Jake Mathew Williams

While my name might seem ordinary, there's a profound story of struggle behind it—or so I've been told. My lovely mother, Lilly Joseph, is a proud Indian woman from Kerala, a small state in southern India often referred to as "God's Own Country." She's a devout Christian, and some might even describe her as a bit of a religious fanatic. Her family is large and has roots that trace back to royal lineage from a time before British colonization. According to family lore, their ancestors converted to Christianity through a missionary.

When my mother was just 18, her family arranged a marriage for her without her consent. Being the fierce, independent woman I know her to be, she decided to take matters into her own hands and run away. At that time, she was too proud to take anything valuable from home. That night, as she was sneaking out, her grandmother caught her in the act. But instead of stopping her, her grandmother convinced her to wait until morning. She even arranged for her visa and a seat at university to study medicine—all without the rest of the family knowing.

As for my father, Mark Williams, his story is far less dramatic. He's your typical English bloke from a middle-class family, obsessed with football and good-looking (depending on how much you've had to drink). They met at a bar, and my dad likes to say—insisting a popular TV show stole this line—"She saw, she liked, she got pregnant, she had to."

Two months after their fateful meeting, my mom showed up at my grandparents' house, rang the bell, and asked for my dad. Without saying a word, she slapped him across the face, handed him an envelope with her contact information and a positive pregnancy test, and walked away.

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T

They tied the knot just four weeks after their fateful meeting, embarking on a journey that wasn't quite the whirlwind romance depicted in fairy tales, but rather a slow and steady blossoming of love. Six months after their wedding, my mom's stomach swelled with the life of her first child, and—boom—I entered the world in 1995, becoming Jake "Biju" Williams, the firstborn of Lilly Joseph and Mark Williams, destined for anything but an ordinary life.

Now, let's talk about my name... my mother, in her boundless wisdom and affection for her cultural roots, was adamant about naming me "Biju." Yes, *Biju!* To this day, I find myself puzzled by her choice. Was it a nostalgic nod to her Indian heritage, or perhaps a cherished family tradition? Whatever the reason, my father was, to put it mildly, completely against it. He attempted to reason with her, suggesting alternative names that might feel more suitable in their English surroundings, but my mom—being the passionate and determined woman she is—would have none of it. No other name would suffice. After countless discussions (and, I can only imagine, some heated arguments), I emerged bearing the name Jake "Biju" Williams.

For the first seven months of my life, I wore that unusual name like a badge of honor, cherishing the uniqueness it imparted. My dad, however, had a different vision in mind. Behind the scenes, he quietly plotted a plan, waiting for just the right moment to execute it. In our household, the naming rights were a game of sorts, with everything from pets to plants eventually falling into my dad's domain (that is, after a spectacularly disastrous naming of our beloved dog, who we now affectionately call Elsu; her full name being Elizabeth the Second. Her original name, however, remains a closely guarded secret, too embarrassing to utter in a family of Williams). But my mom wielded unyielding veto power over the naming process. She would relentlessly reject suggestion after suggestion until my dad, worn down, finally agreed to one she had already chosen. This back-and-forth became quite entertaining, with renamings occurring every six or seven months, as if the names were merely temporary labels, waiting for the final, definitive choice to settle into place.

Little did I know, and what no one thought to reveal for years, was that my dad had pulled off a clever little scheme when I was born. My mother had originally decided on "Biju" as my first name, with "Jake" in the middle. She was unwavering, driven by a sentimental reason shrouded in family lore—a hushed rumor passed down from my great-grandmother that had never been fully verified.

According to this mysterious tale, "Biju" was linked to a promise my mother made long before, a vow between her first crush and herself, with God as her witness. Yet, the specifics of this promise were lost in the haze of family history, muddled and faint in the minds of those who once knew. The name held a special place in my mom's heart, representing a unique connection to her past.

However, my dad had considerable reservations. He feared that "Biju," while steeped in personal history, might not translate well in England. To him, it seemed too foreign—a name that might attract puzzled looks or even provoke awkward questions. He envisioned me standing uncomfortably in front of classmates, struggling to explain the origins of a name that was not only unfamiliar but also challenging to pronounce. The last thing he wanted was for me to feel like an outsider because of how I was named.

In a moment he described as pure genius (or sheer desperation, depending on who you ask), my dad executed his plan. Without my mom's knowledge, he stealthily swapped their intended order—putting "Jake" in the first name position and demoting "Biju" to the middle name. He thought this was an ideal compromise, combining something reliable and familiar that would blend seamlessly into English society, while still honoring my mom's heritage with "Biju" as a nod to my Indian roots.

For those first seven months of my life, my parents introduced me to everyone as Jake "Biju" Williams. In their eyes, I was a living embodiment of both cultures, a testament to the love story they had forged together. My dad reveled in his clever maneuver, convinced he had spared me a lifetime of awkward introductions and puzzling questions. He pictured me navigating the world with a name that would easily roll off the tongue—one that would allow me to blend into my surroundings while still carrying a piece of my mother's heritage.

Reflecting on it now, I can appreciate the delicate balance they worked hard to maintain. My dad wanted to provide me with the best of both worlds—a name that would give me a sense of belonging in everyday life, while still preserving a piece of my mom's identity. It was a subtle act of rebellion on his part, a quiet victory he would cherish deeply, even if it meant living under a façade for a while.

Then came the day of reckoning. With a mixture

They tied the knot just four weeks after their fateful meeting, embarking on a journey that wasn't quite the whirlwind romance depicted in fairy tales, but rather a slow and steady blossoming of love. Six months after their wedding, my mom's stomach swelled with the life of her first child, and—boom—I entered the world in 1995, becoming Jake "Biju" Williams, the firstborn of Lilly Joseph and Mark Williams, destined for anything but an ordinary life.

Now, let's talk about my name... my mother, in her boundless wisdom and affection for her cultural roots, was adamant about naming me "Biju." Yes, *Biju!* To this day, I find myself puzzled by her choice. Was it a nostalgic nod to her Indian heritage, or perhaps a cherished family tradition? Whatever the reason, my father was, to put it mildly, completely against it. He attempted to reason with her, suggesting alternative names that might feel more suitable in their English surroundings, but my mom—being the passionate and determined woman she is—would have none of it. No other name would suffice. After countless discussions (and, I can only imagine, some heated arguments), I emerged bearing the name Jake "Biju" Williams.

For the first seven months of my life, I wore that unusual name like a badge of honor, cherishing the uniqueness it imparted. My dad, however, had a different vision in mind. Behind the scenes, he quietly plotted a plan, waiting for just the right moment to execute it. In our household, the naming rights were a game of sorts, with everything from pets to plants eventually falling into my dad's domain (that is, after a spectacularly disastrous naming of our beloved dog, who we now affectionately call Elsu; her full name being Elizabeth the Second. Her original name, however, remains a closely guarded secret, too embarrassing to utter in a family of Williams). But my mom wielded unyielding veto power over the naming process. She would relentlessly reject suggestion after suggestion until my dad, worn down, finally agreed to one she had already chosen. This back-and-forth became quite entertaining, with renamings occurring every six or seven months, as if the names were merely temporary labels, waiting for the final, definitive choice to settle into place.

Little did I know, and what no one thought to reveal for years, was that my dad had pulled off a clever little scheme when I was born. My mother had originally decided on "Biju" as my first name, with "Jake" in the middle. She was unwavering, driven by a sentimental reason shrouded in family lore—a hushed rumor passed down from my great-grandmother that had never been fully verified.

According to this mysterious tale, "Biju" was linked to a promise my mother made long before, a vow between her first crush and herself, with God as her witness. Yet, the specifics of this promise were lost in the haze of family history, muddled and faint in the minds of those who once knew. The name held a special place in my mom's heart, representing a unique connection to her past.

However, my dad had considerable reservations. He feared that "Biju," while steeped in personal history, might not translate well in England. To him, it seemed too foreign—a name that might attract puzzled looks or even provoke awkward questions. He envisioned me standing uncomfortably in front of classmates, struggling to explain the origins of a name that was not only unfamiliar but also challenging to pronounce. The last thing he wanted was for me to feel like an outsider because of how I was named.

In a moment he described as pure genius (or sheer desperation, depending on who you ask), my dad executed his plan. Without my mom's knowledge, he stealthily swapped their intended order—putting "Jake" in the first name position and demoting "Biju" to the middle name. He thought this was an ideal compromise, combining something reliable and familiar that would blend seamlessly into English society, while still honoring my mom's heritage with "Biju" as a nod to my Indian roots.

For those first seven months of my life, my parents introduced me to everyone as Jake "Biju" Williams. In their eyes, I was a living embodiment of both cultures, a testament to the love story they had forged together. My dad reveled in his clever maneuver, convinced he had spared me a lifetime of awkward introductions and puzzling questions. He pictured me navigating the world with a name that would easily roll off the tongue—one that would allow me to blend into my surroundings while still carrying a piece of my mother's heritage.

Reflecting on it now, I can appreciate the delicate balance they worked hard to maintain. My dad wanted to provide me with the best of both worlds—a name that would give me a sense of belonging in everyday life, while still preserving a piece of my mom's identity. It was a subtle act of rebellion on his part, a quiet victory he would cherish deeply, even if it meant living under a façade for a while.

Then came the day of reckoning. With a mixture of persuasion, charm, and sheer exhaustion, my dad finally managed to convince my mom to change my name for good. At that moment, Jake "Biju" Williams transitioned to Jake *Matthew* Williams—a name that felt like a triumphant compromise for both parents, though I suspect my dad celebrated this victory with a special gleam in his eye. I can picture him wearing a satisfied smirk, having executed what he viewed as a clever parental coup.

It wasn't until much later, as I grew older, that I stumbled upon the truth: my dad had protected me from carrying "Biju" as my primary name, at least in part. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

Of persuasion, charm, and sheer exhaustion, my dad finally managed to convince my mom to change my name for good. At that moment, Jake "Biju" Williams transitioned to Jake *Matthew* Williams—a name that felt like a triumphant compromise for both parents, though I suspect my dad celebrated this victory with a special gleam in his eye. I can picture him wearing a satisfied smirk, having executed what he viewed as a clever parental coup.

It wasn't until much later, as I grew older, that I stumbled upon the truth: my dad had protected me from carrying "Biju" as my primary name, at least in part. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

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My early childhood years were a whirlwind of experiences that molded my identity in ways I didn't yet understand. Growing up in a household with such a rich cultural tapestry, I was often caught in the delightful chaos of two worlds colliding. My mother, with her deep roots in Kerala, would weave stories of her homeland into our daily lives, filling our home with the fragrances of traditional Indian spices. On weekends, the house would come alive with the sounds of music—sometimes devotional hymns sung in Malayalam, other times the pulsating rhythms of Bollywood hits. These melodies wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, creating a sense of belonging.

As a child, I was the center of attention, not just as a baby but as the first grandchild on both sides of the family. My maternal grandparents would shower me with love and affection, often treating me like a little prince. I vividly remember my grandmother's warm embrace, her soft, wrinkled hands cradling my head as she whispered blessings in Malayalam. She would often tell me stories about my ancestors, emphasizing the importance of my heritage. It was a legacy filled with pride, courage, and resilience, and I was to carry that legacy forward.

On my father's side, the atmosphere was different but equally warm. My paternal grandparents were a quintessential English couple, filled with humor and charm. Their home was adorned with family photographs, many showcasing the joyous moments of their lives together. I remember my granddad's hearty laughter echoing through the house, especially when he would tell me tales of his youth, filled with football matches and mischief. I soaked in the humor and the heartiness, balancing my Indian roots with British joviality.

From a young age, I was drawn to the beautiful game. My dad was a passionate football fan, and weekends were reserved for matches on the television. I would sit on his lap, wide-eyed, as we cheered for our favorite teams together. The excitement of the game captivated me. I remember jumping up and down when our team scored a goal, the thrill of victory coursing through my veins. My dad would often declare, "One day, that'll be you out there on the pitch!" His encouragement ignited my ambition to become a football star.

The neighborhood was lively, filled with children eager to kick a ball around. My parents encouraged me to make friends with kids from different backgrounds, teaching me the value of teamwork and camaraderie. I vividly recall afternoons spent in the park, where we transformed the grassy expanse into our football pitch. We would divide ourselves into teams, creating makeshift goals out of jumpers and competing in friendly matches. I remember the joy of scoring my first goal, the exhilaration surging through me as I raced back to my teammates, who cheered and lifted me in celebration.

During my formative years, my mother focused on instilling a sense of discipline and responsibility in me. She often shared stories from her childhood, emphasizing that hard work and dedication were essential values. Each morning, she would wake me with her melodious voice, singing softly to coax me out of bed. I can still hear her humming hymns as she prepares breakfast, with the aroma of dosa or idli, sometimes even fried eggs or sausages, wafting through the air. The kitchen was her sanctuary, a space where she blended Indian traditions with her new life in England. I would stand on a stool, eager to help, using my tiny hands to stir batter or mix spices, imitating her every move.

There was a certain magic in those moments, a feeling of unity and purpose. Cooking became our bonding time—a ritual where she would share not just recipes but stories of family gatherings in Kerala, where meals were celebrations that brought everyone together. Through her culinary adventures, I learned the importance of nurturing relationships and the joy that comes from sharing food.

My father played an integral role in my early years, especially when it came to our shared love of football. He was the fun-loving dad, always eager for an adventure, and weekends often meant attending football matches together. I vividly remember the excitement of walking into the stadium and the energy of the crowd buzzing around us. He would share stories about his favorite teams and players, igniting my passion for the game.

As we cheered from the stands, his enthusiasm was contagious. I can still hear his voice ring out, urging our team on, clapping and laughing with each goal scored. During halftime, we would grab hot dogs and reminisce about our favorite moments from the first half. Those weekends weren't just about the matches; they were lessons in camaraderie and resilience. Watching the players rise after a tough play taught me that failure is part of the journey, and it's important to keep pushing forward. Those shared experiences not only deepened my love for football but also created memories I cherish to this day.

Around the age of three, I began to develop a love for stories. My parents would read to me every night before bed, often taking turns in English and Malayalam. The tales of magical creatures, brave heroes, and beautiful landscapes transported me to worlds beyond my own. I still remember the bright illustrations that adorned the pages, each one sparking my imagination and making me dream of adventures I wanted to embark on someday.

By the time I turned four, my parents felt I was ready to take my football passion to the next level—nursery school, where I could explore new friendships and learn teamwork. My mother held my hand tightly as we approached the bright, colorful building filled with laughter and chatter. She assured me that I would make new friends and have fun. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, ready to embrace whatever came next.

In nursery school, I thrived. The teachers were warm and welcoming, and I quickly made friends who shared my love for football. We explored together, from painting and singing to playing games that encouraged teamwork. I remember the joy of our first school play—a simple rendition of The Three Little Pigs, but all I could think about was how I wanted to perform like a football star on the field, commanding attention and cheers.

Every day at school, we would have playtime, and I always tried to organize football games with my friends. We would sprint around the playground, shouting and laughing, practicing our skills, and working together as a team. My parents would often find me outside, kicking a ball against the wall, perfecting my shots, and dreaming of the day I would play professionally. They encouraged my ambitions, and my dad would often join me, reminding me of the importance of practice and dedication.

Reflecting on those early years, I realize how formative they were in shaping my identity. The love and encouragement from my parents, along with the friendships I forged on the playground, laid the foundation for the person I would become. My name—Jake Matthew Williams—might seem just a label, but it carries within it the story of my family's journey and the dreams of a young boy who wanted to become a football star.

As I navigated those formative years, I began to understand that my identity was not merely a product of my name but a culmination of the stories, values, and experiences woven together by the love of my parents. They taught me to appreciate teamwork, the power of resilience, and the importance of pursuing my passions.

And so, the story of former Jake "Biju" Williams began—not just with a name but with a legacy of love, courage, and the thrill of chasing a dream that would guide me as I grew and explored the world around me. The football field was my canvas, and every kick of the ball was a step closer to my dream of becoming a star.