What's in a Name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.” Juliet

Do names matter? According to Shakespeare, maybe not. But I’d say, absolutely.

My name is Malarvilie. It might sound unusual in the UK, but across Tamil, Malayalam and Telugu communities in India, Malaysia and Sri Lanka, roughly 200 million people, it’s no more unique than Sharon or Kate.

In my parents’ culture, the father’s first name becomes the child’s surname. My dad’s name was Krishna and his dad’s was Rajaiyan. But when the British closed their naval base in Singapore, my dad, newly jobless, was offered a British passport. Britain needed workers. He had three kids to feed. He said yes and made his way to the 'Motherland'.

But on the passport, his name was changed. They added “samy” to Krishna, a colonial “tidy up” to fit English systems. This wasn’t unusual. Just like many Tadhg's were renamed “Tim” in Ireland, or Indian names like Patel became widespread due to British administration.

Malar means flower. Vilie means eyes. Apparently, I looked like an alien when I was born, wide-eyed and staring. They named me “Malarvilie,” which together means “a flower in bloom.” I’ve clearly grown into my eyes but it doesn't stop my husband Tim ribbing me about it. Here is Malar written in Tamil:

Even my birth certificate reflects this mish-mash of colonial legacy and pride. My dad wanted his father’s name included, it was ancient, noble, rooted in heritage. But my parents’ English wasn’t great back in 1973. So officially, I became Malarvilie Krishnasamy Rajaiyan.

At his funeral, they got my dad's name wrong. When I pointed it out, someone said, “Oh, he didn’t mind.” But I believe he did. “What’s your Christian name?” When I moved from multicultural London to Bournemouth, this question irked me. “I don’t have one,” I’d say. Cue the quizzical look… Then the penny would drop, and I’d explain: “My first name is Malarvilie.”

The assumption that I must have a Christian name, as if that’s the default, is a leftover from colonial mindsets that erased identities to make others feel comfortable. It echoes the past when colonisers renamed people, gave them Christian names, easier-for-them names, English names.

It’s a power play. And that power dynamic still echoes today.

Recently, I was chatting to another Brit abroad, 20 minutes of lovely conversation before we realised we hadn’t introduced ourselves properly. I said, “My name’s Malarvilie.” Without missing a beat she replied, “I’ll call you Mal.” I smiled politely and said, “No, you won’t. My name is Malarvilie.”

Why is the expectation always that I must accommodate? Why should I adjust, abbreviate, or anglicise to make someone else comfortable?

It’s my name. You adjust. You learn it. You show some bloody respect.

People can spell Tchaikovsky. They can pronounce Schwarzenegger. But Malarvilie? Too much? Or just not important enough?

The Ting Tings understood: https://youtu.be/v1c2OfAzDTI

In some cultures, you don’t correct people. In the UK, it’s worse, your name is changed for you. At age 3, my childminder called me Mandy. Over the years I’ve collected quite the set:

• Mandy

• Malibu

• Milli Vanilli

• Mallory

• Malarvilie Christened-a-Salami

• Malarvilie Ham-bacon-Sarny

Even my parents called me Malar, apparently, by the time they finished saying “vilie,” I was already there.

But since sixth form, I’ve been Mal. Teaching As a teacher, I’d start every new class by writing out “Krish/na/sa/my” on the board. Then I’d list the nicknames I’d had over the years.

I’d tell the kids, “You can’t come up with anything worse, I’ve heard it all.” Then I’d say: “But now I’m a teacher, and I can hand out detentions. So say my name properly.”

I insisted I pronounce their names correctly too. Some kids would say, “Call me whatever.”

But I’d say, “No. Tell me how to say your name.”

Because names matter. Identity matters. Power matters.

In one school, I introduced myself to staff as Malarvilie. Within hours, people were calling me Mal, without permission, some without trying, some with a look of panic: “Do you have a short version?”

It was disheartening. Erasure wrapped in politeness.

I don't agree in this case, Mr Roosevelt:

Smash the Patriarchy!

When we got married, I didn’t change my name. It’s my name.

But Tim added Rajaiyan to his.

Both our children have it as their middle name.

Our eldest is called Taigh Rajaiyan McCullagh.

You can see his heritage in his name, both Indian and Irish.

It makes me proud when I see their names in print.

In the last 30 years, no one has called me Malarvilie… until now.

When we moved to Spain, something shifted. At passport control in Valencia, the officer looked at my passport and said, “Malarvilie?” I nodded, stunned. “Is that correct?” he asked. It was perfect.

Here in Spain, people aren’t afraid of long names. They roll their R’s and embrace the rhythm. Ironically, “Mal” means “bad” or “evil” in Spanish. So, I introduce myself as Malarvilie. Even Tim has started calling me that, because calling your wife “evil” doesn’t feel quite right!

In Spain, I feel more whole. Less apologetic. More rooted. More me.

So, what’s in a name? A lot, actually.

My name is Malarvilie. Pronounced: muh-lur-vi-lee Hear it here: https://namedrop.io/malarviliekrishnasamy

Malarvilie is an Educational Leadership Consultant, Coach and Trainer.