We were looking for a beef shop in my village. A beef biryani shop owner told us where to find one.
My wife and I drove to the area, and she seemed uncomfortable asking passers-by, “Where do you get beef?”
I was puzzled.
“Why are you uncomfortable?” I asked. “Most people here would know the exact shop.”
The next passer-by proved my point.
“Where is the beef shop here?” my wife asked.
Without a second’s hesitation, he replied, “Cross the bridge, take the first left, go straight, and then the second right.”
He paused for a moment and added, “Ask for Noor.”
I smiled at my wife and kept driving.
At the second right, however, we couldn’t find any beef shop. Seeing our confusion, another villager approached us.
“What are you looking for?”
My wife immediately replied, “Noor shop.”
“Oh, beef…” he said. “That shop with the blue shutter is the one. But you are late. For fresh beef, you have to come at 4 a.m. That is when our Bai offers namaz and cuts the animal. The shop is open only from 4 a.m. to 12 noon. Now it is already 1.30.”
We must have looked disappointed because he quickly added, “Nothing to worry. I shall take you to Noordu’s house. He might have something in his freezer.”
Wearing only a lungi and with his chest bare, he walked us to a nearby house.
“This is Noordu’s house,” he said and left.
A lady answered the door.
“He has gone out,” she said. “And we don’t have anything in the freezer today. Everything got sold. You can come tomorrow morning.”
The next day, we woke up early and rushed to the shop.
It was spotlessly clean. Customers kept coming and going. My wife bought what we needed and returned to the car carrying the shop owner’s visiting card.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Noor Siraaj,” she replied.
I didn’t bother checking the card.
“Then why are people calling the shop Noordu shop?” I asked.
She ignored my million-dollar question and continued talking about how clean and well-maintained the place was.
On the way back, my seven-year-old son had already chanted at least ten times:
“Dad, today beef biryani and tomorrow beef steak.”
After reaching home, I parked the car and, just before getting out, casually grabbed the visiting card.
One glance at it and I froze.
There was a picture of a bull.
And right next to it…
Mother Mary.
“What the fuck?” I muttered.
Why was a Bai promoting Christianity? What kind of undercover operation was this?
I looked more carefully at the card.
The name on it wasn’t Noor Siraaj.
It was Lourd Raj.
A perfectly ordinary Tamil Christian name.
Suddenly everything made sense.
Somewhere along the way, the village had converted Lourd Raj into Lourdu, then Noordu, and finally, in my imagination, into Noor Siraaj.
The man I had confidently assumed was Muslim turned out to be a Christian.
All because of pronunciation.
So much for certainty.
Sometimes a name travels so far from its original form that it acquires an entirely new identity.
And sometimes an entire village goes along with it.
P.S. In Tamil Nadu, Muslim men are often called “Bai.” I still don’t know exactly why.