What’s in a name?

“Zuhur P-Perez!” Zuhur smiled inwardly, before raising her hand and declaring her presence. She thought, ‘That stammer, either in my first name, or the last. Quite amusing how it always happens.’ The teacher was taking the attendance of the class. Zuhur found all the pairs of eyes resting on her. She was largely used to being the new student in the class. Her father had an awfully transferrable job, and inevitably, her family moved at least once every year.

The first class of twelfth grade – English – was interesting. Yet, Zuhur couldn’t direct all her attention towards the teacher upfront; every student seemed considerably piqued by the new student’s presence. As soon as the bell rang, and the teacher walked out the classroom, Zuhur found her table flooded with students. “What is your name, again?” a boy asked. Everyone stared at her, their eyes unflinching, all significantly resembling a pack of eagle-eyed mammoths. “My name is Zuhur Perez.” She heard an instantaneous spate of murmurs erupt in the classroom. Sighing, she was about to get back to her work, when she was interrogated again.

“So…what are you?” some girl asked. Zuhur raised her eyebrows at the girl questioningly. Someone nudged the girl, and she was about to rephrase the poorly asked question, but not before Zuhur gave her an answer. “I am a girl, presently attending my first day at this new school.” A group of students sniggered. Zuhur, however, knew where their standardized brains were getting at. They were curious about her ‘name’. Zuhur Perez. Personally, she loved her name. It was unique, and it was beautiful.

“W-where – er – are you from?” someone else asked. Zuhur sighed through pouted lips. “I was born in Mexico City,” she answered. “I’m from…a bunch of different places.” Everyone furrowed their brows. They were now noticeably gaping at Zuhur, without any constraint. She knew they wouldn’t leave her alone until she had answered the question lingering in their minds – how was her name Zuhur Perez?

Thence, Zuhur began narrating her life story, for what seemed to her the millionth time.

“I was born in Mexico City, to Kusum Rehman and Antonio Perez.” This first sentence brought forth a flood of exclamation in the classroom. Zuhur couldn’t help but chuckle. This was her reliving the same first-day-in-a-new-school situation again, and yet it never seemed to get old. “My dad has a very transferable job, and so, I have been all over the world. My life is sort of like a prolonged vacation.” Someone asked where all she’d been. “I have been to Brazil, to the United States, to Canada, often to Mexico, of course, to meet Abuelo and Abuelita. I was recently in Dhaka. We stayed there for just a few months before my father was transferred here, to Hyderabad.”

Everyone’s face assumed a very captivated expression. Zuhur was just about to get started on the hot topic that everyone really wanted to know when someone just asked her the most interesting question. “What is your religion?” Zuhur nodded at the girl’s confusion in an airy manner. “My papa is a catholic Christian, a Mexican. Mumma is a Sunni Muslim, an Indian. And I? I am still pretty confused on the matter myself! What do you reckon I am?” Everyone’s eyebrows were so high up on their foreheads (as it had been for so long) that Zuhur was worried it’d get stuck there.

“What does that matter, really? I know ten languages, I have been to double the number of places, and I celebrate all the festivals the world celebrates. I’d take pride in being recognized as a world citizen.” Zuhur smiled. Her classmates also smiled with her, now, their faces relaxing. They were looking at Zuhur admiringly. She was absolutely fascinating. Zuhur said, finally, just before the mathematics teacher walked in – “So, what’s in a name? After all, it’s just a collection of alphabets!”