In the beginning was my name, and my name was with my great-great-grandfather, and the name was Imnamangyang Aier. Sometimes I cannot even say my name aloud without choking up because—and I am sure some of you will empathize with me when I say this—I am repulsed by it. Perhaps my grandmother was right in fearing that I could not bear the weight of my own name. As I shuttle around in the Hyderabad heat with my delivery packages in tow, my thoughts often travel towards a different permutation of my life if I had just been named differently. Tajungkaba would have been good; it had a nice ring to it—a no-nonsense SBI banker perhaps. Even Takosashi would have been acceptable—a genial shopkeeper in Dimapur with a smile that greeted Welcome, what would you like aunty? But sometimes the name Mhokuolie wafts into my ears and I find myself having…