Call Me Antu
ANTARA– a Sanskrit word pronounced “UN-thuh-rah,” refers to the second verse of a song in Hindustani music. Alternate definitions in Sanskrit include “difference,” “distinction,” “interior,” or “within.”
My mother named me this after extensive deliberation. It was her third choice, after Akanksha (meaning “desire” or “wish” in Sanskrit) and Anushka (meaning “ray of light” in Sanskrit, and various other meanings in other languages). Both of these names are more common than mine, as illustrated by the fact that there were other baby girls in my hospital with both names on the day I was born. However, my mom wanted something different for me. Thus, she named me with her third choice, Antara– a name that would confuse people for the rest of my life.
Growing up in the Western Hemisphere, no one could pronounce my name correctly. In Belgium, people would swallow the “r” in my name, pronouncing it more like “ON-tah-ha,” as is consistent with French phonetics. In the UK, people called me “An-TAH-rah,” emphasizing the second syllable and elongating all the vowels in my name, completely changing how it sounded. I hated it every time. It felt so strident in my ears, and I never recognized it as my name. Of course, I wanted to fit in, so I never corrected their pronunciation.
When I came to the US, I decided I would not allow that pronunciation of my name to continue. I arrived with my mom at the classroom in Reba O’Steck Elementary one August morning in 2010. As I opened my mouth to introduce myself, my mom interrupted and spoke for me, “Hello, everyone. This is my daughter, An-TAH-rah. We have come from London.” Rats. I wanted to introduce myself using my family nickname, Antu (pronounced like “UN-thoo”), so I could finally escape that awful pronunciation. However, I decided my fate was already sealed, and it was too late to correct.
A slight tangent: if my first name was terrible, my last name was horrendous. MAGESHWARAN– a Tamil name pronounced “MUH-gaysh-vuh-run,” literally translates to “grand lord” and refers to Lord Shiva. It is my father’s first name. In many Tamil families, the child’s last name is their father’s first name, so everyone in my family has a different last name. Actually, the name should be spelled as Maheshwaran, but the “h” sound is pronounced as a “g” in Tamil, so my last name is also spelled wrong! All of this has always been difficult to explain to other people, even other Indian people. I will not even talk about the mispronunciations of my last name or my lack of a middle name because that is another rant.
The older I got, the more frustrated I used to feel with my name and my country. East Asians around me often had English names that they used as an alternative to their original names. Why did South Asian immigrants not do the same for their stupid, complicated names? Why were we so insistent on going by our native names just to have everyone butcher them for the rest of our lives? If we cared so much about assimilation, why did it not extend to how we name ourselves?
Then, in high school, I watched The Muslim on the Airplane, a TED Talk by Amal Kassir discussing bigotry and stereotypes in media and daily interactions. Of course, I garnered so much insight from this video, but she also inspired me to own my own identity and heritage. As she describes in the video:
“The way we name ourselves is a reflection of who we are, our declarations, family histories, the things we believe, the morals we abide by, our homes, cultures, transformations… And with that name, we are given ancestry, bloodlines and dialects, books and poems, perspectives, wars, struggles, and survival stories.”
The ice around my heart began to thaw. I thought of my mom, racking her brains to determine the perfect name for her precious baby daughter. I thought of her upbringing, culture, values, and classical music background, which contributed to her decision. I thought of how my parents argued over whether or not to give me their last name; my name could have been Antara Srinivasan if they had decided to conform to Western naming conventions. However, I got my father’s name, keeping a small part of their Tamil culture alive in my name. I thought of all the variations of pronunciations my name went through depending on the country I was in, and it made me smile in amusement. Up until now, my name has just been a burden. But now, my name was a permanent mark of my mother’s eternal love for me. My name suddenly felt… beautiful and rare—something to protect rather than to hide or change.
Upon entering college, I decided that no one would ever mispronounce my name again, but for different reasons than when I came to the US. It was not out of particularity for pronunciation but to cherish this gift from my mom. I loved my name and wanted to protect it from the permanent effects of anglicization. When introducing myself to people, I would say, “Hey! My name is Antara, but you can call me Antu. Nice to meet you!” Most people would call me some variation of Antu, and I was okay with that. Others, more daring or curious, would venture to pronounce Antara correctly and call me by my real name! Having this agency over what people called me was refreshing rather than letting everyone else decide.
Whenever I return to Illinois, I still face remnants of my past from when people said my name incorrectly. That may always stay the same, even if I correct them now. I wish I could tell my younger self I had a choice, that I could still fit in while having my name pronounced correctly. Alas, it is what it is. My name is integral to my history and identity; I would not change it for the world.
Except for my last name. I will change that thing the moment I get married.
