Titter Proof Titles

Critics are easily the most unloved sub-species among Homo sapiens. Artist Man Ray once expressed his deepest feelings for them with an epic statement: All critics should be assassinated. Most Bollywood film makers would secretly concur with Man Ray’s assessment as they've been victims themselves of poison arrows from the rather mean quiver of the nasty critic.

Of late, the barbs have been getting crisper, sharper and snarkier thanks largely to the 140-character attention span of the connected cosmos. It all began with RGV’s ill fated ‘Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag’. Every reviewer worth his ink jumped into the bitching fest. The most pungent of them all came from Raja Sen who dubbed it ‘Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aargh!’ Then the wannabes rushed in with ‘Ram Gopal Varma Ki Daag’ and the tweets got regressively more below-the-belt.

Ironically, Raja Sen got a taste of his own medicine, when a two-bit reviewer labelled his script ‘Go Goa Gone’ as ‘Go Goa Gonorrhoea’! As a namer, I am of the view that a lot of these malicious wisecracks can be done away with, if one just picks a title with very little spoofability.

When you choose a catchy ‘Fukrey’, it might get you a few extra eyeballs but you run the risk of being rubbished as ‘What the Fukrey’ by some critic, venting his spleen. When ‘Bhaag Milkha Bhaag’ was released recently, Shobha De, the queen of cattiness, finished her soaked-in-the-acid review with a punch line that read ‘Bhaag Audience Bhaag’! Such tarty verdicts can derail any film from reaching its blockbuster destination.

The only way to protect your movie from the vultures of twitter is to make it titter-proof. Always think of negative words, idioms and expressions associated with the title. If you’ve picked ‘Policegiri’ expect a ‘watching the film is like a jail sentence’. If you’ve chosen ‘Air Force One’, you’re asking for ‘Air Farce One’. ‘A Dark Knight’ can be laughed at by making it ‘A Dork Knight’. Remember, cunning wordsmiths can turn even a harmless ‘Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets’ into ‘Harry Plodder and the Lamest of Sequels’. So to escape scathing reviews, give the punster no scope for word play.

The Court Jesters

Tennis players are the real rock stars of sport. They wear provocative wigs on stage - remember Agassi’s peroxide mullet? They use cuss words on prime time - remember John McEnroe’s infamous tantrums? They have wham-bam-thank-you-ma’m kinda romps outside marriage - remember Becker’s 5-second quickie? They dress up rather fashionably while at work - remember Bethanie-Mattek Sands’ Lady Gaga style attire? They even evoke extreme attention from fans – remember how Monica Seles was stabbed by Steffi’s fan?

There’s one more reason why the sport controlled by ATP, is eminently likeable: you’re likely to spot the funniest names in this ball game.

Take Jim Courier. In a parallel universe, he would be the delivery boy for UPS or FedEx. But in the world of racket and strings, he’s a champion who’s won both the French and Australian Open.

People who have no connection with tennis will rarely able to sniff out the aces from their names. Sample these. Mary Pierce has the ring of a tattoo artist. Pat Cash seems like a walking talking ATM. Arthur Ashe has all the grim traces of a funeral director. Roscoe Tanner has the stink of a leather maker. And Steffi Graf can only remind you of a statistician.

The Eastern Europeans add a mirthful flavour to the game. As all of us know, Novak Djokovic is the djoke of all jokes. Ivanisevic, Zimonjic, Zivojinovic, Petrovic and Petkovic sometimes make you think if Club Sandvic and Chicken Sandvic might get a wildcard entry for the championships. Likewise, Sharapova, Kournikova, Navratilova and Kalashnikova make you wonder if Palkova might have been better off wearing a short white skirt than playing the mouth watering milk sweet.

The tryst with amusing surnames is not a new phenomenon in tennis. Historically, there have been many players with equally fascinating names. The American lady who won 8 Wimbledon titles should have been one happy woman. Instead she was called Helen Wills ‘Moody’. The first ever male to win the Grand Slam was a fleet-footed chap, ironically named Don ‘Budge’. And the greatest female tennis player of all time, in all surfaces, was predictably Margaret ‘Court’. Talk of coincidences!

The Brand of Brothers

Wars, battles and disasters, have created the fallacious notion that our soldiers are gun toting toy heroes born to die for their country. The underlying assumption here is that the army man is an emotionless, pre-programmed, remote-controlled robot built for the sole purpose of self-sacrifice. Nothing could be further from the truth.

For he’s a jolly good fellow, very unlike the zombies, one got to see in ‘Border’ and ‘Lakshya’. In reality, the jawan is as fun-loving, quirky and goofy as boys can be. May be that’s why the most ribald jokes and limericks get minted in military dorms.

The sense of humour of the infantryman is best reflected in the nicknames conjured up for their regiments. Members of The Royal Gloucestershire, Berkshire and Wiltshire Light Infantry (TRGBWLI), for example, rechristened their loftily ludicrous name into the mildly amusing ‘Alphabety Spaghetti’. Even more ingenious were the battalions under 101st Airborne Division. They called themselves ‘One o’ Worst’ - a clever play on their official moniker.

The Canadians in Princess Louis Fusiliers were one notch higher. Inspired by their insignia of a grenade with flames, they hit upon the explosive nick ‘Flaming Testicle’. Likewise the Lake Superior Scottish Regiment’s abbreviation (LSSR) served as the cue word for creation of the ‘Losers’ tag.

Wordplay with abbreviations is a crowd favourite with armies across nations. If the Royal Canadian Regiment were ‘Run Chicken Run’, the Governor General’s Foot Guards became ‘God’s Gift to Fat Girls’! Not to be outdone, the caustic Brits re-labelled Queen’s Lancashire Regiment as ‘Quick Let’s Run’, the Royal Logistic Corps as ‘Retard’s Lone Choice’ and Royal Electrical & Mechanical Engineers as ‘Ruin Every Maiden Eventually’.

One can be sure that the relatively staid Indian Army has its fair share of earthy nicknames. Among the ones in the public domain, the charming story of Madras Goondas shimmers like a pettai rowdy’s freshly sharpened aruval.

It seems that the Second Battalion of the Madras Regiment is named so because of a tale that goes back to 1951 when some soldiers played Robin Hood to ensure timely supply of food grains for the famine-stricken people of Rajasthan. Thank god for the uniformed goondas!

Questionable Names

There are only four people who relish the prospect of asking sadistic questions. They are: the teacher, the philosopher, the quizzer and the nation-wants-to-know kind of TV anchors. Everyone else just dreads the prospect of facing the question mark.

Although it’s a much reviled piece of punctuation, the Question Mark commands and demands attention, by intriguing and intimidating the respondent. Its sheer ability to befuddle people is the single biggest reason for its deployment in creating best seller book titles and blockbuster movie titles.

When Agatha Christie hurls a ‘Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?’ at us, we are shocked out of our wits just like an ill-prepared student taking the IIT-JEE. We desperately flip the pages hoping to find the answers for three questions: Who the hell is Evans? What is it that ‘they’ want to ask? And why didn’t they ask Evans?

When Philip K Dick teases our minds with ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’ we feel as inadequate as an intern on her first day of work. And a nervous query pops into our heads: can Androids really dream considering they are supposed to be machines?

Being a sci-fi novel that explores the Android-like behaviour of humans and the human-like behaviour of Androids, note how Philip manages to achieve his goal of sucking us into his world with a mere title!

Back in India, the Manoj Kumar thriller ‘Woh Kaun Thi?’ was the first ever Hindi movie to use a sawaal as the title. The air of mystery posed by the question helped the film to smash all box office records.

The Naseeruddin Shah starrer ‘Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai’ was the first flick to leverage the possibilities offered by rhetoric. The unusually long title captures the angst of the protagonist and draws the viewer into the heart of the debate that Albert Pinto has about capitalism.

‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit’ and ‘Kaun Banega Crorepati’ are some more celebrated examples in the rhetoric genre. The rather annoying song ‘Who Let The Dogs Out?’ and American clothing brand ‘Guess?’ are visible demonstrations of the pulling power of question-themed names in other categories. Which brings us back to the same old query: Why did the chicken cross this road? And why aren't many more joining it?

Banned at birth.

There may be a billion things wrong with India but we have one privilege that not many nations have. We have the freedom to name our babies any which way we choose.

We can call someone ‘Ravan’ without raising the hackles of the saffron chaddiwalahs. We can write a song on ‘DK Bose’ without fear of censorship. We can proudly give ourselves the surname ‘Chutiya’ without worrying about sounding offensive. We can contest polls as ‘Frankenstein’, ‘Hitler’, ‘Stalin’ or ‘Latrine’ without causing a stink.

One cannot dream of such liberties even in the USA. The recent episode of a New Jersey dad being denied custody of his four children, thanks to his penchant for giving Nazi names, is a tiny taint on America.

You’d be surprised to know that many so-called developed countries have regressive name censorship regimes. New Zealand leads the pack by religiously issuing a list of taboo names, every year. Among the ones they deemed unacceptable include very civil monikers like ‘Majesty’, ‘King’, ‘Justice’, ‘Queen Victoria’, ‘Knight’ and ‘4Real’. Clearly, there’s no justice for real in Kiwi land.

The Germans are worse. Forenames are cleared only if male names feel masculine and female names appear feminine. Nothing in between ever gets the nod. Not even unisex words such as ‘Rain’, ‘Mist’, ‘Shine’, ‘Magic’ and ‘Love’. Now you know why Germany never produces a Magic Johnson.

Iceland is, by far, the most restrictive. Parents have no other option but to choose from a sarkari menu card of 1853 female and 1712 male names. What that means is a Cecilia, Celina, or Camelia are OUT, as Icelandic doesn’t have the letter C. In case you’re wondering, “then how come ‘Iceland’ contains ‘c’?” Well that’s because the locals pronounce ‘Iceland’ as ‘Island’!

Even Sweden has a pre-approved list of 7000 names. Any deviation requires special permission. Elisabeth Hallin and Lasse Diding protested the silliness of the law by naming their child ‘Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116’ (apparently pronounced ‘albin’). The government authorities didn’t see the humour in the proposal. They simply declined it. The couple had to finally settle for Albin Hallin. So the bottom line is, when naming babies, always go by the book.

The Wimpy Before Psycho.

MacGuffin, as any Hitchcock buff will tell you, is a misleading device that drives the plot forward and is invariably forgotten by the end of the story. The stolen cash in Psycho, the briefcase in Pulp Fiction, the Golden Eye in GoldenEye and cricket in the IPL are classic MacGuffins.

In strict Hitchcockian sense, a working title (the decoy name of a movie prior to the release) is but a MacGuffin. Let’s examine ‘Wimpy’ to illustrate the point. If you were a curious onlooker and you happen to stroll into the shoot of a film called ‘Wimpy’, the last thing you’ll expect to see on screen is a macabre thriller named ‘Psycho’. That deception was what Alfred Hitchcock wished to achieve with his lame working title. He used the same technique once before when he deployed the very yucky ‘The Man in Lincoln’s Nose’ for ‘North by Northwest’.

Finicky directors who hate revealing even a whiff of their plot usually resort to working titles. Clint Eastwood famously chose ‘The Cut-Whore Killings’ for ‘Unforgiven’. Christopher Nolan picked ‘Rory’s First Kiss’ to keep the ‘The Dark Knight’ fan boys at bay. Woody Allen actually experimented with ‘Anhedonia’, ‘It had to be Jew’, and ‘Rollercoaster named Desire’ before settling on ‘Annie Hall’.

Some film makers like to drop a teensy hint about their story with working titles. When Garry Marshall hid ‘Pretty Woman’ from the public gaze with ‘$3000’, he was alluding to the going rate for uppity escorts. Mani Ratnam selected ‘Traffic Signal’ for ‘Yuva’ as Green, Red and Orange represented the three shades of characters in his Hindi flick. When Gautham Menon recently code named his movie as ‘Nithya’, he was actually clueing ‘Ninaivelaam Nithya’ - the romantic movie with the Illayaraja song ‘Neethaane En Ponvasantham’ - that later became the title of his Tamizh padam.

‘Snakes on a Plane’ is one of the rare movies where the working title perfectly matched the final title. In quirky India however, actual titles are consigned to the status of working titles whenever a producer finds a suitably marketable name. ‘Gyaarah Chalis ki Metro’ is a case in point. It was replaced by the very crass KLPD!

The Code of Code Names

May was a rather dramatic month. Batku called it a day. Guruji and Jack dragged the Helicopter down. Raavan and Shining glittered but didn’t strike gold. Chashma looked listless. Model didn’t live up to his billing. Dada was caught out. Rotru, Mowgli and Kavala were jailed. While Monkey and Pagadi danced away to victory.

If that sounded like a load of gibberish to you, it obviously means that you haven’t kept pace with the bookie code names conceived for IPL 6.  In case you’re curious: Rotru means cry baby and it can only refer to India’s most famous slap victim. The rest of the names are fairly decipherable once you get the drift.

Employed first by the military during the World Wars, clandestine euphemisms or cryptonyms have come a long way.  The code names today rarely reek of seriousness. A tinge of humour is the flavour of our times.

Sample these from the United States Secret Service: George Dubya Bush, not exactly known for holding his drink, was given the ‘Tumbler’ moniker. Dick Cheney, a lover of fishing and spinmeister par excellence, earned the ‘Angler’ tag. Barack Obama was called ‘Renegade’ which literally means ‘Christian turned Muslim’. And Richard Nixon, best known for the late night break-ins into the Watergate hotel, was fortuitously named as ‘Searchlight’!

Companies are equally funny when it comes to code names. When Microsoft employees were surreptitiously referring to Windows 95 as ‘Chicago’, the cheeky folks at Apple called their competing product ‘Capone’ after Al Capone, the mafia boss who tormented Chicago. Likewise, spunky Facebook has picked ‘Buffy’ for its secret new phone. ‘Buffy’ as everyone knows is the ‘vampire slayer’. The allusion here is to the blood sucking evil Google!

Not every one fancies a funny code name. Google has a glad eye for desserts - which explains why they chose Cupcake, Donut, Éclair, Froyo (Frozen Yoghurt) Gingerbread and Ice Cream Sandwich for the various avatars of Android. Mozilla has a thing for national parks. Intel, Microsoft and Blackberry love place names. Mac OS X has a fixation for animals. ‘What about Indian companies?’ you may ask. Well, our covert names are among the world’s best-kept secrets.

The Sweetest Revenge

Hitchcock once said: “Revenge is sweet and not fattening.” On deeper analysis, his quip indeed feels deep. Think about it. When life serves you lemons, the only artificial sweetener at your disposal is the aspartame of vendetta. When sprinkled in the right portions, it lightens up the bitterness, melts away the rancour and replaces the taste of acerbity with the saccharine glee of tit-for-tat.

For those who want their retribution to linger a little longer, there’s always ‘revenge naming’. It’s the practice of labelling a living thing or object after a name you despise, so that it acts as a permanent advertisement for whatever you hate.

Carl Linnaeus, the father of taxonomy, was the pioneer of the concept. When academician Johann Siegesbeck was busy denouncing his ideas, Linnaeus got even by naming a foul-smelling yucky weed as ‘Siegesbeckia Orientalis’.  

Carl was not the only one to take veiled jibes at opponents. Out of disdain for Anne Chisholm - the critic who trashed her novel - Jilly Cooper immortalised a goat in her next novel by calling it ‘Chisholm’. Understandably Anne wasn’t amused. They say it got her goat!

Revenge names, sometimes, present a handy valve for jilted wives to ventilate their anger. When Victoria Bage discovered that her husband had a mistress, she decided to embarrass him once for all by launching ‘Sarah Coggles’, a fashion store in Yorkshire. Every time someone asked her about the identity of ‘Sarah Coggles’, she used to regale her audience with salacious tales of her man’s fling with Miss Coggles!

In Michael Jackson’s case, it was just the reverse. He punished Diana Ross, the crooner who spurned him for Norwegian shipping magnate Arne Naess, by releasing the famed single ‘Dirty Diana’.

Using names as weapons to take pot shots at hate figures took an altogether political turn recently, when a French gaming designer created ‘Kill Mittal’. Apparently, his aim was to demonise Lakshmi Mittal, the billionaire responsible for shutting down steel plants in France. The game got such bad press for Arcelor Mittal that the steelmaker is now said to be steeling itself against more attacks. What this goes to show is: there is power in naming and shaming. 

When Mars Gains Currency.

If everything goes according to plan, four lucky souls from Earth will establish the first-ever human settlement on Mars by April 2023.

While landing on the red planet will be the easier part, staying put will be an altogether trickier proposition. Because out there: the average temperature is minus 60 degrees Celsius, the air pressure is the equivalent of living in a mountain five times the height of Mt. Everest, the oxygen content in the atmosphere is less than 1%, the surface gravity is 38% of what we face, and worst of all, there are no known water bodies. So the chance of survival of the four astronauts is almost the same as that of four tiny ants in Antarctica!

Assuming they rough it out and somehow procreate, in a few hundred years, we’d have created a whole new civilisation. From our wealth of earthly experience, we know that civilisations cannot be sustained on love and fresh air alone. Money is the vital ingredient for viability. And to generate money you need a currency first.

Considering Mars doesn’t have its own dollar, euro or yen, we’ll have to invent a new medium of exchange that’ll be acceptable to all. Suggestions have already started pouring in on possible options. The Mars Candy Bar is the universal favourite as it appeals to the inner child in us. Marzipan (almond confectionery), comes a close second. Between the two, it’s highly likely for people to prefer the former as 100,000 Mars Bars sounds far more sumptuous than 100,000 Marzipans.

If the Martians were to vote for a paper currency, then we’ll be forced to designate it with a name that captures the spirit of Mars. Since not much spadework has been done in this domain, let’s attempt to kick start the conversation by floating a few candidates.

Since Mars is the fourth planet, ‘Quads’ (Latin for four) offers an interesting choice. ‘Reddies’ is another likeable option as it captures the ruddiness of the terrain. ‘Ferrix’ (a variation of Ferric) could be a possibility as the planet is rich in iron ore. ‘Savoys’ (from Sevvai - Tamil for Mars) is an exotic take. Whatever the final pick, it better be out of the world!

The Same Same Name

Would you notice a man wearing a white shirt? I can hear your resounding NO, sitting in Kilpauk. Now would you notice the same man if he wore a white shirt, white pants, white cap, white shoes, white gloves, white watch and white goggles? You would spot him from a mile, right? That’s the power of repetition. It can make sameness, stand apart.

Tautonyms (or ditto names, as I call them) use the same principle to incredible effect by repeating syllables twice. ‘Tata’ is perhaps, the best example. It’s a behemoth of a conglomerate and yet, the name is approachable, full of warmth and evokes instant affection. A teensy bit of the credit should go to the duplicative sound arrangement of the name.

Child-friendliness is one more reason for the adorability. Names like ZooZoo (the Vodafone creature with balloon body and egg head) and Tintin (the amiable Belgian comic character) roll off the tongue, very easily for kids, as they are very similar in structure to baby words like ‘Papa’, ‘Mama’, ‘Nana’, ‘Didi’, ‘Thatha’, ‘Dada’, ‘Kaka’, ‘Chacha’ and ‘Dhudhu’.

The juvenile innocence of Tun Tun brings a smile to your face even before you see the fat lady emoting. The nickname Chi Chi makes Govinda more endearing than he could ever imagine. Lady Gaga blasts away the icy visage of Stefani Joane Angeline Germanotta. Tuktuk morphs the rickety motor vehicle into a plump cutesy boy. Bulbul creates a lively little girl aura around the nightingale. Twenty-Twenty feels far lighter and unboring compared to the uptight Test Match.

The winsome nature of repetition is further attested by the formidable success of chartbusters such as ‘Mehbooba Mehbooba’, ‘Dhak Dhak’, ‘Chaiya Chaiya’, ‘Hamma Hamma’, ‘Kandukondein Kandukondein‘, ‘Yathey Yathey’, and ‘Waka Waka’.

I suspect that our ancestors might have known about the power of reduplication much earlier. May be that’s why they injected the chants ‘Shiva Shiva’, ‘Govinda Govinda’ and ‘Ram Ram’ into the pedestrian parlance.

Zsa Zsa Gabor and Moon Moon Sen are among the celebrities who’ve mikled this strategy. Bisou Bisou and Miu Miu are some fashionable brands that have followed suit. So I guess it helps to be of the same mould.

On lemons and melons.

Fruit names have always fascinated me. Who’s that Kamala in Kamala Orange? What does the ‘coco’ in coconut mean? Why is, the pomegranate, not called the apple? How come the Tamil Sapota sounds like the Spanish Zapote? When did the Chinese Gooseberry become the Kiwifruit? Which came first ‘maang kaai’ or ‘mango’? Where on earth did Tangerine come from? These are some of the questions that have tormented me ever since I bit my first apple. When I tried seeking the answers, I realised we don’t know jack about the jackfruit.

Yup, the Jackfruit is not named after Captain Jack Sparrow from the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’. It’s derived from the Portugese ‘jaca’ which in turn is a lift from the Malayalam term ‘chakka pazham’.

If that surprised you, listen to this Malay fable. Once upon a time, an elephant strolled into an orchard. Seeing the succulent fruits it went delirious. It ate and ate, till its belly burst. Years later, when a passerby examined its fossil, he discovered that the culprit was the fruit. He called it Naaga Ranga which translates to ‘fatal indigestion of elephants’ in Sanskrit. Over time it seems Naaga Ranga became Naranga, Oranja and finally Orange! Take the anecdote with a pint of salt. The fact remains that Orange owes its origins to Naranga.

And what about Kamala Orange? Kamala in Sanskrit just means ‘pale red’ or ‘yellowish red’. So Kamala is only a colour allusion.

The Coconut has a more interesting story. When some Spanish explorers stumbled upon the nut, the three eyes of the coconut reminded them of a ‘monkey face’ or coco. Hence the name.

Avocado (testicle tree), Pomegranate (apple from Granada), Chikku (chicozapote) and Guava (guaya) have similar Hispanic roots. While Mango comes from the Portugese Manga which in turn is an offspring of ‘Maang Kai’ from Tamil.

Now to the Kiwifruit conundrum. Although ‘Chinese Gooseberry’ was the original name, some farmers in New Zealand were craving for a moniker reflecting their land. Exporter Jack Turner suggested ‘Kiwifruit’ as the fruit’s hairy exterior reminded him of the hairy bird!

                                                                                     

Talking of geography, Tangerine is from Tangiers, Morocco, and Peach from Persia. Hope that was fruity loops to your ears.

What the Gandhi Dynasty owes India.

Naming rights is a nascent industry in India. BCCI, the famed not-for-profit society was the earliest to milk the potential to a Yes Bank Maximum by hawking every teensy thing associated with IPL. As Amrit Mathur points out here, the BCCI rakes in annual franchisee fee payments ranging from ₹ 198 crores from Sahara Pune Warriors to ₹ 36 crores from Rajasthan Royals. Considering the title rights (2013 to 2017) was sold to Pepsi for ₹ 396.8 crores, you can clearly imagine the cash cow that has been created by a mere transfer of verbal branding rights. Although sports is the lead arena for naming rights, internationally several cash-strapped universities, governments and hospitals have raised truckloads of money by deploying this strategy. To give you a quick idea:

 University of Missouri-Kansas City (UKMC) retails professorship naming rights for ₹ 4 crores, endowed chair for ₹ 8 crores, restroom branding for ₹ 13 lakhs and bigger ticket items for amounts ranging in the realm of ₹ 30 crores and above.

 The Pattison Avenue Terminus was renamed as AT&T Station by the city of Philadelphia for a price of ₹ 21 crores. In Camp Hill, Pensylvania, government officials were offering to name two gyms for ₹ 1.3 crores each, the town library for ₹ 80 lakhs and high school counseling offices for ₹ 8 lakhs!

 Hasbro Children's Hospital at Rhode Island Hospital, Morgan Stanley Children's Hospital of New York-Presbyterian, The Bristol-Myers Squibb Children's Hospital at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital in New Jersey, and Mattel Children's Hospital at the University of California, Los Angeles are some hospitals that have benefited. It seems, Hasbro paid ₹ 13 crores way back in 1994 to clinch the deal.

Given this background, now let's examine what our Government of India has been doing, year on year. Naming rights to all leading institutions in all leading cities, has been gifted away to the Gandhi Family for almost nothing. Here's a very conservative estimate of the loss incurred by the tax payer:

 INSTITUTIONS NAMED AFTER RAJIV GANDHI 

•  6 Airports and ports. Let's apply a basic fee of Rs. 50 crores a year. That's 300 crores gone. 
•  98 Universities and educational institutions. Let's apply a peanut fee of 50 lakhs per institution per year. That's 49 crores gone down the drain. 
•  39 Hospitals. Applying a pessimistic rate of 1 crore per hospital. That's 39 crores gifted away. 
•  74 Roads, Buildings and Places. If the naming rights were to be auctioned, it will yield at least 50 lakhs per entity per year. That's again 39 crores. 
•  15 National Parks and Sanctuaries. Since every corporate covets the green tag, the naming rights may yield at least 10 crore per park per year. That's 150 crores. 

INSTITUTIONS NAMED AFTER INDIRA GANDHI 

• 1 Airport and 1 port. @ 50 crores/year, the damage is 100 crores. 
•  11 Universities and educational institutions. @ 50 lakhs/year, the loss is 5.5 crores. 
•  5 Museums and Parks. @ 10 crore/year, the government loses 50 crores. 
•  5 Convention halls and sports arenas. @ 10 crores / year, GOI gave up 50 crores of revenue. 

 I am not going to count the awards and other schemes named after Indira and Rajiv.

The net opportunity loss per year for the government of India is at least 775 crores. That's just for the naming rights. Think of what all can be done with 775 crores. For starters we could feed at least 7 lakh people below poverty line (Montek's definition of 28 rupees per day) for a whole year!

The Immortal Daughters

Dads have a history of moving heaven and earth for their daughters. Mike Micka hacked an entire video game to let his daughter play saviour instead of Mario. Tom Cruise blew up 3 million pounds to hire a private jet to see his daughter Suri on her seventh birthday. Apollo 17 astronaut Eugene Cernan actually went all the way to the moon to etch the initials of his little girl (Tracy Dawn Cernan) on the lunar surface!

Entrepreneurs wow their daughters with a simple trick. They name their brands after their favourite child to give them the gift of immortality. When Karsanbhai Patel lost his daughter Nirupama to a car accident, he brought her to life again by christening his detergent as Nirma (her pet name). Just to make sure no one forgets her, he put her illustration on the pack and in the TV commercial. Result: Nirma lives in millions of households today and everyone knows her as the girl in that billowing white frock.

Steve Jobs’ case was slightly different. When he named Apple’s first ever PC as Lisa, it was to overcome his guilt as he had denied paternity in court by disclaiming the physical ability to procreate a child. So he couched it by planting stories that Lisa was an acronym for Local Integrated System Architecture. But later, he admitted that it was a nod to his daughter Lisa Nicole.

The commercial failure of Lisa brought to fore the inherent risks attached in the ‘immortalise my princess’ strategy. But the stupendous success of Barbie (nick name of Barbara, daughter of Mattel’s cofounder) doused the fire of doubt and emboldened Mattel to launch one more doll in the name of Barbara’s brother Ken!

Sara Lee, Wendy’s and Skoda Felicia are three more illustrious examples where daughter names have proved to be veritable blockbusters. The home appliances brand Usha and the fabric whitener company Jyothi Laboratories are some Indian success stories in this ‘beti brand’ genre. But fame for one daughter can cause needless sibling rivalry. The only way out of this logjam is to launch another brand in the other daughter’s name!

Caste of Characters

India is neither a sleeping elephant nor a buzzing beehive.  She’s akin to that unlimited thali served in your neighbourhood restaurant offering a bewildering array of katoris, filled to the brim, with spicy and sweet, light and heavy side-dishes that either leave you with a satisfied burp or a Delhi Belly.

 

The thali is but a simplistic metaphor. In reality, we are a much more complex package. We are more like a giant platter with 3000 main courses (make that ‘castes’) and 25,000 side dishes (read ‘sub castes’). Anyone with a remote appetite for sociology will be in a perpetual state of salivation as we offer more variety than any civilisation on the planet. 

Studying the rainbow coalition of castes and sub castes can be a fascinating subject as it provides clues to decoding the wonder that was India. Let’s skim the surface by exploring the world of caste nomenclature. 

Have you ever wondered how the Gounders got their name? No. Gounda Mani had nothing to do with it. Linguists say that Gounder is from Kavundan or Kaamindan, the Tamil word for ‘noble protector of the country’. 

What about Vanniars? For all that Tamil talk by Dr. Ramadoss, did you know that Vanniar is a derivation of the Sanskrit word Vahni (meaning ‘fire’)? The fire connection is because the Vanniars believe that they are Agnivanshi kshatriyas. 

Vellalars, the agricultural landlords of Tamil Nadu, trace their lineage to the Velirs – migrant warriors from the lost city of Dwaraka! Kayasths, have a mythological connect too. They are of the view that Chitragupta (Yamraj’s accountant) is the progenitor of their race. Now Chitragupta was created out of the body of Brahma. And Kayastha in Sanskrit means ‘from the body’. That’s why. 

Quite a few castes owe their names to their professions. Kurmis from ‘krishi karmi’ or agriculturists. Gujjars from ‘gau charana’ or ‘cow grazers’. Bhumihars (‘landmakers’), Kapus (from ‘kaapu’ or ‘protector’) and Vokkaligas (from ‘okkalutana’ or ‘agriculture’) also have pastoral roots. While Lingayats (‘one who wears the linga’) and Kammas (from the Buddhist concept of ‘Karma’) have a religious basis.  There are a million more stories to share. But I am forced to hold them back lest I be branded as a casteist!

The Lions of Lanka

The tigers and leopards in Tamil Nadu are growling in anger four years after the annihilation of the LTTE in Sri Lanka. The belated outburst of manufactured rage has been further fanned by political hyenas hoping to checkmate the old foxes in the cynical game of one-upmanship. Buddhist monks are being mindlessly targeted. Friendly cricketers not spared. And Rajakapaksa’s republic has been hastily branded as an ‘enemy country’.

But there is still hope. The soldiers of this peaceful war against Lanka are students. So, to uncover the devious game of the politicians, all they need to do is to study a little history before demanding a slice of geography.

And history tells us that the Lankans are not aliens out to exterminate Tamils but descendants of our very own Indian blood. The first king of Ceylon, Vijaya Singha (the Singha that gave rise to Singhala or Sinhala), was widely believed to be from Simhapur, which happens to be the modern-day Sihor in Bhavnagar, Gujarat. The Karavas, the second most dominant Sinhalese group, draw their roots back to the Kauravas of Mahabharatha! Theravada Buddhism, the lead religion in Sri Lanka, was exported to the island nation by King Ashoka’s children Mahinda and Sanghamitra.

Even the names used by its people owe its origins largely to Sanskrit. I’ll demonstrate it by decoding some famous surnames. The Jayawardene in Mahela Jayawardene means ‘one who promotes victory’. Sangakkara aptly translates to ‘the group’s leader’. Ranatunga, the spearhead of the world cup victory, amazingly works out to ‘chief of war’. Herath (remember, Rangana Herath?) is synonymous with ‘Shivaratri’.

Samaraweera is ‘war hero’; Tillakaratne is ‘gem of the necklace’, Wettimuni is ‘sage who can perceive’, Jayasuriya is ‘victorious sun’, Mahanama is ‘holy name’, Kaluwitharana is ‘truly a gift’, Chandana is ‘sandalwood’, Taranga cues ‘sea waves’,  Kapugedera implies ‘protector from torrent’ and Kulasekara, ‘god of the commune’.

Let’s analyse surnames of leaders. Rajapakse connotes ‘loyal to the king’. Premadasa ironically suggests ‘servant of love’. Bandaranayake spells ‘storehouse captain’ while Kumaratunga alludes to ‘chief’s child’. Despite all these linguistic, historic and genetic linkages, if we continue to perceive the Lankans as adversaries, then we deserve to be consumed by the beast of hatred.

The Ha Ha Designation

In the beginning there were just two breeds of people: the Masters and the Slaves. As life got more complicated, the Master species realised that the only way they could extend their perpetual reign was by doling out designations by the dozen. Thus was born the corporate hierarchy that carved out the Slave species into an illusory pyramid of glorified executives who were essentially suits from outside but serfs from inside.

By labelling even flunkeys as Associate Deputy Assistant Vice Presidents, the Master class somehow cunningly managed to inflate egos and extract better performances. In times of recession, when the top management had only peanuts to offer to the monkeys, this Creative Designations Strategy worked like a charm.

Retrenchment Managers fired away to glory when they were re-designated as Change Magicians. Systems Supervisors were willingly chaining themselves to the computer when handed out the Digital Overlord business card. HR Heads forgot about bonuses when they were called Chief Happiness Officers.

But the bubble burst when a humble receptionist was tagged as  Director of First Impressions. At that tipping point, the Slave class realised that the joke was on them. They retaliated by creating a whole new sub genre of ‘Job Title Humour’ which successfully dismantled the farcical mask of designations.

Let’s explore the ludicrous practice of up-titling (grandiose titles for menial jobs) by applying it to our little world. Imagine re-labelling your cook as Stomach Delighter, would that butter her up or cheese her off? Try Vigil Ninja instead of Watchman. Would your Gurkha take it as a racial slur or a compliment? Would Mobility Director drive your driver mad or make him reach the destination faster?

My wager is that the cup of woes of the chaiwallah will only brim over if he’s called the Refreshments Honcho. Your friendly maid servant is not going to be impressed with Home Beautician. She will still kick up a ruckus and take you to the cleaners if you don’t give her a raise. By rebranding the peon as Micro Operations Manager, your electrician as Power Surgeon or the plumber as Liquidity Supervisor, you’re not giving him a promotion. You’re just calling him names.

The Red Indian Brand

The problem with young civilizations is that they have very little history and almost no mythology to play with. So one is forced to spin yarns and invent stereotypes to inject a sense of drama into bedtime stories. The American narrative of the Red Indian as a perpetually buckskin-wearing, feather-bonnet-donning, war-paint-sporting noble savage riding a crazy horse, is a rather one dimensional profile of a proud race. It’s as demeaning as reducing every South Indian to a Mehmoodian caricature.

But the good news is that despite the best efforts of Western Dime Novels and Hollywood B-grade movies to pigeonhole the Native American as the anachronistic wild guy, marketers have managed to create an aspirational halo around him, albeit serendipitously.

Pontiac, the automobile brand from General Motors, was the earliest attempt to make the Red Indian cool. Named after the Michigan city (which in turn was named after the legendary Chief Pontiac who was famously brave), the car with the arrowhead emblem, never tried to underplay its moorings. On the contrary, Pontiac celebrated its valiant heritage with a series of tributes. The launch of the ‘Chieftain’, ‘Aztek’, ‘Montana’, and ‘Star Chief’ models just go to underline the company’s macho credentials.

America’s first motorcycle ‘Indian’ (yeah, the real hero of the movie The World’s Fastest Indian) had as many fan boys in its heydays as Harley Davidson. ‘Indian’ was initially baptised as ‘American Indian’. The dropping of the American prefix made it even more saleable in global markets.

The cutesy kiddie brand ‘OshKosh B’Gosh’ is an indirect nod to the Ojibwe Indian Chief Oshkosh who fought alongside the Americans in the Black Hawk war. Likewise, ‘Sequioa Capital’ – the big daddy of venture capitalists – draws its roots from ‘Sequoyah’, the silversmith who made it possible for the Cherokee tribe to read and write.

Talking of Cherokee, who can forget the iconic Jeep Cherokee? The first ever modern-era SUV that conjures up memories of the finest adjectives. Add Kickapoo (the joy juice born out of a comic strip but owes its name to the wanderers of Oklahoma) and our own TVS Apache (inspired by Arizona’s most fierce tribe) and you’ll realise that the ‘redskin’ is no longer a pejorative.

Know your onions.

In an era when Apple is viewed as a computer, Ginger as a hotel, Onion as a satirical newspaper and Broccoli as a film maker, you do tend to forget your beets, shoots and leaves. In such moments, it’s good to pause and reflect on the salad days of vegetables.

Onions (possibly the oldest recorded vegetable) were treated like gods in Ancient Egypt. Some say they were worshipped because they provided all the energy to the slaves who built the pyramids. The Greeks used onions as a primitive form of steroids for preparing their athletes for the Olympics. In the middle ages, doctors everywhere were prescribing it for relieving coughs, curing headaches, healing snake bites, and solving infertility! The profound coexistence of many layers in one bulbous blob inspired some Romans to coin a Latin word unionem (meaning ‘the one’) which later morphed into the humble Onion.

Likewise, potatoes were the most precious things for the Incas. They fought for it, prayed with it and even buried their dead with it. In 1565, when explorer Gonzalo Jiminez de Quesada didn’t find gold, he took the potato in lieu, as he found it as treasure-worthy. If not for Sir Francis Drake’s generous act of planting the wonder tuber in Ireland, the world would never have got to taste the French Fries, the aaloo paratha, the bonda and the samosa. Curiously, the name potato (derived from the Spanish ‘batata’) was originally invented for the sweet potato!

The linguistic origins of some other vegetables are as intriguing. The cabbage draws its roots from the French word ‘caboche’ (meaning head). I suspect a Sanskrit origin as ‘kapishaka’ has identical connotations.

Carrot comes from the Greek ‘karaton’, thanks to its horn-shape. Ginger from Greek ‘gingibris’ which in turn is inspired from the Tamil ‘Inji ver’. Gooseberry from German ‘krausebeere’ or ‘crispy, curly’. Yam from the West African 'nyami' (‘to eat’). Radish from Latin for ‘root’. The big fat pumpkin from the Greek word for ‘cooked by the sun’. And zucchini from Italian for ‘little pumpkin’.

So the next time you say grace before your meal, thank the green gods from all continents.

Animals on Wheels.

There are sound reasons why the alpha man is attracted to a car more than a woman. A car has curves, by design. It’s easier to turn on. It doesn’t mind being horny. You can ride on it for years and it will never get pregnant. And the best part is you can junk it at will without ever having to fork out a hefty alimony.

I, for one, believe that the carmic connection is a natural outcome of the bestial nature of the man and the machine. Which is probably why, automobile marketers have shown a marked preference for naming motorcars after animals.

The Swallow Sidecar Company set the trend by labelling its 2.5-litre steely beast as Jaguar Saloon. The cat fetish found an echo in the sixties when Mercury launched Cougar, Bobcat, Pantera and Lynx in quick succession. Chevrolet kept apace by unleashing the sports car Cheetah. Meanwhile, Buick added one more to the feline stable with Wildcat. Many years later, Ford let loose the Puma on unsuspecting auto enthusiasts. Polish entrepreneur Zbyslaw Szwaj ended the cat lust in 2005 with the Leopard Roadster.

The clowder of cats was evenly matched by the herd of thoroughbreds. Ford Mustang (a nod to the North American wild horse), Ford Bronco (untrained equines), Ford Pinto (patchy skinned white breeds), Dodge Colt (male horse below age four), Subaru Brumby (free roaming Australian horse) and Hyundai Equus (latin for horse) have graced the roads with their horsepower.

Birds have managed equal attention by possessing the exact attributes desired from the car model. Studebaker Sparrow (a sub-compact range), Reliant Robin (small three wheeled wonder), Buick Skylark (initially used for the convertible), Ford Thunderbird (a nod to a mythical bird) and Nissan Bluebird (in blue shades) have taken wings from time to time.

Off and on, snakes have been celebrated (Dodge Viper and Shelby Cobra come to mind). And sometimes, antelopes (Ford Impala is a great example). Fish have caused a splash too (think Corvette Stingray, Plymouth Barracuda and Opel Manta). There’s even been a case of a dinosaur car (Campagna T-Rex). Now you know why they call our cities, concrete jungles!

Nicks that bowl you over.

Our cricketer nicknames bear a striking resemblance to the dust bowls we pass off as pitches. Mostly they are dry (Gauti, Viru, Zak, Yuvi, Dada), lifeless (Sanu, Chikku, Mahi, Jaddu) or doctored for spin (The Wall, Haryana Hurricane, Turbonator, Master Blaster, Very Very Special, Captain Cool).

Rarely do you get names with wit. ‘Amarnought’ (the moniker Mohinder earned when he scored three ducks against Holding in the Windies tour of India in 1983/84) and ‘Bombay Duck’ (bestowed on Agarkar for notching seven straight zeroes against the Aussies) are the only two, I can recollect.

In stark contrast, the willow wielders and red cherry hurlers from other nations sport far more colourful pet names. David Boon, the portly opener who is best remembered for glugging 54 cans of beer while flying from Sydney to London for the Ashes tour, was called ‘Keg on Legs’ for his high-spiritedness.

Angelo Mathews was labelled ‘Superman’ by his team mates for his kinky penchant for wearing the underwear over his tights. Richie Benaud, the all rounder turned commentator, was famously lampooned as ‘Diamonds’ as his friends believed Richie was so lucky that even ‘if he were to put his mouth into a bucketful of shit, he’d come up eating diamonds’.

Mfuneko Ngam, the South African cricketer who played three test matches in his career, had a cleverly concocted nick. He was ‘Chewey’ as Ngam sounded very much like the ‘ingum’ in chewing gum!

When the team members are too polite, sometimes the crowd pitches in with a suitable moniker. Umar Gul was anointed with the ‘Peshawar Rickshaw’ tag as his pace was rather slow when compared to ‘Rawalpindi Express’ Shoaib Akhtar. Likewise when the bodyline-fame JWHT Douglas took 183 minutes to clock 33 runs, the irate spectators dubbed his initials as ‘Johnny Won’t Hit Today’.

Sometimes the media contributes to the fun with spicy coinages. Nasser Hussain’s tendency to break his fingers, earned him the snarky ‘Poppadom Fingers’ appellation. Nantie Hayward, the man touted to replace Alan Donald, was billed as ‘Wayward Hayward’ for his unpredictably raw pace. And slow runner Mark Richardson was mocked as ‘Rigor’ (short for rigor mortis) as he moved like a dead man!

How bad words became bad words.

If some aliens were to knock at your door and beseech you to teach them the most vulgar sounding swear words, please remember one little tip: profanity sounds most profane not in Punjabi or Hindi but in our very own Chennai Tamil.

Let’s face it. The wimpy Kutte Kaminey is no match for our cringe-inducing Kaide Kasmaalam. Word for word, expletive for expletive, your average son of the gutter Tamil obscenity, is far more abrasive, offensive and repulsive.

Despite creating an enviable pool of cuss words, not many are aware of the etymological roots of our favourite insults. As a leading practitioner of the unparliamentary, I think it’s my duty to chronicle the evolution of local invectives.

So let’s start with Capemaari (thief or rogue). You’d be surprised to know that Capemaari is derived from a thuggee like tribe called Kepumaaris who were a public nuisance during the time of the British. They were the lead criminal class in Tiruvallur in the then Chengalpet district. For their misdemeanours, the Brits gave them a bad name and the derogatory saga continues.

Mada Sambrani (bumbling idiots) is another popular affront with Tamil families. It has a Sanskrit origin. Mada means ‘insanity induced by intoxication’ in the so-called Aryan language. And Sambharani is the vessel in which soma (intoxicant) is served. Hence Mada Sambharani can only mean a cantankerous empty vessel or a blabbering dolt!

The scurrilous Tamil terminology for ‘illegitimate son’ owes its origins to the Temple dancers. In those days, they were called Devadiyals (slaves of gods). The rich and the famous used to bed them and the offspring were called Devadiyal Magans. Today, it’s morphed into the foul mouthed you-know-what.

Badava Rascal has a rather amusing ancestry. The Badavas are a caste in old Maharashtra who took care of temples. In the pecking order of priests, the Badavas always took the pride of place. Some enlightened soul extended the analogy of ‘pedigreed priest’ to good-for-nothings and thus was born ‘the rascal of rascals’

I could go on and disrobe the bad halo of more bad words. Lest you label me as a ‘Bemani’, I shall stop with Kasmaalam (born from the Sanskrit word ‘Kashmal’ meaning dirty).

Killer Names of Rowdies.

If at all, Anurag Kashyap were to make ‘Gangs of Waseypuram’, he will get plenty of grist from the crimson hued crime columns in our Tamil dailies famed for sober headlines such as Kadhara Kadhara Karpazhippu (raped till she screamed and screamed), Oda Oda Virati Konraar (he chased and chased and killed him) and Kanavan Sathak, Manaivi Puthak (husband stabbed, wife knifed).

The sense of blood curdling sensationalism one notices in our crime reporting is a reflection of the inherent melodrama in our veins. Even the roadside rowdy in Tamil Nadu prefers cut-through names rather than blunt monikers that will escape the eye of the cops.

VP Pandian sounds like a veshti-clad bank manager who will never hurt even a Mambalam mosquito. Obviously, it won’t work if you were considering a rewarding career as a dreaded henchman, right? So what does VP Pandian do? He goes to a barber shop and chooses a hairstyle that catches his fancy. The slang word for the style is ‘Attack’ and it seems to make a perfect prefix for a hoodlum. From that red letter day, VP Pandian became ‘Attack’ Pandi and thus began the mythology of the man, Madurai fears the most.

The need to send a cold shiver down the spine is why you have almost Kollywood Villainesque names like ‘Bomb Selvam’, ‘Kathi Kuthu Ravi’ and ‘Karadi Mani’.

Using weapons as your tag can be very limiting. As in, there can only be one ‘Soda Bottle Suresh’ in every pettai. Too many gangsters laying claim to the ‘Revolver’, ‘Aruvaal’ and ‘Crowbar’ epithets can rob the fear factor and all you’ll evoke is titters and not jitters.

That’s why every mobster has developed his own formula. ‘Welding’ Kumar chose his profession to carve his identity. Ayodhya Kuppam Veeramani used the violent halo of his fishing colony to deliver the message. Out Arumugham leveraged his weird mannerism (he’d say ‘OUT’ after murdering his target) to underline his cold bloodedness. Mundakanna Selvam looked into his ‘big eyes’ for inspiration for a nickname. Sketch Ravi deployed his talent (he sketched his victim’s face before getting the job done) as his visiting card. Wonder what they’ll think of next.

The Theistic Atheist

The patently political Viswaroopam ruckus has pitch-forked Kamalhassan again into the national limelight. For a country used to seeing Tamilnadu as Rajnikant country, this was a rude reminder that there are other superstars in the Southern sky with the mystic power to dodge bullets, defy bans and part the sea of tranquillity in our humdrum lives.

The controversy took Kamalhassan totally by surprise as he’s always presented himself as a dyed-in-the-wool rationalist with a high level of tolerance for religious plurality. The last thing he was expecting was the ungainly taint of ‘anti-islam’ on his radiant secular persona.

Atheists like Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris would have proudly worn this badge. But in politically correct India, it never pays to tread on other people’s toes. And for a box-office dependent icon like Kamal with 100-crores at stake, image is everything.

Forget ‘anti-islam’, but is the ‘Ulaga Nayagan’ really a non-believer as he’d like us to believe? Evidence from his enviable body of work is to the contrary.

Ever since he’s donned the hats of producer, writer and director, Kamal has dropped cryptic clues on where his faith lies. The Hindu trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva keep recurring in the character names - he so carefully crafts - in all his recent productions.

Take ‘Virumandi’. Kamal could have easily given it a rustic irreligious name like ‘Veeramani’ and it would have still worked. But he chose ‘Virumandi’. Is it because of his penchant to opt for god names? For the uninitiated, Virumandi is worshipped in Theni district as ‘Viruman’ or ‘Brahman’.

If one peels the many subtle layers in his films, one can spot a Saivite streak. Sample the names ‘Viswanath’ in Viswaroopam, ‘Nallasivam’ in Anbe Sivam, ‘Avinash’ in Mumbai Express and ‘Ramalingam’ in Kaadhala Kaadhala. Innocuous as they may seem, all are synonyms for Lord Shiva. You’ll be surprised to know that Kamal has used the ‘Shaktivel’ name in 3 movies: Nayakan, Sathi Leelavathi and Thevar Magan!

Add Adinarayan (Kurudhipunaal), Saket Ram (Hey Ram), Krishnaswamy (Mahanadhi), Raghavan (Vettaiyaadu Vilaiyaadu) and the Dasavatharam imagery, to discover his Vaishnavite streak. So, is the atheist role, another stellar performance from the actor we all love?

A Degree of Levity.

Universities are like the stereotype white-coats who appear in toothpaste advertisements. They need to appear credible. They need to sound academic. And above all, they need to be visibly boring.

Being ‘effortlessly uninteresting’ is the true hallmark of a good university. Jog your rusty memory and you’ll solve the puzzle of ‘why your college life sucked’. Because Profs are meant to look constipated. Courses are preordained to be colourless. Classrooms have to recreate that assembly line feel. Journals are deliberately engineered to be slumberous. Mottos have to be profoundly unintelligible. And every little trapping associated with the university needs to conform to the carefully cultivated image of gravitas.

The ardour to maintain a weighty veil of solemnity is probably why universities have dreadfully ho-hum names. And to give them their due, that’s probably why the world takes varsities seriously.

In this milieu of soberness, it is rare to spot a dash of frivolity. But the oddballs do exist. Turn your gaze to Lovely Professional University in Punjab. Yes, the beauty parlouresque name happens to be ‘India’s largest private university in one campus housing 25,000 students’ offering degrees in Arts to Aviation!

Lovely makes Arindam Chaudari’s IIPM seem like Harvard. I am sure that the embarrassed alumni will be typing out their resumes with the abbreviated LPU instead of the bizarre moniker chosen by the Punju promoters (Lovely Group of Companies).

If Lovely raised a chuckle, teleport yourself to Transylvania University (TU). Lest you assume it to be the campus featured in the vampire romance ‘Twilight’, TU is very much a 48-acre brick and mortar campus in Kentucky that has educated many thousands including two US vice presidents and fifty US senators. Nestled in the heavily-forested regions of West Virginia, the founding fathers chose Transylvania as it meant ‘across the woods’ in Latin. Considering Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula hadn’t been invented then, you could pardon the name.

But how do you condone the outlandish UFO University in Tirana, Albania? The deceptively paranormal name apparently is a contraction for ‘Universitas Fabrefacta Optime’ which means ‘university to forge the good’. If you found that too surreal, you should perhaps queue up for admissions in ‘Beijing Normal University’ in China!

Operation Hush Hush

A military operation is not a military operation till you dignify it with a code name. The German Army was the first to hit upon this brainwave when they cryptically labelled their World War I invasion of the Baltic Islands as ‘Operation Albion’. If they had called it Operation Bloodyhell or Operation Takethatyoulosers, then history may have judged the act of taking 20,000 Russian prisoners, rather offensively.

The German innovation of dressing up of crimson war wounds with high sounding monikers inspired Winston Churchill to issue the now famous guideline, that nomenclature to designate war ops, ‘ought not to be of a frivolous character’ as no mom or widow would like to say ‘that her son was killed in an operation called Bunnyhug or Ballyhoo’.

That’s probably why America opted for ‘Enduring Freedom’ in Afghanistan, ‘Restore Hope’ in Somalia and ‘Uphold Democracy’ in Haiti. If you ask me, all these names sound like words you’ll associate with peaceniks like Yoko Ono or Bob Geldof!

Sometimes even Pentagon is not so politically correct. Operation Geronimo, the covert raid to kill or capture Osama Bin Laden was roundly criticised by Native Americans for running down not just their chieftain but also their race.

Indian cryptonyms - in my humble view - have shown a lot more intelligence. The Hyderabad Police Action in 1948 was billed as ‘Operation Polo’ as Hyderabad had the highest number of polo grounds in India during that era.

India’s first nuclear test in Pokhran was evocatively designated as ‘Operation Smiling Buddha’ cueing the peaceful nature of the program. . The Indian Army’s desire to be a thorn in the flesh of the coup plotters in Maldives resulted in ‘Cactus’. While the IPKF endgame against LTTE in 1998 was dubbed as ‘Checkmate’.

One name that must have given great angst to the brand manager of Blue Star air conditioners is: Operation Bluestar. I’ve always wondered why they called it so. Could it be that Bluestar refers to Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, the star of the Khalistan movement who was always seen in a blue turban? Or did Indira Gandhi have a frivolous reason that fails the Churchill test? We’ll never know as this is a national secret.

Learning languages over lunch.

Cholesterol and Diabetes can turn even diehard foodies into food voyeurs. After years of bingeing on the crispiest, crunchiest and sinfully sweet eats, one gets reduced to being a serial ogler of the forbidden fruits on the menu card.

One way to channelize the food lust is by developing an insatiable appetite for learning new languages by studying the smorgasbord of dish names. So while your friends are debating on what to order at Little Italy, you could just tap a few screens on your smart phone and discover that Antipasto cues ‘before the meal’ Vermicelli means ‘little worms’, Fettuccine is ‘little ribbons’, Penne is Italian for ‘pens’, Farfalle is ‘butterflies’, Salsa is ‘sauce’, Piccante is ‘spicy’, Salato is ‘salty’, Dolce is ‘sweet’ and Tiramisu can literally be deciphered as ‘pick me up’. By the time your pals let out their symphony of burps, you would have added ten new words to your vocabulary!

It need not always be menu cards. You could pick a smattering of Chinese, Spanish or Greek by just getting curious about restaurant names. The other day, I was walking past Zaitoon, the fast food joint. I hurried home and googled. I figured out that Zaitoon is Arabic for ‘olive’.

Being curious has its benefits. You could always appear smarter than you are. I may have never been to ITC Grand Chola’s ‘Modo Mio’. But I know it’s the Italian way of proclaiming ‘My way’. All I have to do is to shove this nugget into a conversation to score my corporate brownie.

Since French is the ultimate way to appropriate blue-bloodedness, these days I am learning the Parisian lingo by leering at signboards. During the first course of my misadventures, I’ve learned that Brasserie is not a lingerie store but an ‘informal restaurant’. La Boulangerie is not as sophisticated as it seems. It’s French for ‘the bakery’. The ‘Parfait’ in Parfait 3 stands for ‘perfect’. Haute Saute translates to ‘High Toss’. And Chez Vous is ‘your place’.

Thanks to my new found linguistic mojo, I can now aspire to be a pseudo polyglot who’s at ease mouthing the Arabic ‘Yalla Yalla’ and the Korean ‘Deok Su Gung’.

The Best Names of 2012

A name is a tattoo that gets etched in the brain. A forgettable name is like a temporary tattoo while a memorable name is a permanent tattoo that leaves a lasting impression.

The year 2012 threw up thousands of instantly vanishing brain tattoos, a few erasably average imprints, and some indelible ones that actually made a deep impact. I am gonna serve you the cream of the cream, culled out by yours truly.

Best Band Name: It was a toss up between the party punk peddling Ohio band ‘Hookers Made Out Of Cocaine’ and the Australian garage pop duo ‘Bleeding Knees Club’. ‘Hookers’ seems like a concoction designed to create shock value, while BKC does the job without really trying too hard. So my vote is for the Bleeders.

Best Named English Movie: Four films caught my eye. The Osama manhunt themed ‘Zero Dark Thirty’, Bruce Willis starrer ‘The Cold Light of Day’, romantic comedy ‘What To Expect When You’re Expecting’ and the time travel drama ‘Looper’. I picked none of these. Instead, I flipped for the bombastic appeal of ‘The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel’.

Best Bollywood Title: In a field populated with foul-mouthed college slangers like ‘Kismet Paisa Love Dhoka (KLPD)’, ‘Bumboo’ and ‘Fatso’, comedy drama ‘Ferrari Ki Sawaari’, Shoojit Sircar’s ‘Vicky Donor’ and Gauri Shinde’s ‘English Vinglish’ felt a lot more evolved. In the end, the prancing car won the race for its out-of-the-box titling.

Best South Indian Film Title: Rajamouli’s runaway hit starring the humble housefly had a clever name in ‘Eega’. But more fascinating were Balaji Mohan’s sophomorish ‘Kaadhalil Sodhappuvadhu Yeppadi’, Prabhu Solomon’s refreshingly catchy ‘Kumki’ and the brilliantly named ‘Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom’. Packaging an amnesia tale by alluding to missing chapters in the middle was truly ingenious. So NKPK it is.

Best Book Title: Breathe easy folks. The mommy porn ’50 Shades of Grey’ is not my winner. That crown belongs to Ryan Holiday’s ‘Trust Me, I’m Lying’, the confessions of a media manipulator!

Best Celebrity Baby Name: Ash’s ‘Aaradhya’ or Uma Thurman’s 7-word wonder ‘Rosalind Arusha Arkadina Altalune Florence Thurman-Busson’ was no match for Reese Witherspoon’s ‘Tennesssee’- a charming nod to the playwright Tennessee Williams!

Harvesters of The End.

The ‘Gangnam’ guy Psy, the feminist Russian punk-rock band Pussy Riot, the Higgs-Boson particle and the Mars Rover Curiosity are among the oddballs in the reckoning for the iconic Time ‘Person of the Year’ title.

The chap leading the pack at the moment is the boyish North Korean dictator Kim Jong-Un. Left to myself, I’d say, no one deserves the crown better than the Mayans. As they alone are responsible for making 2012, the most over hyped year after 1984.

The doomsday aura surrounding the 12/21/12 Mayan Prophecy is palpable all around. Everyone, everywhere, is either tweeting or texting about it. Advertisers, ever the milkmen, are on an overdrive milking every drop of publicity through some cheeky fear mongering.

Axe was the earliest to jump on to the apocalypse bandwagon. Sometime, last year, they launched the ‘AXE 2012 - Final Edition’ deodorant with the sensual power to attract bimbos hiding in even nuclear bunkers.

South Carolina based Latitude 32 credit union, was a bit more brazen. They announced the Mayan ‘End of the World’ auto loan special with the rider that the loan would be forgiven ONLY if the world crashes on December 21st!

Global Chain TGIF is classier. It’s urging customers to live it up on the fateful day by celebrating the ‘Last Friday’ at their key joints in America. On offer is free access to the dance floor to 21 year olds and the proceeds from the sale of Mayan Margaritas will be donated to charity.

If TGIF couched it with a little social spin, some others like Proof Drinks have no such pretensions. They are out in London organising fortnight long Gastronomic Events under the ‘Last Supper Club’ banner.

Meanwhile, History Channel is squeezing the last drop for TRPs by running programs that present as many doomsday scenarios as possible. Breweries have joined the Armageddon party by launching unique short-life drinks that are ‘brewed to not last’. Not to be left behind, Durex Condoms has put out a print campaign, exhorting men to ‘Go out with a bang’!

But the one that takes the cherry is Survivalist Singles, an online dating site for like-minded people who ‘don’t wish to the face the future alone’!

Tamil Footprints in Armenia

The Armenian Church in Chennai was built in the year 1712. Contrary to what historians would like us to believe, the Church is not the only umbilical cord that connects Tamil Nadu to Armenia. The relationship is far more ancient. In fact, there is now linguistic evidence to back the claim that Tamil blood used to flow in the veins of Armenians around 140 BC.

Before I unveil a few exhibits to bolster my arguments, let’s see what the genes say. The Armenian DNA has 35% R1b and 8% R1a – two of the most typical genetic groups in South India. What that means is: we may share the same forefathers!

Let me muddle your mind further by bringing Yerevan into the equation. Yerevan, the capital and largest city of Armenia, is said to have been named after King Yervand IV. Many early manuscripts pronounce Yerevan as Erevan, Iravan and Erivan. Now just utter the name aloud. Doesn’t Yerevan sound like the Tamil word Iraivan (meaning god)?

And where was the Yerevan kingdom located? In Urartu. The Ur in Urartu bears a striking resemblance to the Tamil Oor (meaning city). If that felt like a bit of a stretch, how about examining Lake Sevan?

Sevan, Urmia and Van are the three great lakes in Armenia. Most strangely so, Vanam in Tamil cues forest; Sev-vanam translates to red forest (may be the allusion is to Lake Sevan being the breeding ground for the red-crested duck); and Urumi means curled sword. Considering, Urmia lake derives its roots from Urmia, the warrior kingdom, that fits perfectly.

The coincidences get more predictable as we study Armenian surnames. Let’s try and interpret the Kardashian in Kim Kardashian. Karkal in our mozhi means ‘stones’ and dasan means ‘one who is dedicated to’, so Kardasan must be a stone craftsman. You’d be amazed to know that Kardashian means a ‘stone sculptor’ in Armenian!

The sense of déjà vu grows when you notice that a large chunk of Armenian surnames end with either –ian or –yan. Coming from a state that’s full of Vijayans, Narayans and Subramanians, we don’t need a better cultural connect, do we?

The Above Average Party

After sifting through 40,000 emails, the usually astute Arvind Kejriwal picked the most pedestrian name for the party targeted at the man on the street.

Aam Aadmi Party or AAP should easily rank as the KLPD of the Year. On par with Sachin Tendulkar’s string of Maggi Noodle style performances against Mr. Cook’s boys.

Being a tacit supporter of the anti-graft movement, I was suitably aghast when I heard of the underwhelming name. AAP might be the respectful way of saying ‘You’ in Hindi but in Chennai, aapu only means one thing: letdown!

So why did Team Kejriwal choose a spectacularly ordinary Hindi label when they had infinitely better options? I suspect numerology might be the culprit. Aam Aadmi Party adds up to 6 in both Pythagorean and Chaldean numerology. Considering the party was launched on 26/11/2012 (which again summates to 6), there does seem some mysterious connect.

We can solve the puzzle by looking at India’s birth number which happens to be 15th or 1+5 = 6. Kejriwal’s twin heroes Bhagat Singh and Anna Hazare share the same name number.

“What’s the big deal with 6?” you may ask. Well, it’s the birth number of powerful people like AR Rahman, J Jayalalithaa, Tendulkar, Mayawati, and Arundhati Roy. Considering 2013 is going to be the electoral debut year for AAP, six will come into play again.

Given all this mumbo jumbo, did Arvind the IIT-ian make the right gamble? The mind may say YES but the heart still feels cheated. AAP is indeed a massive compromise. It panders to the lowest common denominator and denies the movement, the branding edge it deserved. Worse still, it’s a clear Intellectual Property violation of the ‘Congress ka haath, aam aadmi ke saath’ slogan.

Personally, I would have preferred the nationalistic ‘Jai Hind’ or the ideologically correct ‘Swaraj Party’. But then, these names will position Kejriwal as a right winger when he desperately wants to be seen as a left liberal.

Now that we can’t do much about it, let’s just hope that the voter does a Nazia Hassan and sings: AAP jaisa koi mere zindagi mein aaye toh baath ban jaaye!