocks instead! My mother, on the other hand, promised various Goddesses that she'd name me after them if I turned out to be a girl and because she couldn't have given me thirty names, she named me the generic Devi. And so, there I was. Their proudest possession, Mona Lisa Devi.

For years I tolerated things like, "Smile, Mona Lisa... Oops, I forgot. No one really knows if you can smile or not." Laughter all around. Or the "Mona Darling..." in that typical Ajit voice. Even more laughter. Every time someone saw my name in an application form, I'm sure a little remark would be made, "And I thought Blossom Babykutty was the worst I would come across" or, "Why would you do that to your kid?" or, "Lets give her an admission just for the name!" The Bombay Vikings song "O Mere Mona Re" allowed society to attack me with renewed vigour. Cheap, lecherous men on roads who earlier stuck to their usual set of lines that had rehearsed for the other women now had a song to sing.

It's not as if I had never considered changing my name, but just that I thought of it a little late, and although I never learnt to ignore the ignominy I suffered, I learnt to tolerate it, albeit with the ocassional, "Give it a break!" or, "You know, a kid in my kindergarten class cracked the same joke," or on some particularly bad day, "I curse you, bastard. I wish your telephone number is one digit away from an all night taxi service!"

The dosa had now become a crispy brown, with the oil making its presence felt, without being overbearing. The chutney and molagai podi made it perfect for a light 'tiffin' dinner. I walked back to the drawing room where the conversation had now moved to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I remember loving the Turtles because there was this obscure character called Mona Lisa who appeared in one episode. For years, this little salamander-like animation series character was my lease of life. I knew that what I had was a real name. A really bad one, but a real one nonetheless. I sometimes wished I got hold of some mutagent, so that I'd become like that Mona Lisa, and spend my time with people who didn't hold back a sly smirk every time my name was uttered.

As I drifted into the world of the Turtles, slowly devouring the round dosa, I heard one of them say, "I'm going to Delhi this month for three months, and I need one of you to stay at my place. " I jumped on the opportunity. I had gotten tired of my roommate, and this crummy apartment.

My friend, Ananya Rajan, lived in the opposite end of town, and for those three months when she was away, I lived her life. I ordered pizza. When the guy asked me for my name, I didn't have to hear the customary, "Mona Lisa? Did I get you right?" Instead, I heard, "Yes, Ms. Ananya. Would you like extra cheese?" When I bumped into this cute guy in the corridor of the building, and he asked me who I was, there was no, "Oh, Mona Lisa... Um, yeah. Um, have a nice day." He said instead, "Ananya? Flat 203? I always wondered what you would look like." At least for the time that I spent in the building, I was Ananya - the lovely girl with the lovely name.

And one evening, when the Cute Guy and I were watching TV at home, I heard this knock on the door. There was something about the quality of the knock that made it sound cruel. And clearly, the knocker was in a hurry, because even before this knockee could get to the door, the knock had repeated itself four times. When I opened the door, I had this strange feeling that I wasn't opening the door of my house, but the door leading to some dark, evil land. At the door stood this tall figure in a black hood carrying a weapon.

"Ananya Rajan?" he asked, in his rough voice.
"Yes..."
"I have come for you."
"Who are you?"
"I am Death."
"Oh, there's been a mistake. I'm not Ananya Rajan."
"That's what they all say. Your night shirt has AR stitched on it."
I was wearing her clothes! "No, I'm serious. I'm Mona Lisa Devi"
"You expect me to believe that?" he said, with an evil little grin.
Then Cute Guy came to the door and said, "Ananya, what's wrong?"
"Stop calling me that!!! I AM NOT ANANYA!"
Death laughed louder and louder, and the world dissolved into nothingness.

When I got up, this nurse told me, "The operation is successful. You'll take some time getting used to those wings. Here, take this. This is the latest model," handing me a harp. Then, shouting out to someone, she said, "Mona! There's another one of you now. You can stop crying now," and turning to me she said, "She's been crying here for five hundred years. She hates her name, you see."