Legacy, Protection & Reclamation

In many cultures, a name is more than just a word — it is a vibration, a calling, a compass for the soul. In Indian culture, particularly within Hindu traditions, the naming of a child isn’t a random act:

it’s a sacred ritual rooted in astrology, numerology, and ancestral alignment.

Based on the exact date, time, and planetary positions at the moment of birth, a child is assigned a syllable or letter that their name should begin with. This practice, known as Naamkaran, is more than symbolic:

it is believed to influence the child’s path, energy, and even karmic destiny.

In essence, the name becomes the first gift — a divine imprint — carrying the echo of the universe at the moment of their arrival.

I often reflect on the weight our names carry. Not just the syllables themselves, but the history behind them. My own father grew up in Guyana, a descendant of Indian indentured laborers, where assimilation was survival. To find work, he had to be baptized and take on a Christian name. That’s how he became Samuel — a name given not from the stars, but from the demands of colonized systems. His siblings were assigned Christian names too. But he had both: a Christian name for society and a Hindu name for soul and self.

As he migrated to America and began building a new life, something beautiful happened — he slowly shed the imposed name and reclaimed his true one. He now only uses his Hindu name, the one given to him with intention, ceremony, and cultural pride.

In Guyana, names also served another purpose — protection. Everyone had multiple names:

• A calling name (the name everyone used daily),
• A false name (to throw people off), and
• The right name, sometimes referred to as the book name — the official name recorded on documents.

In Guyana, names also served another purpose — protection. I learned this one day in the most Guyanese way — when the old people ah talk story and we all just deh hanging out. Dem started talking about the raids that would sweep through villages and hiding in trenches with friends and families, trying to escape the chaos and violence.

Some fought against the oppression, sometimes boldly, sometimes quietly. When the authorities came looking for them, they would ask for the government name. But no one in the village knew it. That was the trick. Everyone knew each other by calling names or false names — never the right name. You could grow up with someone your whole life and never know what their legal name was. And that’s exactly what kept people safe.

During periods of political unrest and fear, particularly around elections, people were targeted by their right names. So villages learned to guard them. This duality — this camouflage — was necessary, a survival strategy born of fear and resistance. Our names became shields.

When I became a mother, I made a quiet rebellion of my own. I chose to give my children just one name — their right name. A name spoken with pride. No more false names. No more fragmentation. Just one name — intentional, whole, rooted in identity.

This, for me, is how we begin to undo the patterns forced upon us through colonization and assimilation. This is how we reclaim language, spirit, and legacy.

Because a name is not just a name.
It is a lineage.
It is a shield.
It is a whisper from the cosmos.
It is who we are

and who we are becoming.