Foreword: In memory of my father who made me understand the purpose of life long after his death.
V-E-N-K-A-T-A-C-H-A-L-A-M, yep that is my last name. It is indeed a mouthful with thirteen alphabets and it gets tougher when you start spelling it. I usually end up breathless or missing a letter when I start spelling it beginning with “V” as victory to end with “M” as Mary. I have even thought of amusing the caller on the other end by starting with “V” as vampire and “E” as evangelical and so forth. I have sometimes regretted missing out on not changing it during the naturalization process, an easier way allowed for newly minted citizens to change their awkward names. An opportunity to cut the last veins of the umbilical cord that gives a sense of connection to their culture, past, and family. A final push to the disappearing memory of their childhood and the codification of the “naturalization” process.
I left my last name untouched as I had scientific publications to my name and the ambivalence on deciding where to cut the long name. Unlike other cultures and areas of the world, I come from a part of South India where the last name you acquire is your father’s first name. There are no family names that can be mapped beyond one generation. You are a Kennedy or a Rockefeller or a Madoff for one generation. There is no way to rest upon the laurels of family names that can be traced to their past fame or shame. Unfortunately, women end up losing their last names when they get married- losing their relationship to their immediate family that they can relate to. Some South Indians do have last names that identify a caste, but such nomenclatures belong to larger clans or clades that are larger and different.
For me, my last name reminds me of my father when I go through life’s lessons. The substance of a person whom I have come to appreciate long after he is gone. A self-made man who made sure that his family lived comfortably. A kind soul who was indifferent to luxury but happy to help anyone who sought his help. A thoughtful person, who with the nudging of his wife, facilitated his childrens’ education even though he himself could not study beyond secondary school to support his widowed father. A romantic who sought and married the girl (arranged indeed) after reading her article about family life in a local publication in the tea plantations of Sri Lanka and helped her family till the end. An inquisitive father who would quiz us about Amazon (in Brazil) and the countries in Europe.
A man who proved that sheer handwork and honesty can make one wealthy starting as a teenager abroad and returning to his country to reinvent himself in his late thirties. A courageous and unamusing rebel who did not care about the stigma of the caste system and ensured my marriage to the woman I loved and did it again for my brother. A teetotaler who helplessly experienced the pain of seeing two of his talented sons destroy their lives to alcohol but still assured their financial well-being. A caring father who sent Diwali sweets and gifts to his daughter until the last year of his journey. A man who lived frugally to help many and was mocked by his own children for not amassing material wealth.
There had been times of confusion when I wished for a shorter name or a not-so-foreign name in the US. I remember the time when I was rejected for a faculty position from a university in the state of New York. The letter had a sentence saying that they were seeking individuals with “inherent” abilities. Was it my last name or race or my educational pedigree? Did I need to publish more papers in Nature beyond the only one I had alongside some decent ones? Did I not work hard enough despite the many 16-hour days in the lab? The answer that I could never find for that exercise in futility.
I have known a Pam who was initially Padmaja and a distant relative who went from Ramasamy to Ramsey for his last name. I can empathize with Mindy Kaling Chokalingam and I guess everyone has a reason for their decisions. For full disclosure, I have on various occasions, shortened my first name and reduced my last name to a single letter. I have also been amused by the fact there is another last name that is longer than mine. Schwarzenegger is 14 letters long and mine is a close second with 13. After some initial tries, I could easily pronounce it like many of my friends or colleagues here who have known me for a while but are terrified to say my last name. But then, I guess I am no Schwarzenegger.
I am at peace with my decision to hold on to my last name. I guess it reminds me of the person who instilled some of the characters I value in myself. An alarm that goes off when I am tempted to do something wrong. An urge to do something good for others- beyond serving myself. A tribute to the man whom I hope to exemplify to a minor fraction. My last name will die with me but the legacy and the character of the man who gave it to me may trickle down to my children, I hope.
