After seeing me off in the morning, Mom would sometimes be joined by the rest of my family. They’d spend the day sightseeing and shopping for things for the pageant—a certain shade of makeup or a particular item of clothing, perhaps. (That had to have been lots of fun for Sid.) Or Mom would frantically contact Vimla Mami back in Newton, Massachusetts, with requests for random but essential items. Mami would immediately send multiples of whatever my mother said I needed—little black dresses or strappy sandals—so that I could choose whatever fit and looked best.
A year earlier, prior to the Miss India competition, my mother had prepped me every night for the question-and-answer rounds I’d be facing in the pageant. Back then, she’d gone to the street market by the majestic Flora Fountain in the Fort business district in south Mumbai to look through the tons of books for sale on the sidewalk. She’d bought an assortment of general knowledge volumes and then combed through them to come up with her own questions. She’d also compiled a master list of Miss India questions from the past ten years. Then she’d quiz me using the lists and help me craft relevant, thoughtful, and articulate answers to political and societal questions. But now we had just sixty short minutes each evening to prepare in whatever way we could.
“I was thinking about…,” she might begin, or “Maybe you could say something like…” And then she’d build on whatever we’d talked about the prior night, or do her best to help me think through a new scenario she’d been mulling over in the twenty-four hours since I’d last talked to her. She knew that we were being introduced to the press and to the world at large through a variety of events around London—at dinners, fundraisers, sporting events, meet-and-greets—and she was certain that being well informed and well-spoken would make a defining difference.
All of us felt that we were being graded at every moment by the chaperones, who accompanied us everywhere. We were convinced that they were reporting back to the esteemed Julia Morley—businesswoman, former model, and chair of the Miss World Organization, which her husband had founded in 1951 and had run until his death earlier that year. Mrs. Morley, as we were instructed to call her, was perfect: her manners were perfect, her voice was perfect, and she walked with such effortless grace that she seemed to float an inch above the ground. We all desperately wanted to be like her. The Miss World 2000 pageant was the first one that she was running on her own, and every time she spoke to us I was awestruck and intimidated. I’m pretty sure we all were. When she or any of the chaperones were anywhere near, we wouldn’t gossip, complain, slouch, talk with our mouths full, or do anything else that wasn’t 100 percent Mrs. Morley–worthy.
By now I had access to the most stylish clothes, but that doesn’t mean I always put all my wardrobe components together in the most artful way. I may have occasionally over-accessorized with the bangles and the dangly earrings, or sported too many sparkly items, or worn more makeup than necessary. I hadn’t yet learned what I know now: Less Is More. But I was able to speak and carry myself with confidence—or, in those moments where my confidence failed me, with a conviction that seemed like confidence. I was not the same person that I’d been when I’d participated in the Miss India pageant eleven months earlier. Then, I didn’t have a lot of tools in my toolbox—or brushes in my makeup kit. I hadn’t really understood what would be required of me; I was just a high school girl busy with high school things who, with plenty of determination and family help, pulled out a miraculous win. Once I’d garnered the Miss India World crown, I’d had to learn fast and under pressure. My toolbox was as full as it was ever going to get, and that knowledge gave me a sense of self-assurance. I knew what was required of me, and I knew, theoretically at least, that I should be able to do well.
When asked by the press at a dinner or charity gala, “How does it feel representing India?” or “India’s had so many amazing winners; do you feel pressure to win your pageant?” I tried for two things in my answers: (1) to sound confident, and (2) to embody “beauty with a purpose,” the phrase used to distinguish the Miss World pageant from other international pageants. I didn’t go in as a favorite to win, but by the end of the month, I’d heard and read that I’d gained considerable momentum with the bookmakers in England, especially after the final week of interacting with the media and others at all our events. The ten months of preparation and growth had paid off. And yes, there is betting on the Miss World pageant in England and elsewhere!
In order to make myself stand out in the crowded international field, I had been encouraged by my Miss India team to represent my culture to the fullest. I took the counsel to heart when it came to dressing and accessorizing myself for the pageant—especially for one particular event before the ceremony. I was grateful for Mrs. Morley’s choice to not have an onstage swimwear round for Miss World that year; instead, prior to the actual pageant, all the contestants were flown to a resort in the Maldives where we shot videos on the beach that would be used in lieu of the live event. For me, who had so hated the swimsuit and heels part of the Miss India preliminaries, wearing a bathing suit in a natural environment on an actual beach rather than on a stage or in a hotel suite was a gift. This was something I could easily do without being self-conscious.
The international press was brought to the Maldives to cover our day in the sun and sand. We frolicked in the water, wearing our country sashes, as a huge group of photographers snapped photo after photo. Because I’d been advised by my various trainers to bring Indian culture and ethnicity to the fore, I decided to wear a bandhani sarong, and then added bangles and a bindi to the mix. In my sarong-covered one-piece, with my bangles and my bindi and a large flower tucked behind my ear, I thought I was both fashionable and true to my country. In retrospect, the outfit was overkill. But it worked: though I was being encouraged by the photographers to take off my sarong, I took a stand that I wouldn’t—and in spite of the fact that I was the most covered-up body out there, I still ended up being one of the most photographed contestants that day. I guess my culture had my back.
* * *
MISS WORLD 2000, the fiftieth Miss World pageant, was held on November 30, 2000. That morning, Ganga and I and our fellow contestants descended on London’s Millennium Dome to get dressed and coiffed and made up for the television cameras in an explosion of sound and motion and color. Imagine the scene: close to one hundred young women laughing and calling out to one another and practically bursting with nervous excitement. There must have been fifty glam stations throughout the massive ballroom that was our staging area, and with the voices of all the hair and makeup artists and their assistants and the coordinators, the cacophony was almost dizzying. I felt like I was part of a huge, chaotic ballet with an overactive sound system and an unruly corps de ballet. The energy in the room was contagious and building on itself by the minute.
After I’d made it through my own hair styling, I decided I could use a quick touch-up and asked to borrow a stylist’s curling iron. With all the congestion, I got jostled and accidentally burned my forehead with the hot metal. The skin scabbed, which meant I had to apply a ton of foundation to try to cover it up. That didn’t fully work, so I added another form of camouflage—and now I can finally explain why I had that crazy tendril of hair swirling down over my left eye!
Before I went onstage for the first round, I pulled out the picture of Haidakhan Baba that I had tucked into my dress. In times of stress, it reminds me of who I am and where I come from. I took a moment to ask Babaji for his help and to express my thanks for all of the ways in which I had been so incredibly blessed, and then I tucked the picture back into my dress.
As we went through the various rounds of competition that evening, the tension in the Millennium Dome was palpable. When I was chosen as one of the five finalists, I was both stunned and thrilled. This was the question-and-answer round, and, thanks to Mom and her endless research and quizzing, I believed it was my strongest event. Each of the five final contestants—Mis
s Italy, Miss Turkey, Miss Uruguay, Miss Kazakhstan, and I—were to write a question that would be randomly assigned to one of the other four to respond to. With little time to prepare the question, my mind went blank. Everything Mom and I had discussed went out the window. Finally, in desperation, I wrote down the only question I could think of and hoped for the best. Then I said a few prayers for the next round.
When the five of us were called onstage together, I was more nervous than I had ever been in my life. Between being one of the youngest girls there and my sudden hyperawareness of the number of people watching—two billion people in one hundred and fifty countries—my palms were sweaty and my breathing was erratic. I had just enough brain power left to remind myself to focus not on my feelings but on what I needed to do and not do: Take a moment to collect your thoughts. Breathe. Don’t say “um.” Don’t trip on your dress. You might think I would have found some reassurance by reminding myself that the bookies had me among the favorites to win, but I went in the opposite direction, taking pressure off myself by thinking about the two significant reasons why I was unlikely to win. First, the preceding year another Miss India, Yukta Mookhey, had won, so the chances that two Miss Indias would win consecutively were almost nonexistent. And second, Lara had won the Miss Universe 2000 pageant just six months earlier, in May, which seemed to make my odds even slimmer. How long could Indian women keep emerging victorious in these pageants? Wouldn’t the judges want to spread the glory to some other countries? The pressure was on—I was representing my country on a global stage—and the pressure was also off—I almost certainly wouldn’t win.
Miss Kazakhstan and Miss Italy were called to answer the questions that had been randomly picked for them, and then Miss Uruguay was called upon to answer the one I’d written: “If ignorance is bliss, then why do we seek knowledge?” When I heard it aloud, I realized what a tough question it was. The only reason I’d written it down was that it was a question I’d been asked during my Miss India pageant! I thought Miss Uruguay did a great job with it. Her response, given in English rather than her native Spanish, ended with the observation that “ignorance is the main cause of so many problems around the whole world.”
Finally it was my turn. I was the second-to-last person to be called upon, and my question had been written by Miss Turkey: “Who do you think is the most successful woman living today and why?”
After a few seconds of nervous laughter that I desperately hoped would buy me more time, I launched into an answer that was no doubt influenced by my experience in convent schools—convent schools run by the very organization the woman I named had founded. In retrospect, my choice was a bit cliché. As much as I admire and respect the woman whom I singled out, I could have come up with a more original response. Instead I said:
“There are a lot of people I admire, but one of the most admirable people is Mother Teresa. I admire her from the bottom of my heart for being so considerate, compassionate, and kind, giving up her life for people in India.”
(Spoiler alert: Mother Teresa had died in 1997.)
I don’t know exactly how much time elapsed between that final Q&A round and the announcement of the winner. I was backstage with the other four finalists getting touched up—another spritz of hairspray, another layer of lip gloss—and trying to stay calm. Finally, the moment to reveal the next Miss World had arrived. This had always been an honor reserved for Mr. Morley, and now, in his stead, the new director of the Miss World pageant stepped to the microphone. Mrs. Morley first announced Miss Turkey, Yuksel Ak, as the second runner-up, and then Miss Italy, Giorgia Palmas, as the first runner-up. Then there was that hush, that anticipatory moment when everyone was holding their breath before the new wearer of the Miss World crown was announced—and then, incredibly, my name was called. Of course I had dreamed about winning over the months that I’d been so diligently training, but I’d never actually believed it could happen. Thank goodness Margarita Kravtsova, Miss Kazakhstan, and Katja Thomsen Grien, Miss Uruguay, immediately reached out to hug me, because my knees were weak and that moment of physical contact and support steadied me. Somehow I made it to center stage, where the outgoing Miss World, my fellow countrywoman Yukta Mookhey, hugged and kissed me as she placed the crown on my head. I cried. I smiled. I did the wave.
I was in shock.
I took my slow, teary victory lap around the stage as the new Miss World. I searched the audience for my family but couldn’t see them in the blinding glare of the lights. In the footage I’ve seen of those minutes after being crowned, I look both ecstatic and dazed in equal measure. And it’s true, I was ecstatic and dazed—and I was also desperately trying to keep my strapless gown from sliding down my body! Earlier in the evening, the gown had been strategically taped to my skin to secure it in place, but as the evening wore on and I got more and more nervous, my perspiration caused the tape to loosen. I pressed my hands together in a namaste and kept them close to my body as much of the time as I could in an effort to hold my gown up, and I hoped for the best. I now do a namaste at almost every red carpet—and you know the origin story.
Then celebratory pandemonium broke out onstage—glittering confetti descended from the rafters, music played, and the ninety contestants who hadn’t made it to the final round now streamed onstage to dance, hug one another, and have their photographs taken. Those moments, like so many others that night, are almost a complete blur: I remember being surrounded by photographers and security, and I remember looking for my parents and Sid and finally finding them thanks to Diana Hayden, Miss World 1997, who—along with Lara and Sushmita Sen, Miss Universe 1994—had called to wish me good luck the night before. “Are you Priyanka’s family?” Diana had asked, when she’d seen them looking lost in the throngs of people trying to get onstage. Then she’d shepherded them through all of the reporters, photographers, and others congregating around me to deliver them to my side. I remember hugging them all and crying tears of joy with my dad. But if so much of that night is a blur to me now, what Mom said to me in that moment is crystal clear in my memory:
“What will happen to your studies now?”
Seriously? What will happen to your studies now?
To this day, I tease my mom about that. Here I had just won Miss World, the goal we had been working toward together for almost a year and that she had completely upended her life for, and she was worrying about whether I would ever take my board exams and finish school! Can we please talk about this tomorrow, Mom? She was still in shock, of course. We all were. Everything about our lives—every single thing—was just about to change in a huge, totally unforeseen way.
Shortly thereafter I was whisked away to the official coronation ceremony, which was a huge celebratory banquet with all the contestants and judges and sponsors. Trophies were awarded to the winners of the other competitions of the pageant—in an embarrassment of riches I received one for being chosen Miss World Continental Queen of Asia and Oceana—and I was crowned Miss World once more and presented with that title’s trophy in the form of a beautiful glass globe. I was so grateful to Pradeep Guha for his help and support and that of his Times of India team that when I returned to India, I gave him the shiny orb as a token of my appreciation. It’s still on his mantel with Sushmita Sen’s crown.
All the pageant contestants had been instructed to pack up the night before, and my bags had been moved for me from the very nice Hilton to the Presidential Suite at the luxurious Grosvenor House, in London’s upscale Mayfair district. A chaperone was assigned to stay with me in a room attached to mine. When I went to my new hotel, I was hoping to spend some time with my family, since I’d still only seen them for a few chaotic minutes onstage. It would be the last chance I’d have to see them before heading out on tour to appear in my new official capacity. For their part, Mom, Dad, and Sid were flying to Boston the next day to visit Vimal Mamu, Vimla Mami, Divya, and Rohan, arrangements made months earlier for all of us when
we’d assumed I wouldn’t win; it would be a trip to cheer me up and distract me, my parents thought, much like the stopover in Paris that Mom, Sid, and I had made when returning from Newton, Massachusetts, after my years in the States. None of us could have imagined that my ticket would go unused. When my family arrived at the Grosvenor House that night, eager to hug me and congratulate me and talk about everything that had happened, they were told by security that they couldn’t see me. “But I must see my daughter,” my mother insisted when Mrs. Morley was finally reached by telephone. “She’s leaving tomorrow and I haven’t even talked to her and I must see her.” Mrs. Morley gave the okay, and at last security let Mom, Dad, and Sid upstairs.
When they arrived at my suite, I was sitting on the huge bed wearing my crown and jabbering about my desperation to eat pizza. Since I wasn’t allowed to go out without an official chaperone, Dad brought a large pepperoni back to the room. We ate and talked about the craziness of the night and eventually the three of them left so I could get some sleep before my press conference the next morning. When my parents hugged me goodbye, they thought they were losing their daughter for the next year; they’d nearly been prohibited from seeing me that night and they had no idea when they’d see me again. When I hugged Sid goodbye, I didn’t realize it was to be our last hug for a very long time.
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