My Name is Wha?

I was this close to being named Maradona. After the Argentinean football legend. See, while I was still erm… in utero, everyone thought I was going to be a boy. And of all names in the world, my mom came up with Shawn (Sean?) Maradona. Well, if it makes things any clearer, yes, I was born in June 1986 and yes, my mother IS a Malayali Christian.

I believe that Sheryll Marion is definitely a marked improvement over Shawn Maradona. I like my name. I think it’s purty. However, I do know several people who would disagree. I also know several people who cannot pronounce or spell my name correctly. I’ve been called everything from Shreyal to Sherly to Simpson (it’s Sampson) to wait for it… Poison! That last one was what my Electronics Circuits Professor used to call me in college. Well… at least I think it was poison. It kinda also sounded like moison. Apparently getting your PHD means that while you do learn to write, you also forget how to read.

So it’s been a month since they changed my name on the office nameplate to a Poornima Goswami. At first I totally freaked. I mean what if this is the company’s passive aggressive way of saying 'Ciao'? Who's going to support my snacking addiction now?? Anyways, after ten very hyper-dramatic minutes, I found out that I wasn’t going anywhere. Phew! (Cue Sally Field’s ‘You like me! You really like me!’ speech.) Either way, it’s been a month and my name (according to my cabin door, at least) is still Poornima. On the plus side, I am growing accustomed to this particular name. Mainly because all the Poornimas I know are confident, smart, and tall, which aren’t lousy qualities to have. And the Goswami bit does make me feel just a little closer to my own latent Bengali roots (my mom’s dad was a Mukherjee). It got me thinking. What if my name was Poornima Goswami? Would I be an entirely different person? What if my name was, I don’t know, Matilda? Would I still be lousy at sports and therefore super competitive at Charades? What IS in a name anyways? Sure, Shakespeare was all ‘a rose by another name would still smell as sweet’. But what if it were named ALottaStinkyPoo? Would it still be considered the flower of ‘romance’? After all, nothing kills romance like a lotta stinky poo.

I read somewhere that in some cultures, people wait three or four years before naming their child. Apparently since a name is the ultimate expression of self, it’s prudent to wait till your kid’s personality actually ‘surfaces’ before you ‘label’ it with a well, a name. I guess those folks are just really paranoid about mistaking their Zac Efrons for Elmer Fudds. We can’t have that now, can we? It makes sense to me though. Like most Indian kids born between 1970 to 1990, I have two names – my ‘real’ name and my pet name. When I was younger, I used to think that I really was two different people. Sheryll was the calm(-er), mature(-er), and more hardworking one, while Chinky (Chinka, Chinkla, and other derivatives) was the nutty, noisy brat. Of course once I grew up, I put away all childish things (such as schizophrenia), and so Sheryll and Chinky became one massive nutty, noisy, guffawing entity.

I’m still not entirely sure what my man Shakespeare meant about names, but either way, I’ll think twice before I order a bouquet of ALottaStinkyPoo and baby’s breath.

Life, Love, and a Kettle of Fish

You know that ‘times are a-changing’ when instead of forcing you to read articles about higher education, your loved ones start handing you pamphlets on ‘How to get your Dream Guy’. Articles filled with golden nuggets of wisdom on attaining instant couple-y bliss.

Sample Nugget 1: Speak softly and always carry an attractive shade of lipstick. (Because you know, when it comes to finding your soul mate, nothing works better than Maybelline Moisture Whip in Wine Divine. Huh.)

Sample Nugget 2. Do not be a Know-It-All. Sure we’re annoying people, but if some random dude comes up to me and starts talking about Jane Austen, that firebrand Mexican author who wrote that great book ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, I just might go all Nacho Libre on someone.

2009 has been the year of the wedding. About 5 of my friends got hitched this year and it’s only May. Being ‘next in line’ (*rolls eyes*) at the ‘ripe old age of almost 23’, I get asked the Question. A lot. The ‘So when’s YOUR turn?’ question. If I got a Kit Kat for every time I’ve been asked this asinine question, I’d be pretty well, rubenesque. Which I am. *Draw conclusion here*

But even though my life is a blooming Wet Wet Wet song (Because Love. It’s all around.), it took a silly forward to get me thinking about life, love, and a kettle of fish.

It went something like this –

‘He climbed the tallest mountain, swam the deepest ocean, and walked across the hottest desert for her.
She left him because he was never home.’

Silly though it may be, it really got me thinking. What IS this love we keep harping on about? Why this, quite frankly, sadomasochistic need to ‘cross a blazing hot desert’ to prove your ‘undying’, intense affection? What’s the point?

So one of the many things I’ve learned about myself is that I’m not essentially an overly romantic person. OK, so I DO buy into the whole Mr. /Ms Right concept. But I’m also aware that Right does not necessarily equal Perfect. OK sure, I love listening to how couples met and fell in love, but I also know that it need not happen to everyone. Sure, I believe in monogamy but – no wait, there are no buts for this one. I just do. End of story. The thing is I just don’t get the whole flowers and V-day candle-lit meals thing, I mean sure, it’s fun and all, but I really don’t see the point if you’re going to spend the rest of the year in an ungrateful, unequal, unpleasant relationship where one person does all the giving and the other, all the taking. Call me crazy, but while I WOULD like to be swept off my feet (Ha! Fat chance. Literally.), I’d like it even more if, once in a while, the floor got swept too. Of course, I don’t expect servitude (Although that would be kinda fun. Hail Queen Sheryll! Giggle.), but an occasional helping hand would be well, helpful. (Consider this last paragraph as a long winded explanation to why my answer to the ‘turn’ question is ‘Not any time soon’.)

But then again, contradictory as this may sound, like every other girl, I too look forward to one day hearing those three wonderful, magical words –
‘I have chocolate’.

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Shout out to Princely! Coz I can. ;)