A Name That Carries Destiny, and an Uninvited Guest.
Before the arrival of Pandit ji, it was time for the grand coming of relatives from my mother's side and my father's side. Since I was the first child of my parents, they were celebrating grandly. People arrived slowly, one by one, filling the small house with warmth and joy, their voices layering over one another in excited conversation.
My mother held me protectively as she walked through the crowd, her eyes never leaving my face as if afraid I might vanish in the sea of hands reaching out to touch me.
From my father's side came his entire family. First were his parents—my Dadaji and Dadiji. Dadaji was a sturdy man with kind eyes and a warm smile that spoke of years of quiet strength, while Dadiji was a petite woman with silver hair tied in a neat bun. They beamed with pride seeing me for the first time as their grandson, their weathered hands trembling slightly as they reached toward me.
Then came my father's three sisters. Two of them were older than him, and one was younger. They were my Buas—lively, energetic women who filled the room with their laughter and spirited chatter, their presence like music in the house.
The two older Buas arrived with their families. The eldest Bua had a beautiful daughter with curious eyes who kept staring at me, tilting her head as if trying to understand what all the fuss was about. The second oldest Bua brought her husband and their twins—two boys who were constantly running around, weaving between adults and causing mischief wherever they went, their energy seemingly boundless. The youngest Bua, still unmarried, stood beside her mother, looking radiant and excited to meet her nephew, her face glowing with anticipation.
From my mother's side came her family as well. My Nanaji and Naniji arrived first. Nanaji was tall and dignified, with a commanding presence, while Naniji was warm and nurturing, immediately moving to help my mother with me.
Then came my mother's two siblings. Her oldest brother—my Maama—was a serious-looking man with sharp features. He didn't smile much, but when he looked at me, there was a softness in his eyes. My mother's older sister—my Mausi—arrived with her husband and their daughter. She was cheerful and loud, already planning to spoil me with affection.
As we entered the main room, I saw at least eighteen people now—aunts, uncles, cousins of all ages, grandparents. They were all staring at me with curiosity, affection, and something else I couldn't quite place. The room felt warm, full of genuine love and excitement for my arrival.
An elderly woman rushed forward first, her weathered face breaking into a wide smile. Her eyes glistened with tears of joy.
"Let me see the child! Let me see my grandson!" she said, her voice trembling with emotion. It was my Naniji.
My father gently handed me to her. "Mother, meet your grandson, Munna."
Naniji held me carefully, examining me like I was a rare and precious artifact, turning me this way and that with intense love and wonder. "Look at him! Such a strong boy! And those eyes—so alert and aware! He's absolutely perfect," she said, pressing a gentle kiss on my forehead, her lips lingering for a moment.
Then my Dadiji came forward, not wanting to be left behind. She took me from Naniji's arms and did the same, blessing me with all the love a grandmother could give, her prayers whispered softly against my skin.
Soon, aunts, uncles, and older cousins crowded around me in a sea of affection. My aunties pinched my cheeks—harder than necessary, I might add—their enthusiastic cooing filling the air. "Awww, so cute! So chubby!" they exclaimed, their voices overlapping.
My cousins wanted to hold me, their young hands reaching out eagerly. The twins kept making funny faces at me, trying to make me laugh.
Okay, this is definitely going to be a long day, I thought, my cheeks already beginning to ache from the constant attention and affection.
My Father watched with pride. My Mother tried to manage the chaos, but even she looked overwhelmed.
The grandmothers—finally handed me back to my mother, though not before pressing a kiss on my forehead. My cheeks were sore from all the pinching. I swear, if I could talk, I would have filed a complaint about assault.
The celebration inside the house was reaching its peak. My relatives were laughing, eating, and blessing me endlessly. My cheeks were already sore from all the pinching, and I was mentally exhausted from smiling and cooing.
Then my father suddenly stood up, his expression shifting from joy to concern.
"Come, let us step outside for some fresh air," he said to my mother, gently taking me from her arms.
My mother hesitated but followed him outside. A few curious relatives trailed behind us, sensing something was about to happen.
We stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. The village was quiet, most people inside their homes during the hot hours. The dust from the roads settled gently in the breeze.
That's when we saw him.
A white man was riding toward us on a tall, dark horse. His colonial uniform was crisp and immaculately neat, gleaming in the sunlight despite the dusty road. His boots were polished to a shine, and his hat sat perfectly on his head at an angle that spoke of authority and command. A sword hung at his side—a cold reminder of the power he wielded. He looked completely out of place in our small village, like a sharp, foreign blade cutting through a field of grass.
Behind him came two Indian assistants on smaller horses, carrying leather bags and thick bundles of papers. They rode with the mechanical precision of men who had performed this task countless times before, their faces blank and emotionless.
The moment the villagers spotted him, they scattered. People hurried back into their homes. Whispers spread like wildfire—"The tax collector! The tax collector has come!"
My father's entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and I felt him hold me a little tighter, almost protectively. My mother's hand instinctively reached for his arm.
The white man dismounted from his horse with practiced, precise ease and walked directly toward my father's house. His eyes were cold and calculating, scanning our faces and surroundings with the detached authority of someone accustomed to absolute command and obedience.
"Good afternoon," he said in heavily accented Hindi, his voice sharp and businesslike. "I am Collector Thompson, here for the annual land revenue collection. Where is the head of this household?"
My father stepped forward, his posture respectful but not submissive. "I am the head, sir. Welcome to our humble home."
The Collector's gaze swept across my father, then my mother, and finally settled on me. For just a moment—a fraction of a second—something flickered across his face. His eyes narrowed, and his expression shifted from cold indifference to something almost like... recognition? Confusion? Intrigue?
What was that? I thought, a chill running through me despite the afternoon heat.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, his expression hardened again. He looked away from me and turned his attention back to my father.
"I understand there is a celebration happening today," he said, his tone making it sound more like an accusation than an observation. "A naming ceremony, perhaps?"
My father hesitated, clearly unsure how to respond. "Yes, sir. Today is my son's naming day. We are celebrating with family."
The Collector's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "How convenient. Perhaps I should witness this... significant occasion. It would be good for me to understand the customs of the people I govern." He paused, his eyes flicking toward me once more. "And it might be good for you as well."
There was an unspoken threat hidden beneath his polite words.
My father understood. "Of course, sir. You would honor us with your presence. Please, come inside."
This man is not what he seems, a voice whispered deep in my mind. Be careful.
As the Collector walked past us toward the house, I felt it again—that strange shimmer in the air around him, like heat waves rising from hot sand. But this time, it felt different. It felt heavy. Ominous. Like standing in the shadow of something dark and vast.
My mother's grip on my father's arm tightened. I could feel her fear, though her face remained composed.
The Collector paused at our doorway and turned back to look at me one last time. "What is the child's name?" he asked.
My father swallowed hard. "Munna, sir. We call him Munna for now."
The Collector's eyes narrowed even further. For a moment, his expression became unreadable, almost as if he was listening to something only he could hear. Then he nodded slowly.
"Munna," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "Interesting."
He turned and walked into the house, his assistants following obediently behind him.
My father and mother exchanged a long, meaningful look. There was worry there—evident and heavy. But there was also something else—something like resignation, as if they had been expecting this moment all along, though perhaps not so soon. My father's jaw tightened slightly as he muttered under his breath, "He came earlier this year."
My mother whispered, "So, What does he want?"
My father's voice was low and steady, though I could hear the tension underneath. "What they always want, my love. Our money. Our land. Our obedience."
As we followed the Collector inside, I realized that the joyful celebration I had been experiencing was about to change. The warmth of family love and celebration would now have to coexist with the cold presence of colonial authority.
The afternoon had taken a turn I hadn't anticipated.
We returned inside, and the atmosphere shifted palpably. The relatives sensed the sudden tension, and whispers about the tax collector's arrival spread quickly through the room like wildfire. But my father remained remarkably calm, introducing the white man politely to the family despite the obvious discomfort radiating from everyone present.
The Collector sat quietly on a wooden chair positioned near the wall, his sharp eyes carefully observing every movement, every whispered conversation, and every nervous glance. Occasionally, he would glance down at the papers his assistants had meticulously spread out on a small table beside him, reviewing numbers with the precision of someone accustomed to absolute control.
My father moved forward to greet him, trying desperately to maintain his composure and offer proper hospitality. "Please, sit comfortably. We are honored to have you here on this special day. Would you like some water or refreshments before we begin?"
The Collector waved a dismissive hand, his gesture casual yet cutting. "No, thank you. I have business to attend to."
He lifted a thick ledger from the table. Turning the pages with deliberate care, he began reciting names and amounts owed in a steady, mechanical voice. With each name, my father offered nods and quiet acknowledgments, though the tension in his jaw grew.
The relatives, sensing the gravity of the moment, quieted down. Even the usually playful twins sat small and still in their mother's lap.
As the Collector continued his recitation, my mother whispered softly to my father, her voice trembling slightly with worry. "What if we can't pay this year? What if the harvest is poor?"
My father's eyes flickered anxiously towards the Collector, who had paused momentarily to look out the window, his gaze distant. But he caught the flicker of worry that crossed my father's face.
"We will manage," my father said firmly, though even I could hear the uncertainty layered beneath his determined tone.
The Collector's eyes snapped back sharply, his attention returning like a predator sensing vulnerability. "There will be no excuses," he said with cutting sharpness. "The Crown expects its due, regardless of circumstance. Regardless of harvest, drought, or hardship. The debt will be paid."
A cold silence fell over the room like a heavy fog.
Suddenly, the door opened again. The Pandit ji arrived, an elderly figure whose presence immediately brought a semblance of calm and dignity back into the space.
He approached us with measured steps, nodding respectfully first to the Collector and then to the assembled family. "I hear today is a joyous occasion," he said, his voice warm and resonant, filled with deep reverence and ancient wisdom.
The Collector nodded slightly, a gesture that seemed almost dismissive. "Indeed. I am here to oversee matters of the empire, but also to witness the naming of the new heir."
The Pandit ji smiled softly, as if acknowledging something unspoken between them.
My father walked forward to greet him warmly. "Welcome, Pandit ji! We are deeply honored by your presence!"
The Pandit ji smiled warmly and placed a weathered hand on my father's shoulder in benediction. "Blessings to you and your family, my son. Now, let us begin the naming ceremony. I feel..." he paused, his eyes flickering toward me with an intensity that was impossible to ignore, "...something special about this child."
Something special? I felt a chill run down my spine. What does he mean by that?
As we gathered around the small altar in the corner, decorated with vibrant marigolds and sacred threads, I felt a profound shift in the room—the tension gradually relaxing, the family settling into this ancient and comforting ritual that had been performed for generations.
The Pandit ji sat down near the small altar that had been carefully prepared in the corner—fresh flowers arranged artfully, a copper lota filled with sacred water, a small diya waiting to be lit, and a brass plate with rice and kumkum neatly arranged in precise patterns. He adjusted his dhoti with deliberate movements, closed his eyes for a brief, centering moment, and then began chanting mantras in a steady, practiced rhythm that seemed to echo with centuries of tradition. The powerful and familiar sound, gradually calmed the room.
Slowly, the earlier fear and tension softened and dissolved under the weight of this sacred tradition. Women covered their heads respectfully with their dupattas, men folded their hands in prayer, and children, even the usually restless twins, sat unusually quiet and reverent.
Only one person seemed completely untouched by the warmth and spiritual power of the ritual—the white man.
The tax collector sat rigidly in a corner on a low wooden chair, his back arrow-straight, his hands resting formally on his knees. His eyes were not on the Pandit ji or the gods; they were on us. On my father. On the house and its contents. And sometimes, with unsettling frequency, on me. Every time his cold gaze passed over me, a strange and inexplicable heaviness pressed down on my tiny chest, as if the very air itself had thickened and grown dense with an unnamable presence.
Pandit ji asked my father for the specific details of my birth—the exact time, the day, and the tithi according to the lunar calendar. My father answered respectfully and carefully, providing each piece of information with precision.
When he mentioned, "He was born at sunrise," Pandit ji's chanting paused for the slightest, most deliberate moment. His brows drew together in a tiny frown of deep concentration, as if he was processing something of profound significance, then gradually relaxed.
"Shubh samay hai" he murmured thoughtfully. "The time is very auspicious indeed."
He sprinkled holy water around, lit incense, and waved it in small circles. The thin white smoke curled upward, dancing in the light. My mother held me carefully as Pandit ji instructed her to bring me closer to the altar.
My father knelt beside her. Pandit ji dipped his ring finger into the kumkum powder and carefully marked the sacred tilak on both my father's and mother's foreheads, blessing them as the vessels through whom I had entered this world.
"Today, this child will receive his name," Pandit ji announced softly.
For a brief moment, the Collector's eyes narrowed, focusing completely on me, as if the rest of the world had faded. My skin prickled with an inexplicable sensation.
My father took a deep breath, gathering himself. His voice was firm and steady, yet it carried a subtle hint of deep emotion. "Hum apne bete ka naam…"
But the Pandit ji suddenly raised a hand, gently stopping him from continuing.
"Wait, my son," he said thoughtfully. "Before we proceed, I must consult the astrological charts. The stars must guide us in choosing the most auspicious name for this child. A name carries power—it shapes destiny itself."
My father nodded respectfully. "Of course, Pandit ji. Whatever you think is best."
The Pandit ji reached down and carefully opened an ornate wooden box beside him. It was clearly an antique piece, crafted with meticulous detail and aged to a beautiful patina. The wood seemed to glow faintly in the lamplight, speaking of centuries of use and reverence. If I ever got the chance, a random thought flickered through my mind, I could probably sell this to a museum for a considerable sum. Then I mentally scolded myself. What the hell am I thinking right now? Focus on the ceremony, you fool!
Inside the wooden box were various sacred items carefully arranged—incense sticks of different varieties, colored powders in small containers, ancient sacred texts bound in cloth, and what appeared to be intricate astrological charts, their pages yellowed with age. The Pandit ji began arranging these items carefully on the mat in front of us with practiced reverence.
"Now," the Pandit ji said, his voice taking on a more formal, almost solemn tone, "let me consult the stars and the cosmic alignments to determine the most auspicious and powerful name for this child."
He pulled out one of the charts and studied it carefully, his eyes moving back and forth. A long silence fell over the room. Even the children seemed to sense the importance of the moment and quieted down.
But suddenly, the Pandit ji's eyes widened noticeably, and he looked back at the chart with renewed intensity, as if something had caught him completely off guard.
Okay, now I'm genuinely concerned, I thought, my infant anxiety spiking despite my usual composure.
My Dadiji stepped forward with concern etched across her face and asked, "Pandit ji, what does the chart say? Is the child blessed?"
The Pandit ji looked up from the chart and smiled warmly, but there was something decidedly mysterious and knowing in his expression—something that suggested he understood far more than he was revealing.
"This child..." he began slowly, choosing each word with deliberate care, "is born under the influence of very powerful planetary alignments. Jupiter, Venus, and Mars are all positioned in extraordinarily favorable configurations. This suggests..."
He paused deliberately, the weight of his next words hanging in the air.
"This suggests," he continued gravely, "that this child will have a significant and profound role to play in his lifetime. A role of great consequence. Whether that role manifests for good or for ill... that depends entirely on the path he chooses, on the choices he makes, and on the circumstances that shape him."
A murmur ran through the relatives. My father looked proud and confused at the same time. My mother squeezed my hand gently, as if trying to protect me from whatever was coming.
Great. So I'm apparently destined for something big. That's just perfect, I thought sarcastically. As if reincarnation and being stuck in a baby's body wasn't complicated enough.
But in all of this, I noticed something strange. The tax collector had a faint smile on his face. I couldn't understand why this man was smiling when the Pandit ji was talking about my destiny. It didn't make sense. But I decided to set that aside for now. Right then, I was too excited about finally learning my name.
The Pandit ji consulted the chart one more time and then looked directly at me. His eyes seemed to see something deep within me. "I have determined the name," he announced. "This child shall be called... Arjun."
My father suddenly burst out laughing, the sound surprising everyone in the room. "I apologize for this sudden laughter, Pandit ji, but something amazing has just happened. We had already decided to name our son Arjun before you arrived. We were waiting for your blessing on this choice."
Pandit ji's eyes widened, and then a knowing smile spread across his old, weathered face. He began laughing too—a warm, real laugh that seemed to carry much more meaning than just simple joy.
"HaHaHa," he chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Perhaps God Himself wanted to give this name to this child. The universe works in mysterious ways, doesn't it?"
He paused, his laughter fading into something more solemn. When he spoke again, his voice had changed— He paused, his laughter fading into something more serious and solemn. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—deeper and filled with respect.
"Arjun," he said slowly, speaking each word with care. "A strong name. A warrior's name. A name that means something. A name that carries destiny within it."
He spoke these words in a low voice, almost as if sharing a secret that only I was meant to hear.
Then, he leaned closer and brought his mouth near my right ear. He softly whispered my name three times—a sacred custom passed down through generations. "Arjun… Arjun… Arjun." The whispers felt like blessings being placed directly into my soul.
My father did the same, his breath warm and gentle against my tiny ear as he whispered my name with love and pride. "Arjun… Arjun… Arjun."
My father stood up, filled with joy and pride. "Arjun! What a strong name! Pandit ji, thank you so much!"
My mother repeated the name softly, her voice full of warmth. "Arjun.... it suits him perfectly."
The relatives clapped their hands happily, some calling out blessings. "Jeete raho, Arjun!" they shouted. Blessings filled the room like a warm wave washing over us all.
The Pandit ji finished the ritual by marking my forehead with a sacred tilak—a mark of blessing and protection. He chanted the final mantras, and the relatives joined in, their voices creating a beautiful, harmonious sound throughout the house.
My new name—Arjun—had been officially declared and blessed.
But when the noise and celebration rose higher, when everyone looked at me with so much love and pride, I noticed something else. Something that didn't fit with the joy.
The Collector was not clapping.
He was staring.
His jaw had tightened just a little, his eyes hard and unreadable. There was no happiness there—only a strange mix of curiosity and unease, as if my name had reminded him of something he couldn't quite remember. Though I could be wrong about that too. Maybe I was reading too much into a simple look.
For a second, it felt like there was an invisible thread between us, pulled tight—between a newborn child in his mother's arms and a foreign man who did not belong to this land.
I didn't know it then, but this single moment—my naming and his mysterious gaze—would have ripples that spread far beyond that small, crowded room. It would echo through the years that were to come.
To be continued…