A name was first given to me by my grandfather and the name was Girishwar Reddy. It carried a sense of tradition and pride. But when I was around four years old, my father changed it to honor his late sister. That’s how I became Girish Mani—with Mani taken from my aunt’s name, Shiromani.
Coincidentally, my sister was born around the same time, and both of us were given Mani as the second part of our names—a quiet tribute woven into our identities.
It’s a unique name. Some people assume I’m from a different state, and others joke about the word Mani, which means “beads” in Kannada—or playfully mispronounce it as “money.” I don’t mind. I’ve grown to love my name. It’s rare, and it carries stories that most people don’t know.
Interestingly, my original name—Girishwar—isn’t recorded in any official documents. I do like my first name too. It lives quietly in memory, like an old photograph tucked away in a drawer.
In one of my blog posts, a subscriber once commented that my name reminded him of Malgudi Days. That made me smile. There’s something timeless about names that evoke stories.
In its literal sense, my name is among the many sacred titles of Lord Shiva.
And so, this is the story of my name.
Uncompiled Stories 
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