What’s In A Name?

IdeaSmith is not just my name

My Clubhouse bio says “That is my name. Say it like that only.” IdeaSmith is a filter on who bothers to read the bio and who wants you to explain why you won’t fit the boxes they have in their heads.

“What an idea, sirjee” assumes gender & regional identity and references an ad tagline that came up after the name did. IdeaSmith is the punchline of a joke that isn’t original, isn’t even funny.

IdeaSmith is 18 years old. IdeaSmith began on a boring Tuesday afternoon at work. I was 24, in a first job that was supposed to be impressive, in clothes that were deemed appropriate, in a chair that was assumed to be ergonomic. It wasn’t. Office furniture is not made for tall people. Let alone tall women people. Women’s formal wear is designed (like all other women’s wear) to cater to the male gaze. And my job? Whatever else it was, it wasn’t for me. I was uncomfortable in my own life. So I opened a browser window. What do you do with a good internet connection & a fast computer but an internet that doesn’t yet have Facebook, Twitter or even Google? And oh, an office admin block on chatrooms.

The article I read said “How blogs work”. It sounded like fun so I clicked through to a setup page. The internet I knew even then, was a dangerous place. And for an Indian woman, ‘everybody knows your name’ is an insult at best, a death sentence at worst. I needed a name that didn’t reveal my gender, my location, my age, my job or any other identifiers. I thought about who I was beyond these things. I was fingers that inked words, good words. I was hands that were steady when they held a brush. I was a mouth that danced in great conversations. I was a mind that loved ideas. And that is how IdeaSmith was born.

Once I opened the door of that login, I stepped into a new identity. The posts flowed, the readers came. The internet morphed into social media. IdeaSmith was there at the birth of Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and the others. It was a name I gave myself and a brave, exciting new world was mine.

IdeaSmith could be everywhere 24 x 7. IdeaSmith didn’t have to be home at 7:30PM sharp. IdeaSmith wasn’t a worthless burden without a husband. IdeaSmith wasn’t worried that the neighbors would see them talking to boys. IdeaSmith didn’t need to speak perfect Tamil as well as pristine English, good Hindi, fun Bollywoodese. IdeaSmith was not Madrasi, not kaali, not bade sheher ki bigadi ladki, not a moodevi. IdeaSmith didn’t care if men got angry over feminism. So IdeaSmith could write, could demand, could command, could rule. IdeaSmith took no prisoners. IdeaSmith was a queen.

The appreciation rolled in and then the questions then the affections then the trolls. A contest in Bangalore promised free beer to anyone who could guess IdeaSmith’s real name. Love letters on email. A blog marking IdeaSmith as a racehorse in the whiny women blogger stakes. “IdeaSmith sounds like a woman who thinks kissing two guys makes her empowered” wrote one guy. Chat requests asking for one photo, one meeting, one conversation. Demands for answers. For advice. For reassurance. For acceptance. IdeaSmith was a perfect stage for your unexpressed needs. My anonymity became the placeholder for your favorite agony aunt, your trusty best friend who didn’t know you, your free therapist and if you were so inclined, your perfect fantasy.

“I like one boy but he wants to do sex.” said a message, yet another. I shut the screen and stepped away, wanting to throw up. Another time, “You bitch, how dare you write about my boyfriend? He says your love poems are about him”. “Ask him if he knows my name” I replied. Then I laughed and swallowed bile.

In 2009, I wrote a coming out post. Hello world, I said, be nice. “You’re not that hot” said one. “You’re not as sorted out in person” said another. “What’s so great about you that you had to keep yourself so protected?” IdeaSmith was a promise that didn’t deliver in person.

When I got into a relationship, I waited six months and had a conversation with my partner before writing about it. He shrugged. I told him I had a world that saw me as single and I owed it to them. When he proposed, I posted a photo of the ring on my finger. Weeks later, I wondered how to talk about the misgivings, the doubts, the fears. Writing had been my way of making sense, of functioning, of living. When he hit me, I didn’t write about it immediately. I lied to my family, my friends and yes, to my blog. These things don’t happen to IdeaSmith.

When it finally ended, IdeaSmith became my helpline back to life. One company said, we knew you were a blogger, we didn’t know your professional background. Meet us, we’ll have a job for you. IdeaSmith was a brand. The work came in too. Quotes in newspaper articles. Advice for newbies online. A column. A licensee agreement. Then, when I walked up to the spotlight, a stage name. A resume. A portfolio. Webinars. The praises that came IdeaSmith’s way, were balm to my bruises, glue to the shattered fragments of me. Being IdeaSmith healed me as it had once empowered me.

Google stole away things I wanted to keep to myself over a decade ago. In 2017, Facebook told me I’d been subjected to mass-reportage by trolls. My name was the only thing they could find to target me so I’d have to upload official documents to prove my identity. But this is my real name, I said. Sorry, we can’t do anything, them’s the rules. So IdeaSmith began to ebb away from me.

Then the pandemic happened and the world joined me online. IdeaSmith was lost in the crowd of profiles coordinating helplines, bits of lockdown haircuts, bytes of banana bread, clogging Whatsapp with coronil and windows with thali-chamach. What is the worth of attention in a world that struggles to breathe?

On 21 May 2021, I opened a screen that asked me for a name. Any name. No identifications required. But a bio might be nice. I smiled and I thought it begins again. And I typed in IdeaSmith and I said Hello, Clubhouse.