What’s in a name?

The “Peppin” name has been around for five centuries, at least. It was imported into India early in the 19th century, but to go searching for that specific name, in India, may involve a lot of “bluffiology”, to use an Anglo-Indian term popular in these parts. It is not an Indian name, though generations of “Peppins” have been using it in this blessed country of mine. I think “Peppin” is the root word, for there are variants: “Pepin, as in a former king of France, Pippin, as in the American basketball player, Poppin(s), as in that very well-known movie character. But that’s not all, as I will soon demonstrate.

I know that I am a very singular person, in thought, word and deed. However, try as I might, I have never been able to keep my name “singular” in a verbal sense. I came across the phenomenon when I joined The New College in 1975. I was promptly “pluralised”, for in all communications to me I was always known as “Peppins”. There was no use trying to correct everyone, and since it was unintentionally hurtful, I started taking no notice. It was almost as if they wanted more than one of my kind, for all through my life I’ve been a jovial, convivial chap. My name, being singular in every sense of the term, was therefore subject to change quite comically. I was known, variously, as “Peppins”, “Pippins”, and ultimately “Poppins”.

This last surname came along after a sumptuous dinner of “Biriyani”. In the old days, the biriyani was absolutely scrumptious: now it isn’t what it was then. Well, a connoisseur of food will tell you that a side-dish is absolutely necessary to make the Biriyani special—spicy liver, for example. So my middle name was adapted for the purpose. I became “O-liver”. Now, it is common knowledge that a hearty Indian meal has to be completed with a something sweet, so my surname was altered to “Poppins”. So there you have it: everyone’s popular choice with a twist: Biriyani O-Liver Poppins. And if you think I used the word “twist” just randomly, remember that the Tamil equivalent for twist is “murrukku”. How about that?

In the last century, I wrote a short-story, titled “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”. It, too, was published in Anglos in the wind, and other places. It tells about my uncle, Tom, and his experiences, when Anglo-Indians kept the country’s wheels turning, for that was a time when we were indispensable. The tale ends with Uncle Tom having the last laugh. The English officer, on inspection rounds, was flabbergasted when a “Khalasi” invited him to examine the locomotive. He called the engine-driver a “brute”, and told the reddening burra-sahib to “Step in son, and Peep in”. My uncle, Tom, rushed forward to save the situation. “Sir”, he addressed the white man, “I’m Brewart, and these are my firemen, Stephenson and Peppin”.

Just a little more and I am done. When I took up a job in Oman, the Colleges of Technology had just begun recruiting English teachers, in great numbers, from the so-called English-speaking world. It was a popular but extremely erroneous belief that only “whites” could speak English. Speaking, not teaching, is where all of them made the mistake. As Head of two English Language Centres, at different times, I had a rough time correcting them. When the Recruiting Director of one of the many companies that sprung up, called me over the phone, the conversation went smoothly. But when we met in person, he was taken aback because he didn’t expect to meet a “brown/black” man. He complemented me on my language proficiency, but I negated his negative praise by saying nothing in reply. He didn’t deserve an answer, anyway.

The Assistant Dean of one of the colleges in which I served, also happened to be an English teacher. He was from the Gulf region and he could not fathom the fact that English was my mother-tongue. “How can that be?” he remonstrated, “You are an Indian!” Realising that discretion is the better form of valour, I left him to ponder his ignorance. Talking sense to someone set in his ways, serves no purpose. As the poet said: “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”.

As I said earlier, I have reserved the best [best/worst, it’s all the same] for the last. When I was just a lad, in Trichy, the Census people came around. They were Government-authorised, and so, I am assuming, they had a bit of swagger. When they asked my mother the name of the family, she answered appropriately. Not understanding her words they asked her to spell it out. She began: “P”. One of the enumerators repeated: “P”. And so it continued. She said “E”, and he parroted “E”. Then “P”, and repeat “P. She persisted with one more “P”. The guy had had enough. He commented, loudly,maliciously and venomously, in Tamil: “ Yaen appa, indhu paire lay verrum pee thaan“. I will not sully my page translating that drivel. But I hope you get the message.

So you can call me what you will: Peppin, or Pepin, or Pippin, or even Peepin, but please avoid the plural, dear Reader. After all, a rose by any other name … does not smell as sweet (with apologies to Billie-boy Shakespeare).