What They Call Me Here

In London he was Nick. Sharp at the edges. Quick. The kind of name that moved fast through a classroom and arrived before he did. Nick who knew which bus to take. Nick who knew the grey sky and the particular smell of rain on concrete and the way the city kept moving regardless of whether you were ready.

In Mumbai — before London — he had been Nikhil. Softer. Rounder. A name that took its time arriving. Nikhil who knew the monsoon and the sound of the city at five in the morning and his grandmother's voice calling from the kitchen in a way that meant food is ready and also I love you and also come now.

Before Mumbai: Singapore. Where he had been Nick also but a different Nick — a Nick who ate laksa for breakfast and knew which hawker stall had the best char kway teow and had a best friend called Jess who he still messaged but less now because time zones are their own kind of border.

Now: Greece. A whitewashed house on a hill above a harbour where the boats came and went with the confidence of things that knew exactly where they were going.

The teacher on the first day looked at the register. "Nikhil?" she said. Then looked up.

Nikhil raised his hand. The teacher smiled. "Welcome, Nikhil."

But the boy next door — who had appeared at the gate that morning with the ease of someone who had lived here his whole life and knew every stone on every path — had looked at Nikhil and said: "What does your name mean?"

Nikhil thought about it. In Sanskrit: complete. Whole. All of it. In Nikhil's experience: the name he became when he arrived somewhere new and left behind when he moved on. Except in London where he had become Nick — which meant nothing except easier to say on the first day when nobody knows you yet.

"It depends," said Nikhil, "where you are."

The boy's name was Stavros. Stavros had: Lived in this village his whole life. Known every person on every street. Never had to explain who he was to anyone because everyone already knew.

Stavros found this entirely ordinary. Nikhil found it quietly extraordinary.

"Have you always lived here?" said Nikhil. "Always," said Stavros. "Doesn't it get boring?" Stavros looked at the harbour. The boats. The hill. The sea that went on in every direction to everywhere else. "No," said Stavros. "It gets deeper."

Nikhil looked at the sea. He had seen many seas. Mumbai's sea: Loud. Brown at the edges. Enormous and determined. Singapore's sea: Hot. Green. Full of ships going somewhere important. London didn't really have a sea. London had the Thames which was a river pretending to be something larger and mostly succeeding.

This sea: Blue. Very blue. The kind of blue that made you understand why the Greeks had invented gods — because something this beautiful needed explaining.

"What's the Greek word," said Nikhil, "for someone who is from everywhere and nowhere?"

Stavros thought about it. Xenitia, he said. The ache of being far from home. But also — the freedom of it. Both things. In one word.

Nikhil said it. Xenitia. It sat in his mouth differently than Nikhil or Nick or any of his names. Not a name. A condition. A state of being. A word that said: yes. This thing you feel. We noticed it too. We gave it a name a long time ago.

He had been looking for this word across four countries and three languages and more bus routes than he could count.

"Can I keep it?" said Nikhil. Stavros looked at him. "It's not mine to give," said Stavros. "It belongs to anyone who needs it."

That evening Nikhil sat on the wall above the harbour. The boats came in. The sun went down behind the island across the water. The sea turned the colour of something that couldn't decide between gold and red and had settled on both.

He thought about his names. Nikhil. Nick. Nikhil again. Nikhil here.

Each one a different him. Each one true. Each one belonging to a different sky and a different smell of rain or monsoon or harbour salt.

Maybe — he thought — maybe home isn't the place that gives you your name. Maybe home is the place where you understand what your name means.

Complete. Whole. All of it.

Nikhil looked at the sea. The sea had been here before all his names. Would be here after.

Xenitia, he thought. The ache. The freedom. Both.

He stayed on the wall until the harbour lights came on one by one — small and warm against the dark — each one a different light in the same harbour — all of them exactly where they were supposed to be.