She Said: I love my surname. It just took a while

Shriya Murmu

Living almost 20 years in Bihar, I would fear the morning roll call at school. I would pray the teacher at the desk would know me enough to call me only by my first name. With all the internalised oppression, stemming from the lack of representation, I discreetly decided to omit my surname, ‘Murmu’, while introducing myself. Back then, my Facebook profile just read ‘Shriya Shanika’. I was not ashamed of my surname. I was just scared to carry it around with me, for I was made to believe that it was not ideal because it was not mainstream.

While I did realise the rich culture of my community later, in my teens, I was barely proud of where I came from. The societal instillation that my name needs to be scrutinised somehow led to a distorted identity. Was I just a woman? Was I too tribal? Should I speak less about my history? Should I say my name less often?

The sense of ‘otherness’ rose in me each time someone acted surprised by my name. And as much as the ‘other’ has its own identity, it is always deemed less worthy or less dominating. This is a probable outcome when a society or an educational institution lacks an ethnically diverse pool of teachers.  This pushes us into a discussion on how decision-making positions also lack individuals from marginalised communities.  I was unaware that dropping my surname would metaphorically mean I was distancing myself from my community. There was also no non-scholarly authoritative figure to help me with my sense of identity.

I understand the significance of my surname now. Chudier Chuol writes on Medium, “My name… is (a) prolonged legacy of battles we’ve lost and yet we’ve prevailed. My name is not uncomfortable… My name is intentional and it will be said with great intention.” I read this and it has stayed with me.

I learnt how asserting myself as an ‘Adivasi woman’ would require an influence on my community. After all, identity comes from comradeship. My name comes as a generational treasure — it was not just my identity I was carrying but all my previous generations and their stories, their struggle with identity, their assertion.

That realisation came in bulk only when I came back to Jharkhand in my mid-20s. It was then that I admitted that I am Santhal without hesitation. I was just like any other Adivasi in Jharkhand. I did not try hard to assert my surname. From my professors and my batchmates to random hotel and tea shop owners, I would find at least one ‘Murmu’ in every group. I did not have to hide deliberately. In fact, the similarity made me want to connect with people — know their idea of identity, their home town, their dialect. Because in everything we shared, I felt I belonged. Every time I’d utter ‘Murmu’, people would spread out their hands to either wish me ‘Johar (salutation)’ or ‘Jai Yeshu’ or even ‘Jai Bhim’.

The feeling of being scrutinised had changed to acceptance. I accepted myself because the community did. My Instagram handle now has ‘Adivasi’ written and my name in Santhali script, Ol Chiki. A little late but I grew out of seeing myself as ‘other’. When I see my name today, I don’t see humiliation or ridicule anymore.

The writer is a Trainee Sub-Editor with The Indian Express.