Rechristened and branded for life:

Nicked in the nickname game!

Gaston De ROSAYRO

Nicknames! Boy oh boy, they are right up my alley. Frequent any place remotely in my environs and I will christen you with a name you will be stuck with.

For some reason, ever since I was able to mouth a few words I have developed the knack of labelling people. Or to be precise, should I say branding them with a name that would stick. Yes stick, in the same vein as stuck. Sure and they stuck more than that half-steamed indiappa (string-hopper) I threw which lodged itself in my cousin Villie’s hair.

Nicknames, as forms of endearments, can cause some serious damage as you grow up and as you can see when you have grown up as well. The pet name for my favourite cousin Russel is ‘Bambi.’ Russel rather fancies his pet sobriquet and insists that he be introduced as ‘Bambi.’ Imagine this gangly six-footer with a mischievous smile loping towards you. You hold your breath, because he is delightful company. But suddenly someone calls out to him, “Hey Bambi.” These are times he is thrilled and his eyes sing tra, la, la! Being the lankiest of the clansmen I twisted the pet appellation from ‘Bambi’ to “Bambu’.

Nicknames are forms of endearments, special to each household and family. The pet names don’t have to make sense and are more often than not sources of amusement to outsiders. But, they are very special in the warm circle of love the family has built around the person.

My fascination for name-calling has had many in the throes of side-splitting laughter. Here are some of the old Lake House nicknames I thrust on my colleagues. We may have missed out on some, deliberately perhaps, because they would sound sacrilegious in a family newspaper. I admit most of them may not have been very charitable but you must concede they are rather ingeniously inventive.

There was a gorgeous journalist named Rose, who was so mad she refused to be on speaking terms with me for a week. We had managed to beat our deadline and were famished and thirsty.

We had decided to call it a day and adjourn for drinks and Chinese mutton rolls to a nearby restaurant. We found Rose missing from her desk just as everyone was ready to leave.

She had left to powder her nose or whatever just as we were to take a run-out powder from the editorial. After what seemed an interminable wait, she appeared sashaying coolly down the corridor to be greeted by me: “Where you have been gallivanting, dear Rasthiadu Rosie!”

There were at least a trio of guys named Philip. I dubbed them Pippo, Pips and Pippers! There was also an artist named Percival, Percy for short, but not for long who was naturally christened ‘Vul Percy.’

A good friend who carried the surname De Mel was affectionately known as ‘Demar’ and subsequently conferred the title of ‘Demarcation’.

Then there was my close buddy Pete Cristos who I designated ‘Foetus Cristos.’ A veteran writer named Manny, with a great sense of humour, still signs off his correspondence to me with my nickname for him which is ‘Manitou’ (the name for the Great Spirit worshipped by the Red Indians).

A guy named Daniel who had a penchant for chasing skirts was invested with the title ‘Desperate Dan’. I anglicized the name of an editor already nicknamed ‘Andaya’ to ‘Anders’. A bald-as-a-billiard-ball desk head named Eustace was dubbed ‘Useless Eunuch.’ And of course who can forget the dulcet voiced reporter, Nicholas aptly known as ‘Knickerless’ for the rest of his life! Whether he deserved the appellation or not we never found out. Many of them had been originally christened with perfectly sensible names that suited my predilection for conjuring up impertinent monikers without too much innovatory inspiration. 

For instance there was a scar-faced feature writer who always clamoured for assignments to review horror films and books.

Naturally he was given the handle ‘Frankenstein.’ There was also a moronic reporter who was noncommittal and impassive who was bestowed the sobriquet ‘The Incredible Sulk.’ Many of them are now in the Great Beyond, but their nicknames have survived. Of course my predilection for such nomenclature also instigated names people have for me. Many of them could hardly have been termed imaginative or artful appellatives. They comprised such silly takes such as Gasto, Gassie, Gassa and Gasti.

The names did not affect me much because I thought they were rather drab and unimaginative. But living in a feudalistic society one comes to terms with a certain ‘pet’ name, a sort of honorific conferred by household retainers.

But, I wasn’t always Gaston. No Siree! I was called ‘Baby!’ My formative years were spent in the naive belief that my real name was actually ‘Baby.’ In fact, even my mother when addressing the retainers referred to me as ‘Gasti Baby.’

It sounded okay when I was a bambino. But I often cringed with shame in later years when the ayah addressed me with the supposedly exalted title in the presence of my teasing friends.

You may sail the seven seas and traverse continents, anything to distance yourself from your nickname. But you suddenly realise the world is, again, such a very tiny place, and there is just no escape. But your nickname will never leave you.

As it happened when I was basking in the warm glow of head-swelling adulation following a book launch. I was brought down to earth with a bump.

The grandkids surrounded me and I heard the crazy nickname as they chorused their congratulations: “Dadsie Boy, From Editor to Author...You’ve come a long way...Baby!”