“The moment you become embarrassed of who you are, you lose yourself. I changed my house, the way I dressed, the way I ate—for what? For nothing.”
∼ Reuben Tishkoff in the movie Ocean’s Thirteen (2007), played by Elliott Gould
I was in the 10th standard when I first noticed an error in the spelling of my name.
All students were asked to check the spelling of their names and their fathers’ names before the school submitted the data to the CBSE. That’s when I noticed that my name had been entered as “Avdesh Kumar” instead of “Avdhesh Kumar” in the form—notice the missing “h” after the “d”.
I didn’t think it was something to be worried about, so I ignored it.
It was only when I received my mark sheet and certificate that I realised my mistake. My school records reflected an unintentional error in my Transfer Certificate (TC), issued by my former school in Haridwar, Uttarakhand, when I had passed the 4th standard. (That’s a long story—and not one I feel like getting into here.)
I tried whatever I could to get the spelling corrected, but nothing worked.
I was just sixteen and had no clue how to deal with bureaucratic procedures, so I relied on my grandfather to handle it. He tried for a while, then gave up midway. Correcting the spelling of my name was proving to be far more trouble than it seemed worth.
What’s in a Name?
I started hating my name because most people wrote it as Avdesh instead of what it actually was—Avdhesh.
Almost seven years later, something interesting happened. I began leaning toward numerology. While browsing through a bookstall at ISBT, Delhi, a book by a numerologist named Cheiro caught my attention. I bought it and started learning the basic principles of numerology.
According to my understanding at the time, both spellings—Avdesh Kumar and Avdhesh Kumar—carried negative vibrations.
So I changed my name from “Avdhesh Kumar” to “Avdhesh Arya.” Later, after gaining more (or so I thought) insight, I altered it again to “Avdhesh P. Arya,” which eventually became “Avdhessh Arya.”
Looking back, I was running in circles—jumping from one branch to another like a monkey, hoping one of them would finally hold.
People began making fun of my name because it had two “asses” in it.
In 2011, I launched a website called www.avdhessharya.com.
Over time, I realised that the extra “s” in my name was attracting unnecessary attention—and sometimes ridicule. Once, a voice-over client commented while looking at my visiting card, “Oh! Was there a time when you had to change the spelling of your name?” Her tone carried a hint of sarcasm that made me uncomfortable.
She wasn’t the only one.
Almost everyone began asking about the strange spelling—the courier guy, the internet service provider, clients. What had initially seemed like a harmless change started irritating me deeply.
So I decided to change my name back from “Avdhessh Arya” to “Avdhesh Arya.”
I purchased www.avdhesharya.com and moved my old website to the new domain. In the process, I lost all the link juice and social shares the articles had accumulated over time.
For instance, one of my articles—“How to Overcome the Fear of Losing Someone You Love”—had more than 5,000 social shares.
Still, I knew I had to do it.
So I did.
The new domain was www.avdhesharya.com.
What’s in a name? Someone once said, “Everything.”
It was a busy day. I had several voice-over recordings scheduled. While travelling from one studio to another, I unintentionally jumped a traffic signal in Lajpat Nagar, Delhi. A traffic police sergeant stopped me and asked for my driver’s licence.
After looking at my name, he asked, “Mr Arya, which caste does the surname ‘Arya’ belong to?”
I replied, “Any Brahmin or Kshatriya can use the surname Arya.”
“So what are you?” he asked.
“I am a Kshatriya.”
“Is ‘Arya’ your gotra?”
“No,” I replied. “My gotra is Tondak.”
He looked at me and said, “In its true sense, one should use only the gotra as one’s surname. Nothing else can replace it.”
His words unsettled me.
A few days later, I found myself growing increasingly anxious about the entire issue of my name. On the night of 13th July 2015, I couldn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning. Something deep inside me kept nudging me to change my surname to my gotra—Tondak.
It felt like an uphill task.
Doing so would mean changing my name across bank accounts, PAN card, Aadhaar card, driver’s licence, and countless other documents. I tried to suppress the urge, but it was persistent—almost overwhelming.
Eventually, I gave in.
Around 2 a.m., I got out of bed, turned on my computer, and decided to return to who I was. That was the night I launched www.avdheshtondak.com.
Am I sharing this story because there’s a lesson in it?
Yes.
For a long time, I believed that changing the spelling of my name—or the name itself—would somehow make my life better, smoother, more successful. In truth, I was in denial. I wasn’t ready to accept myself the way I was.
I kept trying different versions of my name, hoping one of them would finally feel right. Eventually, I realised that peace would only come when I stopped running and returned to myself. Using my gotra as my surname is simply my way of acknowledging my ancestry—and my identity.
Why don’t I use “Rajput” as My Surname?
I could have changed my name from Avdhesh Arya to Avdhesh Rajput instead of Avdhesh Tondak. It seems to be a popular choice these days.
But I didn’t.
I was born into the Rajput community, yes—but Rajput is not my gotra. Using it would have felt just as hollow as using Arya.
In fact, I am the first in my family to use my gotra as a surname. Even my great-grandfather and grandfather didn’t do so. For me, this act is a quiet acknowledgment of my bloodline. It’s a way of saying that I accept who I am—without embellishment, and without apology.
It is a form of respect for my ancestors, and in doing so, a recognition of myself.
This entire journey around names reminds me of the Bollywood film Upkar (1967). In it, Puran (played by Prem Chopra) is ashamed of his name because people mock it. To gain social acceptance, he changes his name from Puran to Kumar, believing it will allow him to move more freely among so-called respectable society.
Coming Home
Is using your gotra as your surname the only way to acknowledge and accept who you are?
Of course not.
But for me, it became a small, honest step toward being comfortable in my own skin. A step away from constant correction, explanation, and performance. A step toward standing still—without needing to justify myself to anyone.
For a long time, I believed a different spelling, a different surname, or a more socially acceptable version of myself would bring peace. It didn’t. Peace only came when I stopped trying to become someone else and returned to who I already was. Using my gotra as my surname is simply my way of acknowledging where I come from—and, finally, where I stand.
There may be nothing in a name. Or there may be everything.
In the end, it depends on whether your name is helping you hide from yourself—or helping you come home.