What’s in a Name? A Surname, Apparently | Disha

Abstract

This article explores the challenges of living without a surname in a world that expects one. The author, Disha, shares personal experiences of struggling with official documents, online platforms, and academic recognition due to the absence of a last name. While her parents made a conscious decision to avoid caste and religious associations, modern systems remain rigid, demanding both first and last names.

The article also examines the significance of surnames in academia and history, questioning whether a single name can hold the same authority as well-known last names like Curie or Foucault. It discusses how Indian writers adopted pen names but were still tied to their caste surnames in legal records.

Finally, the piece calls for structural changes, such as replacing “First Name” and “Last Name” fields with a single “Name” box. It argues for a more inclusive system that recognizes diverse naming choices, ensuring identity is respected beyond bureaucratic norms.

I am Disha. I have no surname, and that’s a deliberate choice—not mine, but my father’s. Growing up, I was told this decision was made to avoid any associations tied to caste, religion, or regional stereotypes. It was a conscious effort by my parents to create a neutral identity. But as I ventured into the world, I quickly realized how deeply entrenched the requirement for a surname is in modern systems.

From the moment I applied for my PAN card, the lack of a surname became a stumbling block. The process was far from straightforward. Even now, with advancements in online systems, I find myself constantly battling forms that refuse to proceed unless both first and last names are provided. My experiences with applying for PhD admissions, creating a Spotify account, setting up an Apple ID, or verifying my student credentials through platforms like SheerID or UNiDAYS have been punctuated with emails to customer support, requests for exceptions, and even proof of my identity.

Most recently, my application for a credit card stalled simply because my lack of a surname didn’t align with the bank’s application software. These situations have not just been frustrating but have forced me to reflect deeply on why the concept of a surname holds such power in our societies.

A Modern Obstacle Course

Social media platforms are no exception to this phenomenon. I only use Instagram, and while I don’t post, I dislike the idea of adding arbitrary numbers or symbols to my username simply to make it unique. For this reason, I’ve unofficially adopted a surname: Pranita, a combination of my parents’ names, Pramod and Anita. It’s a temporary fix, but it’s one I plan to formalize once I complete my PhD.

Yet, even this decision raises questions. Why do I need to adopt a surname at all? What does it add to my identity that my first name doesn’t already convey? And more importantly, why does the world insist on attaching significance to something that I feel should be optional?

Surnames in Academia: A Mark of Authority

As a PhD scholar, I cannot ignore the weight surnames carry in the world of academic publishing and intellectual discourse. The names etched into the annals of history—Newton, Curie, Darwin, Einstein—are almost always surnames. These single words encapsulate entire lifetimes of achievement, whole paradigms of thought, and revolutions in understanding. They are not just identifiers; they are monuments. To say "Shakespeare" is to summon a literary universe, to utter "Galileo" is to invoke a vision of the cosmos, and to mention "Foucault" is to journey through the labyrinth of power and knowledge.

But I, Disha, stand nameless in this tradition of surnames. My name, devoid of a second half, floats unanchored in a system that so heavily relies on the shorthand of last names to signify authority, lineage, and legacy. When I publish, my name appears as a single, unembellished entity: just Disha. And as I read the names of scholars cited in works—Thapar, Chandra, Guha, Allchin—I wonder: will my name ever hold such weight, or will it dissolve into the ether, lost amidst the structure of a system that privileges the surname?

This isn’t just about how I will be cited in a bibliography. It’s about how I will be remembered. In academic discourse, a surname is more than a name—it’s a cipher for recognition and respect. It becomes a linguistic shortcut to signal influence and importance. Without a surname, I worry: will my contributions be relegated to a footnote, lost in a sea of standardized formats that expect a "Disha [something]" to complete the picture?

If history writes the names of its great minds as surnames, does that mean those of us without them are less likely to endure? Have we built a system that, in its pursuit of order, erases the possibility of singular identities? My name, as it stands, is an anomaly in the structure of academia, a distinct element that struggles to fit in a world built around last names.

This realization prompts deeper reflection: is a surname a prerequisite for immortality in intellectual thought? Have we conflated the simplicity of naming conventions with the complexity of human achievement? Or, perhaps, has the surname become not just a tool of categorization but a gatekeeper to the privilege of being remembered?

I find myself at a crossroads. Do I create a surname to fit into this tradition, ensuring that my work is both traceable and memorialized? Or do I resist, trusting that my contributions will speak louder than the absence of a second name? This tension is not just personal; it’s emblematic of a system that has yet to reckon with its own limitations.

The question lingers: in a world where names become legacies, does the absence of a surname mean the absence of a legacy? Or can a single name, unadorned, rise above the conventions of history to stand as its own testament?

The Origin of Surnames

The concept of surnames is relatively modern, emerging around the 12th century in Europe. Initially, they served practical purposes, helping to distinguish between individuals with the same first name. These surnames were often derived from professions (Smith, Baker), locations (Hill, Rivers), or physical attributes (Short, Long). Over time, they became hereditary, passed down through generations, and entrenched in cultural and legal systems.

In many societies, surnames evolved into symbols of status, lineage, and community. They became a way to trace ancestry, claim heritage, and even assert social dominance. Today, surnames are a universal norm, deeply embedded in systems of governance, academia, and technology.

Why Can’t We Create Our Own Surnames?

If surnames are so integral, why are they often inherited rather than chosen? My decision to adopt “Pranita” as my surname stems from the need to conform to societal expectations while retaining my individuality. It’s a way of asserting my identity on my terms, free from historical baggage.

Historically, many individuals—especially in literature and the arts—have chosen to craft their own names. Indian authors like Premchand (born Dhanpat Rai Srivastava) and Harivansh Rai Bachchan (born Harivansh Rai Srivastava) adopted pen names to distance themselves from their caste identities in their literary personas. Similarly, "Mahadevi Verma" and "Agyeya" (Sachchidananda Hirananda Vatsyayan) created names that reflected their artistic vision rather than their familial lineage.

Yet, despite these creative identities, their official documents—bank records, government IDs, and university credentials—still bore their caste-based surnames. Even Rabindranath Tagore, whose name is globally recognized, carried the weight of his Brahmin surname in official matters. A pen name, no matter how powerful in literary or intellectual circles, has rarely functioned as a true surname in bureaucratic systems.

This raises an important question: if literature and art allow individuals to redefine themselves, why do legal and technological systems remain rigid? Why can’t we all create surnames that reflect who we are rather than where we come from? The rigidity of surname conventions often stifles creativity and reinforces outdated norms. Allowing individuals to craft their own surnames—not just as pseudonyms but as official markers of identity—could lead to a more inclusive and representative system.

The Politics of Surnames

Surnames are not just identifiers; they are laden with politics. They can signify power, privilege, and belonging—or the lack thereof. In some cases, they become barriers, as seen in my own experiences with online systems and formal applications. The assumption that everyone must have a surname reflects a narrow worldview that fails to accommodate diversity.

Moreover, surnames often carry implicit biases. They can reveal ethnicity, religion, or regional origins, influencing perceptions and decisions in ways that are often subconscious. This raises critical questions about fairness and equality in a world where surnames can both empower and marginalize.

A Reflection on Identity

My journey as “Disha without a surname” has been both challenging and enlightening. It has forced me to question the systems we take for granted and the assumptions underlying them. It has also reaffirmed my belief that identity is deeply personal and cannot be fully captured by a single word—first name, last name, or otherwise.

As I prepare to officially adopt “Pranita” as my surname, I do so with a mix of pragmatism and resistance. It’s a compromise, a way to navigate a world that demands conformity while preserving a sense of self. But it’s also a reminder that identity is fluid and that the rules governing it should be flexible enough to accommodate everyone.

Conclusion: Rethinking the Structure of Names

In a world that celebrates individuality, the insistence on rigid name structures—particularly the separation of “first name” and “last name”—feels outdated. While surnames serve practical purposes, their inflexibility often erases the diversity they attempt to categorize. A simple yet effective solution would be to replace the standard “First Name” and “Last Name” fields on official forms with a single “Name” box. This small change would accommodate people like me who do not have surnames, as well as those who prefer to identify differently from traditional naming conventions.

Beyond this, other improvements could include:

• Optional Surname Fields -– Instead of making last names mandatory, systems could allow users to leave them blank or enter a chosen identifier.

• Flexibility in Citations –- Academic and legal frameworks should evolve to recognize single names without forcing abbreviations or additions. Citation styles, for instance, could be adjusted to ensure that individuals without surnames are referenced in a way that ensures their work remains traceable.

Ultimately, a name is more than a bureaucratic requirement—it is a reflection of identity, a personal choice, and a story in itself. By redesigning our systems to accommodate diverse naming practices, we create a more inclusive and equitable world. Because sometimes, a single name should be enough.

(Author: Disha, Ph.D. Scholar & Senior Research Fellow, Dr. K. R. Narayanan Centre for Dalit and Minorities Studies, Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, India (ORCID: https://orcid.org/0009-0006-7124-9438))