The Naming Convention

What drives a respected Professor at a U.S. university to write an article on his webpage explaining his name?(reference: http://users.ece.cmu.edu/~raj/name.html) Why am I consistently referred to as T. Asha in Bangalore, or my friend called "Dibba" in Kharagpur? I call it the naming convention...or rather, the conventional naming.

Here's my theory: The human mind tries to fit everything to a recognizable pattern. We see a  grassy field with lines on it, we automatically start pattern matching it against football/hockey/baseball grounds. We see a name and we break it up to fit our predetermined format for names, translate it to our mother-tongue, re-translate it to English and generate what most obviously must be the actual name! Then we smugly think "Stupid fellow! Can't even spell his own name!"

Next comes the phase when we, in all our magnanimity, repeat the "correct" name over and over again to the person, hoping that they'll someday pick it up! Usually they do. I, for example, reply to anything between Tisaya and Treiasha without so much as a flinch, Divya knows to pick up her mail whenever they announce "Dibba courier!" over the intercomm and I am sure each one of you have a similar story to tell. But often people turn out to be exceptionally thick headed and continue to argue on how their names are supposed to be pronounced. I was that way at one point of time, and I remember the patient sighs as people explained to me that given the spelling, my pronunciation of  Tiyasa is gravely erroneous! Today I laugh at my ignorance...

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have done my very best to conform to your naming convention. But there's always a point where one must draw the line. And I have identified my point to lie after the T and before the Asha. I hereby declare that I absolutely, solemnly and wholeheartedly refuse to be rechristened T.Asha, no matter what part of the world I reside in. I will not respond to this name and will forever boycott any person/organization that addresses me by this name. Be Warned! I will fight this injustice till my dying breath!

My Fairytale: Introduction

When I was a kid, I used to believe that I was a character out of some book, where my life was part of a fascinating plot, connecting lost puzzle pieces that would fall apart if not for my existence. As I grew up, however, I convinced myself that I was extremely real, as was the world around me. The realization that my existence did not in one bit affect the flow of any award winning script was definitely not easy to digest. But the overwhelming evidence against my theory left no doubt in my mind whatsoever. To begin with, if my life had been penned down, it had been done with extreme attention to detail. Such detailing, to the level of my shoe size and eyesight, can rarely be seen in literature, and definitely not for supporting characters. That I was not the protagonist was evident: I was neither a princess nor a pauper, not amazingly gifted at any of the arts and definitely not breathtakingly beautiful! I was not the antagonist,  simply because I am not evil! In short, I was fairly uninteresting and nothing of importance ever happened to me. Thus, dear friends, I came to the conclusion that I never had a fairytale!
Now, some ten years after convincing myself of my absolute irrelevance, I would like to propose a plot for a fairytale. One in which someone like me can be the central character, and live happily ever after. You see, magic, if it happens, doesn't happen to pretty people only, nor is love restricted to royals. You can of course argue that magical love is a thing restricted to the rich and famous, but I'll simply cite about half a score examples to the contrary to end the debate. That, however, is not the point because my plot does not have a prince charming or a pumpkin carriage, mirrors don't talk to me and as far as I am aware I am neither a mermaid nor a duck.No this fairytale does not have magic, nor the ideal man and it definitely does not speak of the kind of love that makes you live happily ever after.This fairytale is about a real person; one who has been rejected and wronged, one who has loved selfishly and hated irrationally, one who can't sing or dance to win peoples' hearts and one whose fortune does not change overnight to provide every happiness in the world. On the contrary, this is the story of one of those simple beings to whom finding ten bucks on the sidewalk is worth writing down.
I start narrating this tale with the fear that most of my readers are more interested in the ten bucks than in me. However, to prove myself worthy of being the protagonist, I have decided to take up the challenge.

The Bird of Destiny

A shrill cry - desperate - reverberating from the cracks of a shattered soul

A shower of golden feathers,twisted at odd angles, bent, tattered and torn

wings flapping relentlessly, fighting hard against an impending doom

talons clawing at the empty air, searching for a nonexistent foothold

the vicious tongues of flame rise and fall as if to an unheard symphony

scorching, burning in every touch, hungry for the last shreds of hope

a lone tail feather catches flame, a momentary flash of brilliant gold

And then nothing but a trail of ash and soot, a stab of pain, a stench of fear

A sudden restless rustling of the wings,  a cry of new-found vigor

an inch of progress -  a possible escape - a  sudden glimmer of hope

But then the inevitable backward glance,the vision of all-engulfing flames

Terror - a flutter of panic - the gradual dawning of cold despair

Fatigue - wings beat out of rhythm, a realization of the inevitable end

the fierce cry of will fades into a mournful song of acceptance 

The flames approach, touch, advance - the waves of heat burst forth

and then the burning - somehow purifying each string of existence

The rising fumes choking, breaking, muting the last lament

Blazing fire weaving into the plumes of  dazzling gold

Flecks of ash swirling amongst the the ever-spreading flames

Before disappearing into nothingness, denied the truth of existence

A wing swallowed, then the other - body indistinguishable from its doom

A silent tear, vaporized before it could take its destined shape

A swirl of fire, smoke and extinguished life bursts into emptiness

And then the flames keep burning on, but the phoenix doesn't rise again

[Disclaimer: The content of the above text is purely fictional. Any similarity, to any phoenix, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No phoenixes were harmed in the writing of the above text.]

Dear Listener....

[After 6 solid months of writers' block, I guess its a decent start...]

Words, many words woven into a  fantastic tale

 embroidery giving life to a tapestry, ornate

An anecdote to complement the best vintage wine

The frowns, laughs and sighs so perfectly timed

And the captivating melody of her mirthful voice

As she casts that unearthly spell with such ethereal poise

Oh listener, how perfect this evening seems

As you swallow the elixir of her childish dreams

And you wander, lustful, in her enchanted world

As she fuels her lies with well chosen words

And if ever she pauses for a slow sip of wine

Oh! how you die to hear how her fantasy unwinds

Oh listener, for a moment, break free of the spell

The truth is whispered behind the lies words can tell

Hear the clatter of the china when her white fingers shake

The tinkling of her jewels speak of the laughter she fakes

The rustle of her handkerchief, as she tries wipe her sweat

The  tapping of her high heels, the swishing of her plait

Oh listener, please listen to the story she tells

The one that she hides in words rehearsed so well

For such gruesome tales her voice cannot speak

And yet, beneath the lies, to speak her heart seeks

Its the truth, dear listener,that she wishes to share

Are you courageous enough to listen to her?