There is nothing in a name. My husband, Santhosh Menon, called

Hear the gentle words of Navya Nair, who confessed with tenderness: “There is nothing in a name. My husband, Santhosh Menon, called me Navya at first, which I did not like as it was my screen name. He knew me as Navya and found calling me Dhanya strange, so he came up with a pet name.” At first, these words appear to be a simple tale of names and preferences. Yet in truth, they carry with them the eternal mystery of identity, of love’s intimacy, and of the power that lies beyond words.

For she declares: “There is nothing in a name.” What wisdom lies in this humility! For what is a name but a sound upon the lips, a symbol crafted by others? The essence of a person, the soul that loves and weeps, that rejoices and endures, cannot be contained in syllables. Names may change with marriage, with fame, with the passage of years, but the essence endures. Thus her husband, in his love, did not cling to what was formal or imposed, but shaped a pet name, born not of the world’s judgment but of affection’s intimacy.

The ancients themselves wrestled with this truth. Recall the words of Juliet in Shakespeare’s telling: “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Long before and long after, mankind has asked: is identity found in the title or in the being? Navya’s reflection stands in this same tradition. For though she was known by the world as Navya, in her heart she was Dhanya, and to her beloved she became something else again—something private, unspoken, known only between two souls.

Indeed, history is filled with such transformations. The mighty pharaohs of Egypt bore throne names to awe the nations, yet within their households they were called by softer words, names spoken only by wives, children, or friends. Even Alexander the Great, conqueror of nations, was called “Iskander” by some, “son” by his mother, “the madman” by his enemies. Titles change with the crowd, but in the hearth of love, the pet name—that hidden jewel of intimacy—holds the truest bond.

There is in this story also a lesson of acceptance. For though Navya did not like being called by her screen name, she allowed her husband’s perception to shape a new name for her, one born out of closeness. It reveals that love does not cling rigidly to identity as the world defines it, but allows new identities to blossom in the fertile soil of relationship. Just as rivers take on new names when they merge, so too do souls transform when they unite in marriage. The old name is not discarded—it is simply reborn in new meaning.

Thus the teaching shines forth: the soul is not the name. The world may call you by many titles, but your essence is untouched. In the company of strangers you are one thing; in the company of your beloved, you may be entirely another. Do not fear this change, for it is not loss, but expansion. Names are vessels, and love fills them with new wine, reshaping even familiar syllables into something sacred.

The lesson for us is this: do not place too much weight upon the labels the world gives you. They may honor you or mock you, exalt you or belittle you, but they are not you. What matters most is how you live, and the names of intimacy—those given in trust, affection, and love—carry greater worth than all the titles shouted by the crowd.

So let your action be this: cherish the names spoken by those closest to you, for they are tokens of intimacy, carved not in public stone but in private hearts. And when you call others, let your words be born not only of duty but of affection. For in the end, as Navya Nair teaches, there is nothing in a name—and yet, through love, there is everything.