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I belatedly realized that there were a few categories that had been left out in the first post on Mallu Christian names…
The list continueth:
1. Phonetically translated from shortened English names (Elizabeth = Lizzy or Jessica = Jessie or Rosemary = Rosy) but then subsequently miss-spelled, e.g. Lissy or Licy (fortunately not Lousy!) I once came across a Wincy – kept me wondering if a miss-spelled Eensy weensy spider nursery rhyme was responsible! The reason is that the letter ‘z’ does not exist in Malayalam – the closest equivalents are ’s’ and ‘c’!
Male Mallus are not spared. I once met a ‘Reggie’ (or so I thought) and innocently asked him if his full name was Reginald – as in the Archie comics. he threw me a disgusted look and then spelled it out to dispel any doubt. “R-e-j-i : that’s my full first name.”
“Oh!” I replied, trying to be polite, “Ji like the Northies – with respect and all that jazz… ” I trailed off as he gave me a blank look!
2. Names that sound like noises – the most common from Kerala is Achu which sounds like a loud, too-late-to-check sneeze to me.
Tamil is not immune to similar tendencies – Kichu is extremely common diminutive of Krishna – I think that sounds like a politely suppressed sneeze! I once met a Bhooma and couldn’t help thinking her name sounded like a mini explosion!
Here is a post from Timofeyevich on some more amazing laugh-aloud examples of Tamil names!
© Sosha Srinivasan
The story doesn’t end there.
Yohanan* stayed, thriving on the small kindnesses of the extended family, while Lukachen’s* wife cursed him every time she lay eyes on him – and treated him like a slave…
There he lived another ten years far from the land of his mother’s ancestors (Tamil Nadu) and even further from the land of his birth (Burma (Myanmar)), until Lukachen drew his last breath. The treatment he got from Lukachen’s widow only worsened until Lukachen’s youngest brother, who worked in Bombay (Mumbai) intervened. He arranged a job for Yohanan in the same city.
Yohanan, now a strapping young man, returned to our hometown every few years and his thoughts naturally turned to settling down. A young servant maid caught his eye, a fact not lost on the family. The wedding was arranged in due course and the couple moved to Bombay. After several years there, Yohanan landed a better-paid job in the UAE, where he lived and worked while his wife and three daughters stayed back in Mumbai, where they eventually bought a large, well-appointed apartment with his hard-earned money (something most Indians couldn’t even dream of in the 1970s and the 1980s).
Yohanan was well into his fifth decade when he was felled by a massive heart attack. His daughters, though, subsequently did very well for themselves and the last I heard were well settled in the United States…
Footnote: I am not sure how Appachen’s brother who went to Singapore fared during WW2. I know, though, that he decided to settle there and his family flourished in the years that followed. One of his grand-daughters married a Singaporean Chinese, and another, a Swiss guy. Other cousins of mine from the same side of the family (the “house name” is Ikareth) have married, variously, a Swede, an Iranian, and Americans of Indian and Pakistani origin. Thus our generation is truly an international melange.
*Name changed to protect the privacy of the individual concerned.
© Sosha Srinivasan
I spent quite a few summers at my maternal grandparents home in Kerala while growing up. Invariably there would be visitors – neighbors from across the hill or the next village dropping in for a leisurely chat and tea, and sometimes relatives on a round of visits during their vacation…
One such family was Yohanan’s* – only we didn’t know for sure whether we were blood relatives – or did we?
Once Yohanan and his family had left, Ammachy, my grandmother, filled me in on the history – and my jaw dropped and stayed that way for a long time – I’m not exaggerating.
It’s a story that is truly stranger than fiction – one of those amazing tales of not just adventure, but unimaginable hardship and heartbreak…
It all began in the 1930s when one of Appachen’s (my grandfather’s) dozen brothers (let’s call him Lukachen*) took off to seek his fortune in what was then colonial Burma (now Myanmar). He was followed closely by another brother who decided to try his luck in Singapore…
The Japanese conquest of Burma
But elation turned to consternation for, what was this? He had a young dark-skinned boy, not older than five, in tow!
Lukachen explained that he had traveled overland into Assam as part of a huge exodus of half a million strong Indians fleeing the Japanese invasion. The refugees died in their thousands of malaria, typhoid, dengue, infections, starvation, and gastrointestinal causes… It had taken him over a year to travel mostly on foot, down from Burma to our home state of Kerala in the deep south of peninsular India. He had joined a group of Tamil laborers traveling south when they were all stricken with cholera. Already weakened, the group, including the mother of the toddler, was decimated by the epidemic. Before she succumbed she had asked Lukachen, who had recovered from the diarrheal illness, to take responsibility for the child…
The only problem was that Lukachen’s wife – he had married shortly before leaving for Burma – wasn’t buying the story! It wasn’t helped by the fact that Lukachen refused to give up the child and put him in an orphanage… His wife then accused him of fathering the child… and our Kerala village buzzed with the scandal…
There was a family huddle and still Lukachen refused to back down. The child, by now named Yohanan*, stayed…
Did Lukachen actually father the child, or was it just that he took a promise made very seriously – or was it simply because he could not break a strong emotional bond he had formed with Yohanan on his long journey home? We never did find out…
*Name changed to protect the privacy of the individual concerned.
© Sosha Srinivasan
All those strange Mallu names suddenly make a lot of sense! Mine, though, does not belong to this category – read my post Tame that name for details. You have to admit, though – we Mallus know how to laugh at ourselves!
A relative of ours’ firstborn was named Sony – this was back in the 1980s when music tapes and the Walkman was the rage. When my cousin George heard of it, he chuckled and quipped, “What are they going to name their next two kids – National and Panasonic?”
Finally, the name ‘Boben’ is mentioned twice below – reminds me of a cartoon strip called Boben & Molly on the last page of a Malayalam magazine that my parents used to subscribe to during the 1970s in Bombay (Mumbai). We kids couldn’t read the language, so would pester my mom to, even though we mostly couldn’t understand the jokes – probably because they were political satires…
The formula below that I got through a mailing list may be old hat – from 2005 or thereabouts – but worth reproducing!
© Sosha Srinivasan
It has been a well kept secret for eons, but finally Itty Boben Jacob Elias Kuruvilla from Pazhookaville, near Thelmasherry, Kerala has consented to let us publish this classified Mallu formula, on the naming of Mallu Christian kids.
1. Select a combination of both the mother’s and father’s names. e.g. Suresh and Sharon = Susha, or Joseph and Beena = Jobi.
2. The addition of a ‘mon’ (meaning son) or ‘mol’ (meaning daughter) is optional. eg: Sushamol, Jobimon
3. To attach a modern, Anglicized feel to the names, the mol or mon can be replaced with boy or girl. eg: Jobiboy, Sushagirl.
4. For the politically correct Keralite family, mol and mon can be replaced by the universal ‘kutty’(child), which
can be used for both boys and girls! eg: Jokutty, Susikutty.
5. Even parents having combination names can still give their children suitable names eg: Libi and Jobi = Lijo.
However, in the scenario where the parents already have combination names that cannot form more comprehensible child names. eg: Itty and Amukutty, would produce only Itam (which doesn’t even sound like a name), or Amit (which is like Northie and stuff!!!!), then:
a. Use an English word like Baby, Merry, Titty, Pearly, Smiley, Anarchy, etc.
b. Use a combination of two English names that you think sound cool (but never cool enough) like
Meredith + Gina = Megi, or
Sharon + Darlene = Sharlene
c. Use a name from the Bible (and not Nebuchadnezzar! Use one that even Vellia-ammachy can pronounce!) like Jacob, Sam, John, Joseph, Mathew, or Jijo!
d. Use a name that sounds like a cuss word but isn’t. eg: Boben, Prussy, Shagi, JustinTimberlake etc.
Note: The use of the letter ‘j’ is useful in the naming of sibling where names that sound alike are a novelty. eg: Ajji, Sajji, Majji, Bhajji and Nimajji, or Sijo, Lijo, Jijo, Anjo, Panjo, Banjo.
Indu Balachandran is a regular-but-sporadic contributor to The Hindu (which, by the way, has introduced a beautiful beta version at http://beta.thehindu.com/ – such an improvement on the original). I make it a point to read Indu’s offerings out loud to my son and they never fail to raise peals of laughter.
Here are links some of her earlier pieces:
- (S)hopping mad
- Lessons in Chenglish
- Oops Let Me Politically Correct That!
- Look what I picked up on my travels
Here is a passage from her latest article, Relatively speaking… on Tam Brahms (for the uninitiated that’s not an obscure composition by the famous German composer, but a short ‘n’ sweet way of referring to Tamil Brahmins!) describing a local relative introducing older kin to a visiting youngster:
“Do you know who this is? This is your Ambi mama who is Cheelu athai’s son-in-law Gopi’s cousin, who is married to Ramani athimber’s daughter, who is also the co-sister of Lavanya Aunty…”
Reminds me of older female relatives in our Syrian Christian community, of which my maternal grandmother, my Ammachy, reigned supreme! She’d start off real simple, but then lead us through this veritable maze of marriage and blood connections that became increasingly more labyrinthine by the minute. At the end of it, we’d have a glazed look in our eyes that would take ages to revert to normal…!
As kids, my cousin Mona (there is a link to her travel blog on my side bar) and I once travelled as front-seat passengers in a car with Ammachy and our respective mothers (who happen to be sisters) in the back seat.
There was a lull in their conversation and Mona grabbed the chance to liven things up a bit.
“Sosha! Don’t you know who I’m talking about?” she asked me loudly in Malayalam, nudging me in the ribs.
I looked at her blankly because we hadn’t been talking at all, merely watching the sights through the window.
“Our Benny mon from up-on-the-hill’s sister-in-law’s second cousin…”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, catching on as she gave me a broad wink and an even broader grin.
“… who married Pulimootil* Mathai’s daughter-in-law’s maternal uncle…” Mona finished with a small hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed giggle.
(*Pulimootil – a common “house name” that literally translates as “At the base of the tamarind tree”. Probably to differentiate between other Mathais from Plaamotil (at the base of the jackfruit tree), Maamootil (at the base of the mango tree) and Malamootil (at the base of the hillock)!
We turned our heads as casually as possible.
In the backseat Ammachy was now sitting bolt upright, listening keenly, eyes aglint, head tilted to one side – she was in her element. We could practically visualize tiny gear wheels whirring and clicking into place in her brain.
But she, the great exponent on Syrian Christian genealogy, couldn’t place who Mona was describing…
“Addhe aaraa?” she asked. “Who is that?”
[* Read Mona's comment here to fill in on what happened next - plus a couple of other details - which escaped my memory(!)]
The two of us burst into laughter… Mona had made it up and managed to fool her too! Sweet revenge!
It took Ammachy a few seconds to realize she was having her leg pulled, but then she – and Mona’s mom and mine too – joined in the laughter.
Ammachy lived to the ripe old age of 92. She was active and her mind was as sharp as ever until the end. No doubt all those mental gymnastics she put herself through regularly helped!
© Sosha Srinivasan
Several decades ago my mother recounted to me a short story she’d read in Malayalam, a language I do not read; though I understand Malayalam pretty well, I struggle to speak it.
Anyway, the story had quite an impact on me, stayed in my mind, and several years later I wrote down my version in English (of course). Please note this is not a translation by any stretch of the imagination. The social milieu and other details may be very different, but I trust the broad gist of the story is the same.
I don’t recall who the author was – it could be either Vaikom Muhammad Basheer or O.V. Vijayan – but I could be mistaken. If any of my readers could throw some light on this, they’re welcome, of course.
Here it is – morbid humor, psychological thriller? You decide:
OLD FRIENDS
- Dr. Jacob leaned back in his reclining chair. Only a week into his retirement from the Indian Railways, the feeling of time idle on his hands was all too new and he savored every moment – it was too soon yet for boredom to set in.
As usual, he fell to reminiscing, this time about his medical college days and it was only natural that his eyes were drawn to the photograph on the wall.
“How time flies,” he mused. “It seems like only yesterday I had posed for it with my batch mates and professors.”
Framed in sober black, the picture showed a group of young men, formally dressed in the style of the 1950s, standing in two rows behind five seated figures. The doctor recalled with a smile how his granddaughter, Anna always said that the many black and white prints, dulled by time, in almost every room, only served to lend their ancestral home a period flavor.
Suddenly the doctor’s face changed expression and a frown creased his forehead as he leaned forward. The photograph seemed to have an uneven dark patch on the top right corner, marring the face of one of the standing figures. He got up for a closer look. It wasn’t a trick of the light as he had first thought. Some insect had merrily made a meal of the corner of the picture.
The doctor frowned again, trying to recall whose image had been eaten away. wasn’t it T.N. Thomas – quiet unassuming Thomas – who had joined the Navy? He peered closer at the names printed below to make sure. Yes, he was right. he made a mental note of the damage, reminding himself to take the photograph to the studio in town, though he was doubtful if anything could be done.
The next morning his wife, Saramma, was scanning the newspaper over coffee, reading out aloud interesting bits, as was her habit. Finishing page four, she had just started on the obituaries. The doctor had always secretly thought this a morbid habit, enough to upset anyone’s digestion. It had hardly bothered him while he had been in service: he would be away at work while Saramma regaled the cat with the daily news. But he did realize that these classifieds were one way people living in the countryside kept in touch with friends and relatives in distant cities and towns.
His reverie was interrupted when he thought he heard the name “Thomas” mentioned.
“Thomas?” he asked his wife. “Can you read that again?”
She looked up at him briefly over her bifocals. then proceeded to read out the paragraph again.
“Dr. T. N. Thomas, Retd. Medical Officer – Indian Navy. A4 K C Towers, Palayam High Road, Trivandrum, expired 19th September 1989. Funeral today at 3:00 p.m. CSI Church.”
Saramma nearly fell out of her chair as he tore the newspaper from her hands. He scanned the entry once, twice, then lowered the paper, muttering to himself. The coincidence was almost too fantastic to be true.
He shook his head in disbelief, then slowly became aware of his wife hovering over him, a worried expression on her face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened? Are you feeling alright?”
The doctor took a few deep breaths to calm down and then explained that Thomas had been at medical school with him. Saramma clucked in sympathy. He left out the bit about the photograph, knowing that Saramma would think he was growing superstitious and sentimental with age.
From that moment, the photograph became a near obsession with the doctor. He examined it almost every time he passed it in the hall. Three days passed, then six, when one morning he noticed that the dark shadow had spread, curling around the legs of another figure. He peered closer, then reeled back in shock.
“Mathai!” It came out in an agonized whisper. Tears sprang up in his eyes as the memories came flooding back. Mathai… his cousin, childhood friend and confidant… they had been like brothers… climbing trees, swimming in the river, picking fruit… and those youthful escapades in college, some that not another soul knew about…
“No!” exclaimed the doctor, shaking his head. “No, it won’t… It can’t be… “
As far as he knew, Mathai was in perfect health, walking a good two miles every morning. Retired from the Army Medical Corps, he had settled down in his hometown, Iroor, a twenty minute drive away. The doctor was just promising himself that he would motor down that very evening to check up on his old friend, when there was a loud rap on the front door.
The moment Dr. Jacob saw who it was, he knew something was very, very wrong. It was Mathai’s driver of many years – and the old man seemed most upset.
“What is it, man?” the doctor shouted, clutching his shoulder, fearing the worst.
“Saar… Mathai saar…” It was too much for the poor man and he broke down sobbing.
Saramma came bustling out of the kitchen and took in the scene at a glance. Two minutes later the man was seated on the wide verandah wall, drinking a glass of cold water, considerably calmer. They managed to piece together what had happened from the man’s broken account. Mathai had fallen to a first and fatal heart attack at 6:35 a.m. Telephone lines in Iroor were down due to a thunderstorm the previous night, so he had been sent across… Their presence was required immediately.
Dr. Jacob and his wife were seated at the dining table the following evening, picking at their food. The obsequies were over and the numbing shock had slowly turned into resignation. The troubled doctor decided to open the subject of the photograph.
I thought it was mere coincidence the first time,” said the doctor soberly at the end of his account. “But not now.”
“Nonsense!” scoffed his wife. “I refuse to believe it.”
“Then wait for the next time,” replied the doctor. “And we’ll know for sure.”
A fortnight later Dr. Jacob found part of yet another figure eaten away. It was Eapen, in private practice in Kottayam. His wife, Dolly, was distantly related to Saramma, as most Syrian Christians inevitably are. they kept in touch, getting together for many social occasions.
With fingers that trembled slightly, the doctor removed the frame from the wall, dusted it and carried it to Saramma in the kitchen.
“Pooh!” she laughed, dismissing him with a wave of a floury hand. “We’ll see!”
But Saramma’s face turned grim when the telegram arrived that afternoon. Eapen had been killed in a road accident.
A week later Saramma caught him scrutinizing the picture on the wall. It was too much for her and she burst into tears.
“Burn it, destroy it!” she wept. “It’s the work of the devil!”
The doctor managed to calm her down with considerable difficulty. After that he made sure Saramma was out or busy in another part of the house before examining the photograph.
One morning, a few days later, Dr. Jacob stole a look while Saramma was busy feeding the hens in the yard.
He looked – and froze in horror.
The dark fingers of death clutched at a figure in the photograph. There was no mistake – it was he himself.
As Dr. Jacob slid against the wall to the floor, the world whirling around him in an ever-darkening vortex, a line of verse he had once read seemed to echo in his mind.
” …death and I are old friends… “
© Sosha Srinivasan
I spent a couple of years living in a student hostel in Thiruvananthapuram (formerly Trivandrum), the capital of my home state Kerala, while I completed my pre-degree course (11th and 12th grade). It was a mixed experience back in the 1980s. That the city was conservative would be an understatement, its inhabitants seemingly more equine than human, as most had blinkers on. Hopefully attitudes have changed in the interim, but I haven’t visited to find out. Hostel life was primitive but we had our share of escapades and fun.
Late one afternoon, I was walking back to the hostel alone, down a narrow, winding road behind the neighboring Government College for Women. I was lost in thought (unfamiliar territory, you know!) and barely noticed a man standing further on. When I glanced at him, he looked back with an expectant smirk. I frowned and then wondered at the sudden change in his expression to one of disappointment, but dismissed him completely from my mind as I passed him. Minutes later I reached the hostel gates and there was a sudden hubbub behind me – shrill screams and the sound of running footsteps. I wheeled about and thought it wisest to step aside as a crowd of girls I recognized from the hostel stampeded past, shrieking hysterically. One actually ran blindly past the gate, frantically chanting prayers to all the gods of the Hindu pantheon, and I had to gently redirect her in.
I finally caught up with the breathless gaggle, now assembled by the study hall. I was curious to find out what had provoked the flight of the flighty – a rabid dog, or a more exotic monitor lizard, perhaps? But I was taken aback when they began to throw a barrage of questions at me!
“Didn’t you see that?” demanded Suja.
“What?” I frowned.
“That man…” Annie piped up.
“Yeah, I did… so what?”
“No! No! Didn’t you see what he DID?” asked Uma, covering her mouth with a hand and rolling her eyes heavenward.
Some of the others giggled uncontrollably.
“He was just standing there… vayi noki-fying* I think!” I replied puzzled.
More hysterical laughter.
[*Vayi noki (Malayalam slang) - literally someone who "mouth looks" when you eat. In this context a guy drooling over a gal. (The English suffix "-fying" converts it into a verb!)]
“Gawd!” Suja slapped her forehead in disbelief. “You must be blind!”
I considered. True, I am a high myope, possibly legally blind too, but I can see perfectly well with my glasses on. But what was it – obviously larger than life to the others – that I had managed to so seriously overlook? To that innocent query, Suja dropped a bombshell – the guy had dropped his lungi (loincloth) and had been standing there in the buff – and I had walked past him without noticing. How -um- deflating it must have been for the chap’s -er- ego!
Ergo, the next question of course, directed at me, was – how the heck had I missed it? I think it’s because, when I look at someone, I tend to focus exclusively on his or her face – not the nether regions!
Unfortunately these girls had a clearer view by virtue of distance and then had had no choice but to run the gauntlet. It seemed that particular lane was the favorite haunt of several local flashers.
Of course, the last questions was – what would I have done had I noticed? To that I had to truthfully reply – I don’t know. I still don’t know because, though I’ve heard several women complain about it in Chennai too, I have never observed the phenomenon firsthand – thanks, I think, to my habit of drifting through life with my head in the clouds!
The week after my near miss there was a flutter of excitement. Another group of hostelites had been on their way out for a leisurely Saturday afternoon stroll through town when they were accosted by an exhibitionist at the selfsame spot.
What the fellow did not expect was the presence – and reaction – of Bobby, who had been raised in Kuwait and was much bolder than the rest. She was one of the first to notice and, before the others could react and run helter skelter like a flock of panicked goats, she snatched a large ‘appoopan koda’ (‘grandfather’s (straight) umbrella‘)
from another girl and charged forward. She swung the brolly furiously at him, its long, pointed steel tip glinting dangerously in the sun.
The chap gathered up his lungi and fled, with Bobby hot on his heels shouting curses and threats. Though the perpetrator escaped with all body parts intact (much to our disappointment), Bobby was feted as the heroine of the hostel.
Unfortunately I missed a ringside view of the action. If I’d been there, I mused aloud, I would have helped bring the guy down and thrashed him…
“Huh! You!” snorted Suja. “You would have stood there blinking right through it all, and finally asked – ‘What happened?’”
It was only twenty years later that I learned that exhibitionism is a mental disorder, classified as part of the obsessive compulsive spectrum, and should be treated with psychotherapy and medication.
I did not, however, miss a dozen hostel girls ‘vayi noki-fying’ a gang of college boys, simply because I happened to be part of the former. We gathered accross the street from the guys’ street corner haunt, emboldened by our numbers. Up rode a dashing helmeted figure on an Enfield Fury (remember that bike?) and we let out a collective, appreciative “Ooooh!” We waited with bated breath as young Galahad eased off his armor – to reveal a callow youth with a pimply visage.
We girls, without exception, went “Yeeuurrgh!”. Disappointed we trooped off to look at something more pleasing at the ‘ladies’ fancy store‘ down MG Road.
© Sosha Srinivasan
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