Hi, my name is Indra.
How three consonants and two vowels shaped how I think and communicate.
Recently, I have noticed how awkward I am in IRL conversations, especially with new people. At first, I thought it was an effect of the pandemic. Next, I attributed it to peri-menopause-induced brain fog. Then, I suspected it was workplace burnout. But then I received this postcard from my incredible career coach, Jen Dary.
Whenever I see a “One time, while we were talking, you said this really smart thing.” postcard in my mailbox, I get excited to see which phrase is worthy of the reminder of our time together. Usually, I am heartened by the reminder and inspired to continue fighting the good fight. This time, I felt like I had run into a glass door that I didn’t realize was even there.
While I am still unearthing realizations caused by this postcard, I wanted to start with the first question: Why do I introduce myself the way that I do?
I often say that the lila of my life (the cosmic play) began with how I was named.
My mother wanted me to have a name that was easy to pronounce in both Latvian and English and could not be shortened into a nickname, Indra. My father favored a name similar to that held by his godmother’s and his sister’s, Maruta. Eventually, my father relented, despite his father’s protests about his daughter being “named after a railway station.” ‡
‡ In addition to Indra being a relatively common name for women in Latvia from the late 1940s to the late 1980s, the last stop on one of the railway lines in Latvia happens to be in a parish named Indra.
Introducing myself as a child
Some of my earliest memories are of people learning my name…
Person: And what’s your name
Me: My name is Indra.
Person: Nice to meet you, Andrea (or Angela or some other similar-sounding Anglo name)
Me: Indra, I-N-D-R-A.
Person: Oh, Indra, that’s such a pretty name. Where is it from?
Me: Latvia, both of my parents are Latvian.
Person: Oh, is that a Slavic country?
Me: No. It’s one of the Baltic States that is occupied by the Soviet Union.
Person: So you’re a communist.
Me: No, I am not a comunist. My grandparents (on both sides) fled the communists during World War II. My father was born there but left when he was a baby. My mother was born in a displaced persons camp in Germany.
Person: Oh, so she’s German.
Me: No, she’s Latvian. They were only in Germany until they could find passage to a country that would take them.
Introducing myself at work
As I started my career in the tech sector, this initial exchange adapted to its audience.
Me: Hi, my name is Indra!
[The person stares at me, waiting for me to share my last name, which I never do because, if I do, they won’t remember either name.]
If they are a person of South Asian descent: How did you end up with an Indian name?
Me: My parents are both of Latvian decent. Indra is a woman’s name in Latvia.
Person: Lativa. Did you know that the Latvian language has its roots in Sanskrit?
Me: I would then say something witty about how I like imagining the language traveling up to northern Europe thanks to the spice trade that gave Latvians their beloved piparkūkas (super thin and crispy holiday gingersnaps), followed by…
“…The name stayed, but the meaning of it left.”
Person: Indra, doesn’t have a meaning in Latvia?
Me: No, it doesn’t, but there is a parish with a railway station named Indra in Latvia. It’s the last stop before you enter Russia.
Introducing myself in yoga or meditation settings
For 15 years, I practiced yoga and meditation, in part to better understand my name. When I first meet someone in these Hindu or Buddhist-oriented communities, the conversation goes like this.
Me: Hi, my name is Indra.
[The person assumes that the name I shared is the ‘spiritual name’ given to me by a guru.]
Person: What a beautiful name. Who gave you that name to you?
Me: My mother.
[The person is slightly confused.]
Person: So your mother was a hippie.
Me: No, both of my parents are Latvian by descent. Indra is also a Latvian name, but it has no meaning in the Latvian culture.
[The person stares back at me, slightly embarrassed, not sure what to say next to go.]
Me: But what’s more interesting is that my middle name serves my first name.
One day, I was sitting in a workshop on the Ramayana when the teacher told us how the diety Indra summoned the Maruti (a.k.a Hanuman) to come to the rescue.
In Latvian, women’s names end with an a or an e. My middle name is Maruta, which has no meaning in Latvian, but…
I am extra grateful that when my parents argued over which should be my first name and which should be my middle name, they accidentally set things in the proper sequence so that my middle name could serve as my first name.
[The person then starts to tell a Hanuman-related story.]
Introducing Myself When I am Short on Time
Me: Hi, my name is Indra, with an I. Any phonetic pronunciation will do. [pronounces name in Latvain, Hindu, Spanish, and English]
Person: How else would you spell your name, if not with an I.
Me: You're totally right. But I find that if I don’t clarify that my name begins with an I, I get all sorts of names in response: Andrea, Angela, Andreya…
My favorite name that I get back is Ginger.
Person: That’s nothing like Indra.
Me: You’re right, but it has all of the right sounds but in a different order.. I now use that as my ‘Starbucks name.’ This way I never need to spell it.
Why the Long Introductions
Over the years, I have learned how critical this ritual, including its bibliography, is for the person I am meeting. Without the ritual, they will inevitably call me by a name that I don’t recognize as my own, or they are so distracted by a white girl with an ‘Indian name.’
For most of my life, I’ve thought of my name as a built-in icebreaker. But recently, I’ve realized the impact these five letters, three consonants + two vowels (video NSFW), have had on me is more significant than I imagined. There is much more to learn about how they shaped the person I am today.
