What’s in a Name? Look at the Work Instead

Had the Maharaja of Mysore, Krishnaraja Wadiyar IV, been alive today, he would probably have burst into hearty laughter watching the fuss being made over the name of a sweet created by his royal chef Madappa. Think about it—Madappa invented a sugar-soaked dessert and when the king asked for its name, he replied: “Mysore Pak.”

The word “Pak” is from Kannada, meaning the kind of sweetness that melts in the mouth.

But today? In the current times, the moment some people hear the word “Pak,” they twitch at the border like it’s a missile, not a sweet.

So, one swift stroke—a Rajasthani halwai (sweet maker) decided to drop “Pak” and renamed the sweet as “Mysore Shree” instead. What an outstanding display of bravery and patriotism!

But if we equate “Pak” solely with Pakistan, what happens then?

What will we call “Pak-Kala” (the culinary arts)?

Will cooking itself become suspicious?

What will be the fate of “Pak-Shastra” (the science of cooking)?

And what shall we call those with a “Pak-Saaf” (pure and clean) heart? “Shree-Saaf”? Or something else?

The issue isn’t just about Mysore Pak.

Look around. Biryani, both veg and non-veg, is sold from street carts everywhere—where did it originate?

Kofta, kebab, samosa—they too are foreign guests whom we embraced and gave a place on our plates.

And tea? That’s a gift from the Chinese and the British, but now it’s deeply woven into our culture.

Coffee, sherbet, naan, tandoori—all of them entered India without passports and are now permanent residents of our kitchens.

If we begin changing all these names, our plates will soon be empty.

Language, you see, is like a river—it flows, merges, and evolves.

Hindi has absorbed over 5,000 Urdu, 4,000 Persian, and 10,000+ English words.

So, shall we start rewriting dictionaries now?

Even English has taken in words like karma, yoga, jungle, chicken tikka, guru—they’ve happily added these to their lexicon.

That’s how language works—it’s about exchange and evolution.

If we begin to scrutinize every word with a magnifying glass, every language will go unemployed, and we’ll all be left gesturing like mimes.

Now take Karachi Bakery in Hyderabad—famous for its fruit biscuits, with people queuing up outside.

But now even that name evokes the enemy state.

And not just that, the Karachi Halwa, soaked in syrup, is now under siege.

Why? Because it bears the name “Karachi.”

Who would care to remember that a family which migrated during Partition started Karachi Bakery in Hyderabad in the 1950s, and its connection with Karachi is about as real as Chandni Chowk’s parathas being linked to moonlight.

China is another nation seen as hostile.

But until it’s officially declared an enemy, can we really call it so?

Let’s talk about Chinese food then—chow mein, Manchurian, chili chicken—favorites of an entire generation.

But if Pak is a problem, why not Chinese?

And momos?

They came from Tibet, thrived in Nepal, and now steam from every street corner across Indian towns and cities.

Yes, we did give them a desi makeover—spiced up chow mein so much that even the Chinese wouldn’t recognize it, and served momos with such fiery chutney that the Tibetans might get confused.

It doesn’t stop there.

If we start counting the names of foods we eat, we’ll have nothing left:

• Pizza – Italy

• Burger – America

• Ice Cream – Europe

• Bread and Biscuits – Britain

Dig deeper and we might even find that our beloved golgappa has an Arabic or Persian origin.

So let’s say we rename Karachi Bakery, Chow Mein, Biryani, and Mysore Pak—what will we really achieve?

Will Mysore Pak become sweeter by 10 grams just by calling it Mysore Shree?

Will Karachi Bakery’s biscuits taste better if we call it Hyderabad Bakery?

Even if we rename Karachi Halwa as Bangarmau Halwa, won’t its distinct texture and taste remain the same?

What’s in a name?

That’s a question as old as time—Shakespeare posed it through a rose.

Names are just labels. What really matters is the taste, the culture, the history behind them.

Karachi Bakery has been Hyderabad’s pride since the 1950s, and its ties to the real Karachi are no more than the ties between Karachi’s Bombay Bakery and the city of Mumbai.

If renaming things could win wars, then every country’s menu would look the same.

But the beauty of this world lies in how we’ve embraced each other’s flavors, words, and cultures.

Whether it’s Mysore Pak or Karachi Halwa, Chow Mein or Momos, changing names won’t alter their history or taste.

Surely, Madappa—had he seen his Mysore Pak become Mysore Shree—would be chuckling from the heavens.

If he could speak, he’d probably say:

“Change the name or don’t—just taste the sweet, you’ll enjoy it either way.”

By the way, changing names isn’t a new phenomenon.

Sometimes it’s for marketing, sometimes politics, and sometimes just for fun.

Across the globe, dish names change, but flavors don’t.

Neither does the sweet get sweeter, nor the chutney spicier, nor the hunger go away.

So let’s not get caught in the trap of names.

Let’s just dip this debate in syrup and forget it.

(The author is a journalist.)