The Census RIMPOCHHE

The Precious Naming Ritual

In Bhutan, we take naming very seriously. We do not name someone on a whim. If possible, we queue up to get our newborn’s name from a revered Rimpoche. After all, Rimpoche literally means "the precious one," and their blessings make sure we do not end up with something absurd.

Well, that was the plan, my dad and mom had, at least.

Like every other Bhutanese baby, I was presented before a lineup of wise Rimpoche, and after much spiritual calculation, I was bestowed with the name Damchu Wangchuk. 

My parents beamed with pride, and my name made its way from census records to school admission cards, and from there to becoming a full-fledged identity in my village.

It was all smooth sailing... until it was not.

A Name in a Constant Motion 

Fast forward to 1997, I sat for my Primary School Certificate Examination (PSCE) with the same name I received from my birth. But by the time I joined Nangkor Junior High School, something strange happened.

My name had magically morphed into Damchoe Wangdue.

Did I change it? No. Did my parents? They did not. 

Did the school system casually or mistakenly decide that my name was due for an upgrade? Apparently, yes.

And that was just the beginning.

2 years later, when I appeared for the Lower Secondary School Certificate Examination (LSSCE), my name had once again undergone an unsolicited transformation 🤯. Now, I was officially Damcho Wangdi.

At this point, even I started accepting my identity crisis. Whatever name they gave me, I simply rented it for a while before the next inevitable change.

tenor.com

The Census Rimpoche 🙏

 In 2001, I was gearing up for the Bhutan Certificate of Secondary Education (BCSE). It was a big deal. My batch was the first to sit for this prestigious exam after Bhutan parted ways with the Indian School Certificate Examination (ICSE).

Before the exam, we were notified to submit our Citizenship Identity Card (CID) to confirm our names. I took leave from school and travelled home to collect my CID that I obtained recently. 

My plan was to get the document and return to the school without any drama. But, I was wrong.

Upon reaching home, I discovered that my name had once again undergone its evolutionary cycle. This time, my name had reached its final, least glamorous form: Dumcho Wangdi.

Yes, you read that right. Dumcho.

It sounded plain, awkward, and terribly uncomfortable to pronounce. It was as if someone had taken my name, chopped off a few letters, and put it back together with zero concern for phonetic dignity.

Burning with rage, I turned to my poor parents and demanded an explanation. 

"How did this happen? Who did this?"

Turns out, it was all thanks to a Census Rimpoche, a highly qualified gentleman from the census office, who had generously decided that my name needed a little renovation. The man had gone around my village collecting information from around 70 households, and somewhere along the way, he decided to play a game of scrabble with my name 😠.

The Public Humiliation Ceremony

With my new name, I returned to school and submitted my CID. The next day, our class teacher walked in with a sheet of paper and began reading out our final, officially confirmed names.

I already knew what was coming. I could feel the disaster before it happened.

As soon as my teacher reached my name, he did not even attempt to maintain his composure. Instead, he roared with laughter. My classmates soon joined in, and the classroom erupted into a chaotic mockery fest.

Then, to add salt to my wounds, some eerie friends from the backbenches decided to helpfully announce, "That sounds like a dog’s name!"

And that was it. My self-esteem packed its bags and left the building.

From that day on, I started detesting my own name. Every time I had to write it, spell it, or worse, say it out loud, I felt the weight of the mockery that came with it. My classmates never let me live it down. Some even kept the joke going for weeks.

And all thanks to our dear Census Rimpoche, who turned my name into an unofficial canine brand. 😡

The Philosophical Acceptance? 

Now, after decades of reluctant acceptance, I finally made peace with my name.

I take solace in Shakespeare’s words from Romeo and Juliet:

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet."

Sure, Shakespeare, but try telling that to someone who got stuck with an accidental dog name 🐕.

In the grand scheme of things, names are just labels. They have no strength or weakness, no scent or colour, no power to differentiate rich from poor. But when you have spent your whole life getting used to one, and it suddenly gets switched up, it is like hearing a song off-key. It sounds awkward, funny, and utterly ridiculous.

To this day, the one thing I still dislike about my name is that I always have to stand next to someone and spell it out letter by letter. Otherwise, I pay the price for their negligence. Because honestly, unless it is our name, we always take other people’s names for granted.

Funny but True

If names were currency, mine would have gone through an unstable stock market crash. From Damchu Wangchuk to Dumcho Wangdi, I have lived multiple identities without ever asking for one.

The evolutionary board of my name