Learning the Names

School is not the sort of place you can just walk in. First, you must know you have a name. Then you must know what that name is. But even that isn’t enough. You must be able to say your name when asked. Right then and there. That's what Panku learnt at the ripe age of four. After being rejected from two and admitted into one very venerated institution of learning. And since all of them claim they provide nothing less than a solid “English-medium” education, being able to say your name in English is something you must do. Just to get in. And as we all know, that's not asking for a whole lot.
It all began six and a half months after her third birthday. Panku wasn't Panku-Pankli-Panklu-Pinki-Pekloo anymore. From now on, she would be “Srijani.” Maa kept asking her the same question all through the day. In between the cooking, the folding and ironing of clothes, and the shower she gave Panku. Repeatedly. “Tomar naam ki?” “What is your name?” Baba didn't have that kind of time, but he too would keep asking Panku the same question over and over again. In the mornings, before leaving for work. Panku cannot remember when Baba got home from work, or “offishhh”, as he called it. In the evenings Panku didn't have to endure so many questions. Dinner was at around eight. And normally Maa would be busy in kitchen before that. Dinner-time meant story-time and no Tomar-naam-ki-What-is-your-name could ever spoil that. When it became understood that Panku was not going to pick up “Srijani” so easily, Maa declared that from now on, no one was to indulge in Panku-Pankli-Panklu-Pinki-Pekloo any longer. Panku is going to be strictly “Srijani.”
Thank God no one took that dictate very seriously.
That's how Panku discovered that the English “name” and the Bangla “naam” sounded alike. So even if you don’t understand a single word of the sentence, all you have to do is to prick your ears and try to listen for the word “name.” The moment you hear it, just rattle your name off. And what do you know, it worked like a charm. Although not all the words make sense to Panku. It would be years before Panky realized “what” means “ki” in Bangla, “your” is “tomar”, and “is” is the present tense singular form of the “to be”, which isn’t used that way at all in Bangla. Besides, the order was all jumbled up. Maa had tried to explain the meanings of the English words, but still they did not mean anything to Panku. “Tomar naam ki” is literally “Your name what” and not “What is your name.” Rather than trying to solve all of these mysteries, Panku concentrated on the word “name.” After all, that's all you need to hear. And once you've heard the word, you just have to say “Srijaneeeee.” That's sure to bring the approving smiles. After that, everyone would let you go your own way. At least Maa does. Baba does. And everyone else Panku has met so far is like that too.
But your name isn’t the only thing you must know if you want to go to school. You must also have a father and a mother. And you must know their names. Well enough to recite them without a moment's hesitation. This is where Panku's earlier method got terribly stuck. It wasn't enough to wait for the word “name”, because “name” doesn’t always mean “Srijaneeeee.” There are other words to listen to, words like “father” or “mother.” And there are other names to remember. Like “Abani” or “Maya.” To top it all off, there are other puzzles to solve too. For example, Baba's name is Abani. After days and days of endless repetition, Panku got that. Finally. Baba's friends call him “Abu.” Panku gets that too. But Maa calls him “Shunchhoo.” But when Panku began to call him Shunchho-Baba, everyone laughed. Now when Ranjan becomes Panku's uncle and thereby Ranjan-kaku and Abu by being Biswa-kaku's dada Abu-da, why would Shunchho Baba be laughable? But it was and Panku understood from that moment on that she is never to say “Shunchho Baba” as an answer to the question “What is your father's name.”
Maa's name, on the other hand, never caused that much confusion. Baba always called her by her name. “Maya-a-a-a-a,” he would shout out from his easy chair in the living room. So did others. At three and half, you do not know that Hindu women are not supposed to call their husbands by their first names. Even secular Marxist housewives, like her Maa, stick to that diligently. And religiously.

* * * *

From where Panku stands on the bed, she can clearly see the top of Maa's head. The parting in her hair. And because she is standing on the bed, Panku can also see the squirrel. Panku wants Maa to see it too. But Panku doesn't want to talk now – what if the squirrel gets scared at the sound of her voice?
Maa powders her armpits. Maa lifts up Panku's left arm with her right, then holds it with her left arm while grabbing the pink Ponds' powder-case, sprinkling it on Panku's armpit. She does the same with Panku's left arm too. Most days, Maa powders Panku’s armpits and gently rubs them off on Panku's skin. The touch of Maa's fingers on her skin tickles Panku. Panku giggles and begins to roll on the bed. Maa laughs too. But today is different. Maa isn’t trying to smooth out the talcum-dusted edges of Panku's skin. Neither do they laugh together. All she says to Panku while dressing her is, “We don't have much time today, shonai. You really need to hurry up. We have a lot to do. You remember today is your interview, don't you?” Panku knows and remembers. Although Panku still isn’t exactly sure what an interview is.
Maa had told her, she will be going to school. And there will be people who will ask her things so she can go to school. “You’ll remember to say your name properly, won't you?” Maa has asked her many many times. Panku nodded every time. “And if they ask you your Baba's name or Maa's name, you will remember that too?” Panku nodded again. “And you won't talk unless you are spoken to, right?” Panku nods like a good little girl one more this time – only sideways.
Maa has chosen a blue-white checked frock for her. Especially for the interview. One of the two Baba brought from Delhi. This one makes Panku looks smart, Maa says. Maa makes two pony-tails with her hair. Two little blue rubber-bands with smiley faces. Made of something Panku hasn't been able to figure out. New black ballerinas. They hurt a little bit around the toes. Fresh white full socks. Up to the knees. This way Panku looks smart. Very very smart. In their house, there is no dressing table. No full-length mirror. That's why Panku doesn't know how she looks with the frock, shoes and socks. But Maa tells her she looks very very smart. In the little hand-held mirror, Panku sees a Panku with pony-tails. And two blue smiley-faced rubber bands.

The socks are making Panku's skin itch. Must be the elastics. Before Maa comes back with her food, Panku lowers them a little bit.

* * * * *
“What is your name?”
The woman in the brown and white sari asks Panku from across the table. Her glasses are perched at the top of her tightly-brushed hair, her lips pursed into smile-less anticipation. She doesn’t seem like someone who would ever open her arms to Panku. Or someone into whose arms and lap Panku would ever jump into. Books on shelves. Globes and maps. Tables and chairs. Panku had never seen a room like this. Baba has books too. But Baba's books are kept in a room with a bed. And you can jump up and down on the bed. This room has no beds. Only chairs and tables. And this woman hasn't smiled yet. Outside, on Panku's right hand side, there is a window. Panku can see her Maa-Baba's anxious faces pressed against the glass. Around them, there are other tensed adult faces. The Maas and Babas of others. Not-so-tensed up young faces, who don’t yet understand the gravity of the situation. But Panku was looking elsewhere. Beyond the iron bars of the window. Beyond the faces. The white-violet hyacinth amidst watery green. “Kachuripana.” Panku knows that's what they are called. A white stork with orange legs and a l-o-o-o-n-g sharp beak.

Lyak bakabak bak.
Baker holo shokh
Jamakapor juto moja
Oi je porechhe
Shamuk-gneri kuriye niye
Pocket Bhorechhe.

By the second line, Panku had begun to shake her head in rhythm, all smiles. When she finished, the woman across the table did not seem that frightening. Or serious, for that matter. Yes, she hadn't talked to her at all, other than asking her name. She hasn't even smiled. But Panku wanted to tell her about this frock she was wearing. This one with little blue-white checks. Baba brought it from Delhi last month. And the appliqué-bear with whiskers at the front. Panku had named him Billi Maao. A bear-cat with whiskers.
But the woman-with-glasses-perched-on-her-head had other things to do. It's just the beginning of the day. God willing, she needs to, Heavens no, has to, interview at least thirty-five more kids before lunch. Who has the time to listen to a three year old babble on about some crane's silly desire to get dressed up? Why can’t these parents make sure their kids have a basic knowledge of English? Is it too much to ask that simple mercy before they are brought in here? They should know better – there are so many waiting to get in here! Lyak bakabak bak – poohhhh!!!!!!!!!
So even before Panku could fully rub the rhythm out of her swinging head, she shouted, “N-N-N-E-E-E-X-X-X-T-T.” Panku was shooed away. Too bad that Aunty never got to know about Billi Maao. And Panku knew her name. She wanted to tell her that too – “My name is Srijaneeeeeeee.” Will Baba be very angry? What about Maa? But Panku did know her name and she wanted to say it, too. Only she never got the chance.
Outside, Baba was laughing. Ma too. Baba lifted her up. Things can't be that bad then!

* * * * *

Panku kept looking at the white frock. She never saw anything like that before. Nor has she ever seen a grown woman wear a frock. Never. Panku keeps staring at the black piece of cloth that covered her hair. A ghomta, only not quite. A ghomta was never clipped to your head! This piece of cloth was. But, unlike the woman-with-glasses-on-her-head, White Frock smiled. The eyes behind her glasses smiled. But Panku would rather be outside. With the rabbits in the cages. With the green parrots and little black-brown muniyas. Panku wouldn't mind coming to this school everyday. They have parrots, muniyas and rabbits. Green is Panku's favorite color. That's why she loves parrots. And the parrots in the cages gives her a chance to stare at the green for as long as she wants. Panku loved the parrots here. Even the baby ones, with weakly-developed greens.
“Come here, my child.” White Frock calls Panku with a gesture of her right hand. Her smile broadens. Panku wouldn't mind going to her. And once Panku is close by, she holds Panku's left arm softly. She smiles again, her teeth showing a little bit. “Now will you tell me your name?”
The smile, the touch possibly had inspired Panku a little by then. Besides, the birds and rabbits outside were what Panku wanted to spend time with right now. Panku wants a baby rabbit. It will sleep with Panku. Eat from her hands. And play with her. Panku wants a parrot too. One which will speak. Maa still hasn’t given her a parrot or a rabbit. But Maa hasn't said no either. Maybe she will get a parrot and a rabbit for Panku some day. So, Panku wanted to see the rabbits outside. Talk to them. Panku knows, once you say your name, they normally let you go. So, say your name and ...
“Srijaneeeeeeee....”
That was, no doubt, a little louder than usual. But Maa has said that “Srijani” ends with a dhirghoi, the long e. Because when you speak Bangla, you need to stress the long e's. Panku doesn't want to look like she can't say the long e's. Every time she has to say her name, she remembers to mark the stress. But then everyone laughs. Panku doesn’t understand why. This time, the exertion of the stress caused Panku to miss White Frock's very visible expression of being startled. There are rabbits, parrots and muniyas outside. Once you tell them your name is “Srijaneeeeeeeee,” they will let you do what you want to...
But... this time around, the name wasn't all.
White Frock lifted up a little red ball. “Do you know what color this is?” Of course Panku does. Red. R-E-D. Panku also knows Green, Blue, Yellow, Pink, Orange, White and Black. Grown-ups are strange. They keep asking you the same thing over and over again. Even when you know the answers. Panku wants to see the rabbits now... Panku doesn't want to be in this room anymore. Panku doesn't want to talk to White Frock any longer. Panku lifted up the shirt of her orange-polka-dots-on-bottle-green frock and begins to chew the edge. If the White Frock and her assistant knew Panku better, they would realize Panku is moving very close to the edge. One more word. One more question. And no one should be surprised if Panku breaks into a scream... the rabbits... the parrots.. they are outside.
“Don't you know what color this is, dear?”
Panku doesn't scream. “You never cry in front of strangers,” Ma says to Panku. Panku always cries after a scream. So, Panku nods her head. She does.
“Won't you tell me then?”
The frown in Panku's face deepens. She wants to go. The rabbits... the parrots... Panku doesn't like muniyas much. They are boring. No colors but brown and black, but they are soooooo little... Panku wants to see the muniyas too....
The White Frock shrugs. Children are moody sometimes. Different children express themselves differently. But what to do? When you run a school and you have only so many slots, you have to have certain standards. Besides, this kid hasn't learnt basic etiquette yet. If she can’t pass the “Color and Cognition Test,” this school has no place for her. But maybe she can come back next year and join the kids who are a year younger than her. That's what she will write in the rejection letter to her parents. It will be more polite than than an outright no. So she signals to another White Frock. This one without glasses. Who comes up immediately and holds Panku's right hand tightly. But before she whisks her away, White-Frock-Without-Glasses releases the edge of the skirt from between Panku's teeth. “Hmmm.” This is the sound Maa makes when she is angry. Panku couldn't figure out what she has done. “Good girls never do that,” White-Frock-Without-Glasses says to Panku. Panku smiles and looks at her sideways. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. They must be going to the rabbits now.

But no. Not exactly. There is another room and you have to go past the rabbits and the birds to get there. Panku wanted to stop in front of the cages. But White-Frock-Without-Glasses kept dragging her. And when Panku actually said, “Ami khorgosh dekhbo. I want to see the rabbits,” all White-Frock said was “Later, later, later.” Okay, Panku will wait.
There are little chairs and tables and crayons and papers in this room. You will have to sit in one of those tables. The chairs are tiny. Just big enough to fit Panku's butt. And all in different colors. They let Panku choose the color. Panku chose a pink one. And once you have chosen your own chair, you will be given a paper and a box of crayons. Panku got a piece of paper with an outline of a swan. Now you will have to fill it in. See that your color doesn't go beyond the outline... Can you do it, little one? Panku smiled and nodded. Panku likes paper. Panku likes crayons on paper. And once she is done with the swan, this White-Frock-Without-Glasses will take her to see the rabbits. She said so herself.
A Black swan with an Orange beak. And Red eyes. Swimming on Blue waters.
“Have you ever seen a black swan, dear?” Yet another White Frock asks. Panku doesn't look up at her. She is busy with the Black.
“No.” Panku says without looking and shakes her head sideways too. And continues with the Black.
“Then why are you filling it with black? Shouldn't it be white?”
“Amar kalo pachhanda.” I like Black. “Like” is not a verb one associates with three and half year olds. Or, rather, no one expects them to use that word. So, after that, Panku was left alone. No one asked her anymore about the Black swan or the Orange beak or the Red eyes or the deep blue waters.
The rabbits....they are still there...Once Panku is done with the crayons and the Black and the Swan...the rabbits...
But Panku cannot go to the rabbits. She must go back to Baba and Maa directly from this room.
All the way back home, Panku sobbed silently. Neither Maa nor Baba could get a word out of her. White-Frock-Without-Glasses said, Panku can come and see the rabbits later. But she was nowhere to be seen once Panku was done. And the other White Frock wouldn't listen to anything. She insisted that Panku is done and she must go back to her parents. But Panku wasn't done. The rabbits... the birds... All Panku wanted to do was to be with them a little bit more. Who knows if one of the rabbits might want to come with her too. There were so many of them there and Panku only wants one...

* * * *

Whether it was for the silence at the sight of the red ball or the lifted frock or the black swan, Panku was rejected by the White Frocks. Nor did the Woman-With-Glasses-Perched-On-Her-Head like her. Maybe it was all the stork's fault. Whatever it is, at the third school Panku was taken to, they didn't even care to ask Panku's name. They talked with Maa and Baba, and only with Maa and Baba. Meanwhile, Panku sat in a corner and played with the doll and the teddy bear. Before beginning their conversations with Panku's Maa and Baba, they had told her that she can play with them as long as she does not want to take them home. And Panku's Maa-Baba, being solid and what they call “upstanding” citizens, succeeded in convincing the school that Panku is worthy of being taken in.

Glossary:
Amar Kalo Pachhondo: A Bengali sentence which means, “I like Black”

Baba: Father

Billi: Cat

Billi Maao: Pussy Cat

Ghomta: Veil. Usually the way in which the Bengali women use the end of their saris to cover their heads

Kaku: Uncle, Father's Younger Brother. Also used to refer to one's father's friends

Khorgosh: Rabbit

Lyak bakabak bak./Baker holo shokh/Jamakapor juto moja/Oi je porechhe/Shamuk-gneri kuriye niye/Pocket Bhorechhe: A popular children's rhyme which describes a stork/crane dressing up in coats, shirts and shoes and then filling up his pockets with shells, clams and oyesters.

Maa: Mother

Muniya: Canary

Shunchooo: Literally means “Did you hear me.” A common way for certain Bengali women to address their husbands, since, according to specifc Hindu traditions, women are not supposed to address their husbands by their first names.

Shonai: A common term of endearment

Tomar Naam Ki? A Bengali sentence which means “What Is Your Name?'