Now you know why I am named Jamshed Velayuda Rajan, but you don’t know the lifelong suffering that comes with carrying three religions, one missing surname, and a father’s hope for a united country in your name.
Most people get a name. I got a mandate, to ensure that the core message of the Indian constitution – that all men and women are equal – gets carried forward.
My father, in a moment of patriotic excitement, decided his first-born son should carry Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity in his name.
Unfortunately, because he didn’t have access to Google, he gave me one Hindu name, one Parsi name, and one name that the Malayali neighbour claimed was Christian because, I am guessing, she had once met a Christian called Rajan.
That is how I became Jamshed Velayuda Rajan.
A name that sounds less like one person and more like the top three rank holders of IIT-JEE. All I have to do is add the rank in the front:
1. Jamshed
2. Velayuda
3. Rajan
Growing up, the first problem was school attendance. Every year, when a new teacher took attendance for the first time, I could see the exact moment their confidence left their body.
They would start with full energy.
“Anand?”
“Present, miss.”
“Balaji?”
“Here, miss.”
“Deepa?”
“Present, miss.”
Then they would look down at the register, pause, adjust their glasses, look at the class in general, look back at the register, and say, “Jam… Jamsh… Jam… who is this?”
I would quietly raise my hand.
“Me, miss.”
“Full name?”
This is where I had to take a deep breath, because saying my full name in school was not attendance. It was public speaking.
“Jamshed Velayuda Rajan, miss.”
Thankfully none of my teachers asked, “Beta, are you one person?”
Because then my split personality would have showed up. He would have said, “No ma’am…its two of us – Romeo, the one who wants a girlfriend right away and Rajan, the one who knows that if he gets caught his mom would spank him with a broomstick.
In college, things became more complicated. Because when people heard the name Jamshed, they assumed I was Muslim. When they heard Velayuda, they assumed I was Tamil Hindu. When they heard Rajan, they figured Jesus would save me if I failed a semester.
So, depending on which part of my name they were exposed to first, people built an entire biography for me.
If someone met me as Jamshed, they would ask, “You don’t eat pork, right?”
If someone met me as Velayuda, they would ask, “You must be very religious, no?”
If someone met me as Rajan, they would ask, “Which church do you go to?”
Basically, my name did what Indian politics has been trying to do – confuse everyone equally using religion.
The biggest confusion happens during form-filling.
Every form in India is designed by people who believe every human being has a first name, middle name, last name, and surname. But my name refused to cooperate.
First Name: Jamshed.
Middle Name: Velayuda.
Last Name: Rajan.
Surname: Blank.
The moment you leave surname blank, the Indian system gets nervous. The clerk behind the counter looks at you as if you have tried to enter the country illegally.
My struggles were more profound in North India.
“Surname?”
“I am sorry, I don’t have one.” I would insist.
“How can you not have surname?”
“In Tamil Nadu we don’t have surnames.” I would say confidently, thinking the conversation is about to end.
“Acha, madraasi ho?” He would ask in Hindi.
I nod to confirm his fears, but don’t want him to think that none of the Tamilians know Hindi…so reply: “Ji, haan. Hum madraasi hain.”
“So Rajan is surname?” He had no plans to let go.
“No,” I asserted again. We Rajans are also adamant when it comes to telling the truth. It is only in front of our wives we fumble, and that too only sometimes. With rest of the World, we are pretty solid.
“Then what is Rajan?”
“My name.”
“But Jamshed is also your name?” He was almost making fun of me…I could see a smile forming behind his yellow teeth, which he carefully controlled.
“Yes.”
“And Velayuda?”
“That’s also my name.”
And then he smiled. I also smiled back.
I thought finally we both had connected heart to heart and he had understood my predicament, but I was wrong. For the very next moment he would look at me the way Rekha looks at me when I say, “I’ll do it later.”
Then he would say, “Sir, system is asking for surname.”
This is how India works. You may not have a surname, but the system has feelings. So eventually I started sacrificing Rajan. Wherever a surname was compulsory, Rajan became my surname.
Somewhere in a government database, my name is Jamshed Velayuda, son of Rajan.
In another database, I am Velayuda Rajan, son of Jamshed.
I face issues during introductions as well. When someone asks,
“What is your name?” I have to make a decision based on the situation.
At a hotel reception, I say “Jamshed Rajan” because I want the check-in to finish before my children grow up.
At a government office, I say “Jamshed Velayuda Rajan” because there is no point trying to save time in a government office.
At Starbucks, I say “Raj.”
Because if I say “Jamshed,” the cup will come back as “Jam Shed.”
Once, at a coffee shop, I said “Jammy,” a nickname my first boss gave me. Obviously because he was too confused about which name to use.
However, that day in Starbucks…they decided to insult me. The boy wrote “Yummy.”
For ten minutes, I sat there wondering if I should correct him or accept that, finally, someone had understood my true personality.
How I wish that Starbucks employee was a girl, and I could walk up to her and say, “I know…right?”
My name has also created problems in job interviews.
An interviewer would look at my resume and ask, “So, Jamshed… interesting name. Are you from the North?”
“No, sir. Tamil.”
“Oh. But Jamshed?”
“Long story, sir.”
“And Velayuda?”
“Also long story.”
“And Rajan?”
“The longest story.”
By the time I finished explaining my name, half the interview was over and the interviewer had forgotten the job role. In some ways, my name helped me the get job.
My father had accidentally built my brand in 1975 – today even if I Google for only two out of my three names, I will be the first result.
Banks also toy with my name. Every time I called customer care, there would be a security verification.
“Sir, please confirm your full name.”
I would say, “Jamshed Velayuda Rajan.”
There would be silence. Then the customer care executive would say, “Sir, as per our records, your name is Jamshed V Rajan.”
“Yes, that is also me.”
“Sir, please confirm what V stands for.”
“Velayuda.”
“Can you spell that?”
At this point, I would look at the ceiling and think of my father. The man had left behind 200 goats, joined the Army, survived postings, married my mother, produced me, and then left me to spell Velayuda to call centre executives for the rest of my life.
“V for Victory,” I would begin.
“E for Elephant.”
“L for Love.”
“A for Apple.”
“Y for Yak.”
At “Yak,” the person would pause.
“Sir, what is yak?”
“A hairy animal found in the Himalayas.”
“Sir, can I write Y for Yellow?”
“Are you a Chennai Kings Fan?” I will ask, but when my joke will fall flat, I will toe his line, “Yes. At this stage, you can write whatever you want.”
The best part is, after spelling the whole thing, they would say, “Thank you, Mr Jamshed.”
Nobody ever wanted Velayuda. Even in my own life, Velayuda is like that middle child in a family photo who is present but ignored.
Jamshed gets attention. Rajan gets used daily. Velayuda sits in between like I would sit peacefully when my 19 year old daughter and my wife are fighting.
My daughter once asked me, “Appa, why is your name so long?”
I told her, “Because your grandfather wanted me to unite India.”
She thought for a while and said, “Did it work?”
I said, “No. But he tried and that should count for something.”
Then she continued, “You know appa, if grandpa tried to be an influencer today, he would have failed.”
“Why Rhea?” I asked. She was definitely on to something.
“Because research says polarizing content – especially the kind that spreads hate – gets more engagement on social media. So many influencers have figured out that if love gets them 10 likes, hatred gets them 1000 followers,” she said, sounding concerned.
I loved that she was concerned. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Unless, it is an Apple phone, in which case it can also fall from the dining table.
I proudly patted her on the shoulder and said: “You have a point Rhea.”
“Grandpa’s content would have been cute…not cutthroat,” she added.
I didn’t correct her. But it hurts to know that the concept of national integration is now considered cute.