I had five names on the day of my Hindu naming ceremony, but my given name was Priti, a name that came to shape me.
Like most children with “unconventional” names, I dreaded the first day of each school year. I would squirm in my chair as my new teacher worked their way through the class register, and my stomach would drop as they attempted to say my full name: Priti Ubhayakar. I would be sitting there thinking: “If the first name doesn’t get you, the last name will.”
In my hurry to get it over with, I would interrupt the teacher as they struggled – an attempt to save everyone from embarrassment. In primary school, most teachers and friends simply called me “pretty”.
I felt so ashamed of my name that I never thought to correct them. I hated it, mostly because I was teased. “Pretty? You’re not very pretty. Pretty ugly, I would say.”
The word “pretty” followed me around until we moved from the UK to the US in the mid-90s. There, things became even more complicated. When people asked me my name, I never knew what to say. If I said “pretty” in my English accent, they would try to imitate it, saying it back to me in my accent. If I said “pretty” in an American accent, it sounded even worse.
I would tremble when I walked into a room of new people. Knowing I would have to introduce myself, I wanted the ground to swallow me up. Over time, though, I came up with a strategy: I would stay quiet and let my American friends make the introductions for me. It worked like a charm.
The problem followed me throughout my time at university, every time I ordered at Starbucks, and even into corporate America. Over the years, I was variously referred to as “Perdy”, “Petri” and “Prit the Brit” (the last of which at least made me laugh).
I thought I would be stuck with this problem for the rest of my life, but then something remarkable happened. In 2004, after taking time to travel in the US and Europe, I found a job in Mumbai, India. On my first day, I walked into the office and, with my usual trepidation, stretched out my hand to introduce myself.
My boss shook my hand in welcome and said: “Hi, Priti.” He pronounced it perfectly, as it should be said: “Pree-thi”. I did a double-take. I had been fully prepared to go through my usual dance of nerves, and suddenly I didn’t have to.
From that moment, everywhere I turned in India, I would hear my name said the way my family had said it all my life. My name rolled off my tongue as I made reservations at restaurants. I breezily exchanged names with our local shopkeeper, who was always eager to address customers directly.
The sound of my own name was music to my ears. I let it ring out around me, providing a sense of comfort that I didn’t realise I had been missing.
During my time in India, I was surrounded by people who gave my name the respect that I had never given it myself. I didn’t have to be ashamed of the name my parents had given me with such affection. I could let go of the previously unshakable feeling that there was something wrong with my name – and, in turn, that there was something wrong with me.
My name had once been a symbol of all the distorted feelings I had about being Indian and growing up in England and then living in the US. A year and a half later, I left India and returned to the US, but my experiences in Mumbai had steeled me. I had a new confidence when it came to introducing myself with the correct pronunciation.
Even though it has been more than 20 years since I set foot in the Mumbai office, that small exchange with my boss has made me stronger in ways I never expected. Now, I make references to my Indian heritage that feel natural and meaningful. I let people into my life without hiding behind the insecurities I once had. I also go out of my way to pronounce other people’s names properly, even if it takes a few tries.
Now, when I walk into a room, I don’t look around for others to make introductions. I reach out my hand and say: “Hi, my name is Priti.” I know now that there is something about hearing, and saying, your own name out loud that can transform your sense of self.
