. WHAT’S IN A NAME?

My first book that just got released from the confines of the Minerva Press, after an agonizing wait of almost two years, is called ‘Daddy- A Bouquet of Memories’. When I first decided to name the book it had not been a very difficult job. The novel, being biographical in approach, simply had to be entitled ‘Daddy’. But not wanting to be termed as a plagiarist by Mr. Mahesh Bhatt, (there was a recent film of his by that name) I decided to elaborate on it by allowing room for further extension. Since it was also autobiographical by default, I decided to call it ‘Daddy- A memoir’. But being a Gandhian by birth and not wanting to give undue importance to anything foreign, I thought the ‘French’ bit should be altered. Hence ‘memoir’ became ‘memories’. But again, since the fragile memories could not manage to stand on their own, they had to be wrapped up into a ‘bouquet’, one that would ensure permanent bondage and eternal fragrance. Thus ‘Daddy- A Bouquet of Memories’ was born.

When my husband and I held the book for the first time, we continued to lovingly gaze at it. It was almost like holding our third baby, one of which I gently reminded, that except for the support and the encouragement, he had no other major involvement in. Since the christening had already been done, congratulatory messages for the new arrival started to pour in from different quarters. One of my friends said that it was an apt title. I thought so too- until someone I hardly knew, dropped by.

This man took a glance at the book, which happened to be lying on the table. He then picked it up carefully and ran his hands gently over the smooth cover. He was all praise for the overall effect- the feel, the design, the documentation and the quality. They were all marvellous, he commented. ‘They really do a good job nowadays, with the printing too’. All the time he kept fondly caressing the book. Finally he turned it over. ‘Hmmmmm’, he said, shaking his head, ‘perfect, although the pricing is a bit too high. But then’, he immediately continued, ‘books don’t come by cheap nowadays. I really think they have done a wonderful job.’ By now I was in seventh heaven. And remained there. Until he read the title! ‘Daddy’, he pronounced loudly and articulately. I smiled, the smile of a proud daughter. Then he went on to read the rest- ‘A Bucket of Memories.’

I was speechless! My smile vanished instantaneously. I looked at my husband, who now had an impish grin on his face. With one unpretentious expression, all my meticulous planning and style had been punctured. With one simple utterance, this man had given a whole new meaning to the entire book. I had tried so hard to gather my thoughts and words into a bunch of memories so that all kinds of heady scents would find expression there- the gradual transformation of society, the political upheavals, the religious animosity, the homespun incidences and the ambiguities of life and death. But with one humble approach, the brilliance of a tribute to an illustrious father, by a doting daughter, had suddenly gone ‘pail’.

I looked up angrily. But I found nothing ignoble in the man’s expression. I felt terribly offended. But his face bore no marks of the offender. My husband continued to grin. ‘I think I’ll buy it’, the man said finally, with a genuine smile on his face. ‘It would be a lovely present to give to my daughter’. ‘Oh!’ I said, suddenly taken aback. ‘The name is so nice’, he continued in a simple manner, ‘I feel that every daughter who has a father should read this book called ‘Daddy’.’ I had heard somewhere that a frown was only a smile turned upside down. So I immediately decided to curve it upwards. It was so simple, to be able to smile again. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘and I think every father who has a daughter should also read it.’ ‘Most certainly I will’, he assured me, getting up to go.

The proud father walked away with a dent in his pocket and a ‘bucket’ in his hands. And my husband and I both felt satisfied with the norm that Mr. Shakespeare had set. After all, what is in a name? That which we call a book by any other name would still remain a book. The chapters would still remain unaffected. The contents would still be black and white. As long as they were ‘read’ all over! The only problem was that provided the people considered my book a harmless ‘bouquet’, there was nothing to worry about. But the moment anyone else even began to think otherwise, I’m afraid I’d have to attach a statutory warning to it.

“DANGER- Handle with extreme caution. Readers, please do not leave it lying carelessly anywhere around. The author is not, in any way responsible, if someone accidentally kicks the ‘bucket’.”

Nargis Natarajan