My Name

At the time of business introductions, I
Almost always feel consumed by
A crippling strain of tension.
I feel on the edge.
My fingers tingle.
Pain shoots down my shoulder blades
With the force of electricity.   
But, I take a few sips of mineral water,
Harmonize breaths with heart beats,
And begin.  

Hi.

My name is Tanmoy.
Tan, as in getting a tan at summertime.
Moy, as in M-O-Y. Tanmoy.
I stop there,
And await eyes to dilate in confusion.
The eyebrows leave the ridges to wander away.
In a few moments, the chatter begins.
Perilous attempts are made
To stitch together phonemes, and alphabets
That have, unknowingly, escaped their sensory memory.
I witness the tongue rolls, jaws
Treading unfamiliar territories.
Tom boy? Tam-way? Oh, you mean Tambourine?
I notice the facial muscles, especially around
Their lip commissures and eyelashes,
Crinkle into parallel lines.

I observe, keenly, the transparent bubbles of mute smirks

Resurfacing onto cliffs of chins, wrapped in skin
And four-day stubbles. And, I see the noticeable discomfort
In grappling with the uncommonness of my name,
Precipitating behind a guise of exoticism,
Inoculating, subsequently, the audience with unease.

That is when I say, emphatically,

But you can call me Tom.
And hear a dozen sighs.

I resurrect a neutral smile.

I maintain a semblance of composure
That I have practiced, almost to perfection,
Since the second day of elementary school.
But my ears divulge secrets.
They turn red.
They resemble lobelia bulbs.
They look like ripe plums.
And they warm up, in shame.

It is easy to blame Mother and Father

For cherry-picking a name
That makes my sex non-apparent
And offers fodder to bullies, yielding
Seven hundred and twenty anagrams.
Permutations, and combinations, that range
From hilarious to offensive to petty.
Antyom, Mantoy, yotman?
But I don’t.
It would be unfair.
My name is out of context in a place
Far away from home,
Where the language is unheard of and the name
foreign.
Home, referring to the geography
of my first cry on Earth.

Someday, my ears will not betray.

Eyes will not rove away.  
Remembering you, Helen,
When you said over breakfast,
If they have learned the names
Of Tchaikovsky and Nefertiti,
They can learn yours too.
Never be ashamed.
Ever.