I escorted my mother into the restaurant. “The Higher Taste” the sign above door stated in style. ‘Aptly named’, I thought, for we were on Hare Krishna Hill, within the premises of the temple complex run by Iskcon in Bangalore and an eatery in such a place should have a name befitting its neighbouring building, the temple.
The food at the restaurant was good. Not outstanding, but good. There was an abundance of food colour in the souffle and a paucity of walnut in the walnut subji biryani, but one can live with these things. The décor and general upkeep of the place was befitting a luxury hotel, as indeed was the tariff for the food.
Now, the one thing I tend to be particular about is to call people by their name and not by their occupation (how I acquired this value concerns a ‘mali’ who brought me up without my ever knowing his name, but that’s another story). I gestured to the waiter who stood by the buffett counter to get me water and, when he came up to my table, had a look at the name tag pinned to his shirt. ‘Lakshman’, it said.
Something wasn’t quite right; the fellow was clearly from the North East, where Lakshman is a most unusual name. As I looked around, I found most of the waiters to be from the North East, as is common today in most restaurants in the city. Yet, their names were most discordant: Padmanabha, Ranganatha, Aniruddha and so on.
While helping myself to the souffle-and-cream, I spoke with ‘Lakshman’.
“Where are you from?”
“From Darjeeling, Sir.”
“Where exactly in Darjeeling?”
“Kalimpong, Sir.” I knew of Kalimpong, of course.
“So, what’s your real name?”
“Chiling, Sir.”
“Are you Buddhist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am a big fan of the Dalai Lama.” I said, seeking to keep the conversation going, for I wished to know more.
“I am part Tibetan, Sir,” he said proudly. “And my father works for the Indo-Tibetan Border Police along the border with China.”
“Do you like being called Lakshman?” I asked, though it really was none of my business.
“It’s a nice name.” he replied politely.
Over the course of the meal, I mulled over my little exchange with Chiling. Why did he need to be rechristened to serve at this restaurant? Chiling is a beautiful name, with a lovely ring to it and in the Tibetan language it could have profound meaning.
The answer, perhaps, has to do with the way every temple (or any sacred place, for that matter) works; there is no room for diversity in the interpretation of religion. Chiling may change his name willingly, for he comes from a part of India that is rotting away, that has no opportunity, and he needs a job. Yet, to transplant a ‘suitable’ name onto such a person is, I think, exploitation, for a name is the vocalisation of identity and self-respect.
I wonder how the Restaurant Manager interviewed him: “Well, Chiling, the job’s yours, except for a small matter: can we call you Lakshman, because Chiling is, well, is not, actually, suitable to our audience.”
or,
“You know, Chiling, we want you to work for us, and we need high customer sat scores, so can we call you Lakshman ?”
When we finished our meal, I looked into the mirror in the rest room and saw one customer who was not quite satisfied. Perhaps they don’t quite care.
