What is there in a name? Shakespeare seems to say, ‘Well, nothing. That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’
I do not quite agree with the take of the Bard of Avon if you consider the way my name has been twisted, distorted, misspelled, and pronounced, not to mention the manner in which it is used to tarnish my reputation (I think image is a better word). The name has become the butt of jokes at home, at the place, and among friends.
Name, you know, is a matter of pride, particularly how it is spelled and pronounced. My pride continues to be wounded on this score. The full name is Dasu Kesava Rao, almost invariably done in lower case. Like many, I am pretty possessive about it.
Now, let us see how people have played around with my name. Some spelled it as das Keshav Rao, some others Dasu Keshva Rao or Keshva Das. So far so good. Now comes the real sizzler. My family, relatives, friends, colleagues, and even acquaintances know me to be a teetotaler (totally tea). Osmania University was obviously unaware of my innocuous drinking habits. The examination branch sent me a bundle of answer sheets for valuation addressed to ‘Daru Konda Rao’ and ‘Daru Kondaiah’, while the telephone directory completed the humiliation with ‘Daru Kesava Rao.’ Then there was a communication from CAMS, a unit of HDFC Mutual Fund, which put me down as Da Sukesavarao.
While I was at The Hindu, the PR wing of a Mumbai or Delhi-based company repeatedly misspelt my name in their communications. Annoyed, I wrote to them clarifying that Dasu Kesava Rao, rpt Dasu Kesava Rao, was how I spelt and not ‘Dasu Keshvarao’, as they habitually did. The PR man wrote back profusely apologising and promising not to repeat the mistake. It began thus: ‘Dear Keshaw Raoji………’
I think guys treat me like this because I am not a VIP nor a celebrity, but a mere pen-pusher. The media bends backwards to oblige every time a politician or a cine celebrity modifies his or her name. When former chief minister of Karnataka Yedyurappa changed his spelling to numerically beneficial Yediyurappa, the press said ‘yes Appa’ and faithfully adhered to the revised spelling. Ditto for Jayalalithaa.
Instead of resigning stoically to the bitter reality, I took it in my stride. It is rightly observed that we Dasus keep smiling for no reason, through pain and pleasure, joy and despair, prosperity and adversity. Though inherent in the family genes, this disorder, namely humour (not tumour), turned chronic after someone treated me with a strong dose of PG Wodehouse some 60 years ago.
When I was selected to join The Hindu, colleagues at The Indian Express warned me against trying pranks at that staid temple of sobriety and stiff upper lip. People mind their business, type their reports, and go home, they said.
However, I did not find the atmosphere choking at the Hyderabad office of The Mount Road Mahavishnu. Things had changed. An air of relaxed informality prevailed. By the turn of the 90s, many youngsters had joined the bureau, further transforming its complexion.
Gossip, one-liners, and even jokes at the expense of seniors became common. A stage came when even the boss seemed to discreetly enjoy the jokes at his expense without casting off the mask of discipline.
Sample the following: One Naidu was habitually late for lunch with the excuse ‘aap shuru karo saab. Bus ek para baaki hai. Main aajaaunga’. He was promptly named ‘Paranaidu.’ Familiar with my dislike for long reports, a young reporter would ask ‘ek chota item hai. Daloon kya? earning the sobriquet ‘Dalmiah’.
One boisterous fellow, transferred from Anantapur, was a teetotaler by which I meant totally tea. Now and then, he would say ‘how about some chai, sir?”. He became ‘Nitya chai baba.’ A senior deskman was nicknamed ‘Kattera Gangadhar’ for mercilessly scissoring the bureau copy.
Reporters often blamed the desk for a deplorable lack of ‘news sense’. Ganduri Krishna, a doyen among the journalists, would dismiss the charge. ‘Alaa ante ela andi. Vaallaku news sense lekapothe vaatine ela cut chestaaru?’ he would counter.
‘What man. When is your ‘kobi coming’, the news editor would enquire in a typical Malayali accent. He earned the right to be called ‘Gobi Krishna’.
One member of the support staff had a healthy distaste for work and would therefore keep a safe distance. Serving tea or doing errands was infra dig for him. He was referred to as ‘Doordarshan’ (never within hailing distance) or ‘Artful Dodger’, the name of a winning race horse those days. The same nattily dressed guy would hang around the receptionist’s desk, often leaning too close for her comfort. He was rechristened ‘David Lean.’ A short-statured technician was discreetly referred to as ‘Bonsai Rammurthy’ to distinguish him from his taller namesake.
The late Nagender Rao, a freelance photographer, was a great human being. He would chatter endlessly in Telugu, Tamil, Hindi, Marathi, and English. Years ago, a busload of journalists was on its way to a beach resort in Prakasam district. He unleashed a torrent of jokes on the captive audience, which begged for mercy. As the bus stopped, we rushed towards the beach for safety, with him chasing us. One of us said, ‘Idemra bai. Mundu pothe samundar, venka choosthe Nagender.’ Keep smiling.
