My Name Is

My name is Pragun (pra-goo-n). Not Praful. Not Pragul. Not Prague (though I’m open to the relocation). Not Prasun. Not Shagun. And definitely not Ragu.

For as long as I can remember, my name has been a looping exercise in correction and re-correction. I spent years judging myself for mispronouncing it, or silently indicting my parents for their botched up “name job”.

My surname, Aggarwal, is a different story. In most parts of India, a last name isn’t just a familial tag; it’s a social broadcast. It signals class, access, stature, and origins. Mine is tethered to the बनिया (Baniya) community — the traditional trading and business class. Known for sharp acumen and famously miserly instincts, Baniyas are both revered and resented.

Personally, I feel about as culturally aligned with the Baniya community as I do with the Murphys of Ireland (and frankly, I’d probably be the awkward cousin at both reunions). But I know my indifference is a luxury. In a country deeply fractured by the fault lines of caste, my name has never been a barricade. It has never slammed a door shut, swallowed a job offer, or turned into a weaponized slur. It is simply a silver spoon resting quietly on my tongue, a privilege inherited long before I ever had to prove my worth.

While my surname holds the social weight, my first name holds the personal poetry. I am told I was named after Lord Vishnu, the Preserver and Protector in the Hindu trinity, tasked with maintaining cosmic order when evil looms. Let’s be clear: I lack the courage, strength, or desire to save the world from impending doom. Hell no. Never.

But my family has recently started calling me the “peacemaker” — the bridge-builder preserving disjointed connections. Well, they aren’t entirely wrong. My preservatory instincts do manifest and in different ways. I hold onto broken relationships far longer than I should. I reminisce over connections long gone, replay moments that never quite existed, and hoard emotions that dried up years ago. I am even the guy who cherishes the last morsel of his favorite meal, chewing slowly to delay the inevitable tragedy of an empty plate.

My mother often says a name dictates a person’s character. I thought it was laughable. Silly. Unthinkable. Now, the joke is on me.

I am, I realize, the quintessential peace preserver: taking a punch to stop a school fight, choosing silence over confrontation, shifting topics to dodge conflict, and protecting the status quo. None of this is particularly effective conflict resolution. But in my defense, Lord Vishnu didn’t have to navigate the modern world, so I deserve some slack for figuring out how to “preserve” and “protect” myself and my loved ones in a world riddled with chaos, violence, deceit, and sin.

Then there is the name itself. “Pragun” will never sit comfortably on my tongue. It sounds clunky, like a screw tightening into a hole it was never meant for. It stands out in every room, disturbs the rhythm of every roll call, and trips up every introduction.

Yet, in all its awkwardness, it is a perfect mirror. I have spent my life struggling to recognize the rules of the game, searching for familiarity and finding none, and trying to fit into rooms where there is no room for me. Like my name, I stand out everywhere but seldom find belonging.

And so, wrapped in social signals I didn’t earn, trying to preserve order in a swirling world, and sticking out like the quintessential sore thumb, I am Pragun Aggarwal. And perhaps it is the friction between these colliding worlds that makes my name, and me, interesting.