A lesson for the ladies?

A lesson for the ladies?
Renuka Narayanan

This is a letter from a faint-hearted feminist, an essentially old-fashioned woman who, when not raising hell, likes to pamper her men, cook for them and dote on them, blow her earnings on foolish presents for them, grow gardens and tuck scented sachets into linen cupboards. Who, far from hating men as the natural enemy (despite plenty of evidence), has personally found them to be more `rakshak' than `raakshas'. Who revels in all the gallant attentions that men -- fathers, brothers, friends, colleagues -- are so graceful at: opening doors, hefting the luggage and keeping the baddies away by their sheer presence.

Which is why I was taken aback when I ran into Arundhati Roy nearly ten years ago at Dilli Haat, a popular food and crafts bazaar in the Capital. We'd been cabin mates way back in a deadly dump of an office and suddenly we were mukhamukham. A quick exchange of news, but open dismay from A. Roy when she discovered I'd changed my surname when I married, from `Narayanan' to `Khandekar'. ``You shouldn't have done that!'' she frowned, curls blowing about her intense face, eyes very dark and disapproving. I laughed smugly and skipped away then, shaking my head at her foolish newfangled notions. Not change my name, when I'd sworn by the sacred fire to be the ardhangini of the man I loved? Silly, modern, pretentious Arundhati!

All these years later, when I am no longer legally a Khandekar, and have changed back to my father's name, I laugh very differently. I realise that almost none of my women friends or colleagues changed their surnames when they married. Gosh, everyone seemed to have hung on to Daddy. Their reaction when I decided to go back to being Daddy's girl, was truly classic. "Thank God I didn't change mine!" was the chorus. "You silly thing, why did you change in the first place?" said a whole lot of others. "Why didn't you change as soon as your column started? The timing would have been so convenient!" asked a dancer. All these women, by the way, are my well-wishers. They spoke frankly out of sisterly concern, not to trouble or fluster me.

I tried to explain -- and they promptly understood -- that we ladies are not always so practical. Some internal switch has to go off first, before you take such an emotional step. But, truly, the areas of change seem so many! Income tax, credit cards, e-mail, bank accounts, assorted licences. I haven't got round to those yet. But I will. Festina lente, as the Latin saying goes. Make haste slowly. My by-line, for starters. My book contracts (my beleaguered editors at Penguin and HarperCollins now have to change my name in all the copyright pages).

The change is more profound at other levels. Once upon a time it was fun to sport a Maharashtrian surname while being a Tamilian. But in Mumbai, where I lived and worked for almost a year before being able to come home to Delhi, I was startled by just how many people, from Shobha De to a typical Pandu havildar, said "Jai Maharashtra". And L.K. Advani, Union Minister of Home, who released the Hindi translation of a citizen's manual I had co-authored with Pavan Varma, was initially surprised that Hindi was not the chosen language of discourse for a Khandekar.

But sweetest of all was the reaction of all those unknown but precious well-wishers out there, who thought I'd got married. Dear Express readers, particularly "Mallikarjun and Ratnavali", who were the first to e-mail, my heartfelt thanks. It's deeply touching to discover that there is so much affectionate interest in our world, even in one insignificant person. Girls, don't hassle too much. Just follow your hearts, it's such an intensely personal decision, to change your name. Remember, though, that Daddy is the one man who can't ever divorce you.