British-Imposed Indian 'Surnames': The Colonial Construct In Personal Identity

Indians today introduce themselves with a first and last name, like Priya Patel or Rahul Verma. This naming convention feels natural today, yet it is neither ancient nor indigenous. It is a colonial import, barely 150 years old, that fundamentally reshaped how Indians identify themselves.

A look back through Indian history—from our epics to medieval kings to spiritual leaders—a different pattern emerges. People were known by single, meaningful names that stood complete on their own, without the need for surnames. This colonial reshaping of Indian naming practices did more than change how names were written. It subordinated personal identity to lineage identity.

The given name that once defined a person became secondary to the surname that placed them within a family, lineage, or community.

Names as Essence: The Pre-Colonial Identity System

In our great epics, the great characters carried primary names that required no family attachment to complete them. Arjuna was known by eleven additional names that reflected his virtues and achievements: Dhananjaya (winner of wealth), Savyasachi (ambidextrous archer), Vibhatsu (one who never commits unrighteous acts in battle), among others. His identity was expressed through these meaningful descriptors, not through a fixed surname. Similarly, Shri Rama was called Raghava, Dasharathi, or Janakivallabh, depending on context. These were not surnames but honorifics, used when relevant. They never replaced his personal name.

This naming tradition extended to closer historical figures as well. Ashoka was never Ashoka Maurya. Shivaji never used Bhonsale as a formal surname. Contemporary records, such as the Sabhasad Bakhar, written shortly after his death, referred to him as Shivaji Raje or Chatrapati Shivaji. The addition of Bhonsale came later, added by colonial chroniclers trying to fit Indian figures into European genealogical templates.

For Bajirao, Peshwa was his position title. Later British chroniclers made that his surname. For Lachit Borphukan, “Borphukan" denoted an administrative position that combined both executive and judicial powers in the Ahom administrative hierarchy. Much like Peshwa, it was not a surname either.

The names of kings of the Chola dynasty—Rajaraja, Rajendra, Kulottunga, etc.—stood on their own. In official inscriptions, they were referred to variably with additional titles, epithets, and dynastic references, not a fixed surname. The common person in Tamil Nadu, as in the rest of India, had a personal name without surname, but rich in meaning or linked to virtues, nature, gods, or professions.

Even spiritual leaders followed this pattern. Kabir and Tulsidas used single names, with "das" serving as a spiritual compound name, not a surname. The Guru Granth Sahib attributes Kabir’s verses simply to "Kabir," without any surname.

From kings to merchants to spiritual people to common people, all Indian texts prior to the British refer to them by given names only, with honorifics or additional names if required.

All that changed with colonialism. A person’s name became subservient to his surname. Now, as an example, in Rahul Gandhi, Rahul becomes less material, and Gandhi becomes more material—completely upending the culture that was India.

Paper and Power: The Colonial Administrative Revolution

India’s rich naming traditions began to unravel under British rule. Colonial administrators sought to impose a system that matched their own expectations. It was not that Indian names were insufficient for legal or administrative purposes. In most documents, the inclusion of a person’s given name along with their father’s name separately was enough to establish clarity. But British officials were guided by their own mental template: the European model of first name and family name. That format became the standard they enforced.

And so, Indian identities were restructured to fit Western family hierarchical templates. As forms were printed and registers compiled, the requirement for a surname became institutional. Taxation records, police files, school enrolments, and census documents all began to demand it. What was once a flexible descriptor of family, region, occupation, or relationship was recast as a formal last name. The personal name, which had traditionally carried the essence of a person, was pushed into the background.

By the late nineteenth century, this process deepened. Colonial officials began asking Indians to declare not just their names, but also their caste, sub-caste, gotra, occupation, etc. These were entered into the surname column. Fluid social references were turned into a permanent legal identity. This was more than administrative tidiness. It was an imperial project of classification.

H. H. Risley, a leading ethnographer, believed Indian society could be mapped like a biological taxonomy—like the length of the nose (!). In his 1908 book, The People of India, he linked surnames to a “scientific” racial and caste hierarchy. Under his influence, the surname became a marker not just of family, but of rank and status.

Over time, this naming system locked individuals into rigid social categories. Names that once reflected temporary affiliations were frozen into caste markers. They were repeated across every institutional interface—from school forms to land records to ration cards. The first name referred to the person. The last name referred to their position in a social order. It was not chosen. It was assigned. Not earned, but inherited. Not evolving, but fixed.

By codifying surnames, the British gave caste lineage a bureaucratic form that endured long after colonial rule ended. What had once been a diverse, negotiable, and layered way of identifying oneself became a rigid, state-approved category. The imprint of that transformation continues to shape how Indians are identified, classified, and treated to this day.

Surnames Linked to Caste

The British encouraged the use of caste identifiers as surnames, mimicking European lineage/family-based naming. This fused caste with personal identity, turning surnames into markers of social rank. What had once been contextual and fluid became rigid and inherited.

Before colonial rule, the separate varna and jati systems existed but were not fixed onto names. Caste identities varied regionally and were shaped by context, not codified in official records. The British census and administrative systems forced these identities into permanently mapped categories, using surnames to lock caste into bureaucratic fact fixed at birth.

This legacy explains why caste data has remained inconsistent—from the 1931 census to the 2011 Socio-Economic and Caste Census, and recent state-level surveys. The surname system made caste both central to identity and harder to measure accurately. This contradiction still hinders India’s ability to address inequality through policy.

Resistance and Adaptation: Regional Responses to Imposed Naming

Despite the widespread adoption of this format, many communities resisted in quiet ways. In southern India, people preferred initials that represented the father's name, house name, or ancestral village. A person called R. Subramanian might be Raja Subramanian, but "Raja" was not a family name. It was relational. These initials were never meant to be permanent surnames, yet were later frozen into official records as if they were.

In other parts of the country, the forced need to fill the surname column led to unexpected adaptations. Some people used the names of their villages, their professions, everyday objects, or even invented something to make do as a surname. Those who didn't do so received arbitrary surnames from the British. Surnames like Batliwala (bottle-seller), Bhotmange (possibly spirit invocation), or Bailmare (ox-killer) emerged not from tradition but from bureaucratic need—and they still endure.

Even today, Vanvasis of India, who traditionally did not use surnames, are forced to invent them for school enrolment, bank accounts, and government IDs. Legal challenges reflect this discomfort. In 2015, the Madras High Court ruled that a person cannot be compelled to use a surname in a particular format, acknowledging India's cultural diversity. Yet the official expectation remains heavily tilted toward the colonial model.

Reclaiming Identity: The Path Forward

It is important to remember that India did not lose its last name. India never needed one. Names in Indian society were rooted in meaning, context, and relationship—not in a fixed structure. The first-name-family-name model is a colonial legacy, born of a desire to sort, record, and control.

This systemic rigidity continues to affect individuals in deeply personal ways. My own name, Vidhushekhar, is a compound word. Yet, across legal documents, official forms, and identification systems, I am constantly forced to break it into "Vidhu" and "Shekhar," simply to comply with formats. It is almost a subtle erasure of linguistic and cultural integrity.

In a modern digital India where identification is already secured through biometric data, Aadhaar numbers, and digital signatures, the insistence on compulsory surnames is increasingly outdated. The very tools that allow us to identify individuals uniquely also make rigid naming formats unnecessary. The state no longer needs surnames to distinguish its citizens. That requirement, born in a colonial file room, should not persist in a twenty-first-century democracy.

It is time for the Government of India to take the lead. Surnames should be made optional in all official documents and platforms. Let those who wish to retain caste names or family markers do so by choice. But let others opt out without legal, technical, or institutional penalty. More than convenience alone, it is a matter of dignity, identity, and cultural freedom.

Naming oneself should not be an act of compliance with an old empire, but a free expression of who one is. In a republic built on liberty and equality, the right to name oneself—fully, freely, and without inherited constraints—must be protected.