That night I slept clutching my new crown. It was pretty, it was shiny, and it was mine.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, moments before my first press conference as Miss World, I was told in a very matter-of-fact way, “Priyanka, there’s something we need to discuss. Last night the question you were asked was who you thought was the most successful woman living today. You answered Mother Teresa. Since Mother Teresa died in 1997, the issue of how you’ve won in spite of your answer will come up. You’re articulate, you deserve to be Miss World, but it will come up. You’re just going to have to acknowledge it and move on. Whatever happens out there, don’t let it shake you. Go.”
No one actually said Go and pushed me onstage, but that’s how it felt. Miss Scotland, Michelle Watson, was hosting the press conference, but I barely heard a word she said because my mind was working overtime processing this new information, trying to think of a way to explain to the press how I could possibly have misheard the question. When it was my turn to speak, I stared at the reporters for a few moments, registering the staccato clicks of all their cameras before my survival instinct kicked in. Then kick in it did. I remember saying how grateful I was to have been chosen for this honor and how wonderful it was that we live in a world where mistakes can be forgiven. And then I added that most important of all was how Mother Teresa still lived on in my heart, so I hoped they’d accept my answer. There was some subsequent public criticism about my having answered the question incorrectly, but I tried not to pay attention to it. In any case, I didn’t have much time to worry about negative remarks in the news, because I was immediately whisked away for a quick European tour.
A week or so later, my parents got a surprise call in Boston from someone on the Miss India team who wanted to tell them where to be the next day for my homecoming. What?
In India at that time it was the norm for the winner of an international pageant to be celebrated with a homecoming tour upon her return to her native soil. It was both an opportunity to honor the winner and a chance to express national pride and joy in the country’s victory. The tour was invariably an exuberant affair, accompanied by a lot of press and fanfare. Nobody had imagined that my parents weren’t going to be in the country.
“What? You’re in America?” the Miss India staffer said.
“What? We need to come back to India?” my parents responded.
“Well, it’s always better to have the support of your family on these occasions,” the staffer said. “If possible.”
Mom and Dad threw their clothes into their suitcases and raced to the airport.
But first they’d had to figure out what to do about Sid. The return trip to India would likely take almost twenty hours, and then they’d be traveling with me and the Miss World entourage for the next ten days or so. It seemed unfair to put eleven-year-old Sid through all of that, and so the decision was made to leave him in Vimal Mamu and Vimla Mami’s care temporarily. “I’ll come back for you soon, Sid,” my mother told him. “As soon as I can.”
Mom and Dad squeezed onto a flight to London, but then they were stuck. Absolutely no seats were available to New Delhi, so there was no possibility of meeting me in time—until a British Airways agent from Pakistan named Shahid Malik heard them speaking Punjabi, understood their predicament, and deftly arranged for two fellow airline employees on an immediately departing plane to exchange their seats for spots on another flight. Then he not only bumped Mom and Dad up to first class but had it announced that the parents of the new Miss World were on board, helping them to temporarily forget the arduousness of their sudden journey. I’d say it was a miracle, but in fact it was a very human gesture on the part of the compassionate Mr. Malik. I hope for the day when acts of simple kindness and shared humanity are as freely offered between our countries as they were offered that day by Mr. Malik and the two gentlemen who gave up their seats for my parents.
I was flying back from Europe at the same time my parents were in the air. My first time flying first class. Before we touched down in Delhi, I asked if we might make a stop on the way to the hotel so that I could visit the Mangal Mahadev Birla Kanan Temple in Shivaji Marg, Rangpuri. The temple itself is a simple one, but outside it stands a magnificent one-hundred-foot-tall statue of Lord Shiva; other grand deities stand and sit nearby. I wanted to take blessings in this temple before my India journey got under way, to express my immense gratitude for winning the pageant and for all the people who had helped me along the way—especially my parents, without whose constant encouragement in all my unusual endeavors since childhood this would not be happening. Mrs. Morley and the whole Miss World contingent accompanied me and we all took blessings. Then we got back into the cars and continued on to our hotel in the heart of India’s capital. As we pulled up, I saw my name on a massive billboard-sized sign: the maurya sheraton welcomes miss world 2000, priyanka chopra. It took my breath away. My ambitions and goals changed and crystalized in that moment, and I remember thinking, I want that. I want my name to be in big letters whenever it’s written. Twenty years later, I can look back and say to my younger self: “You did it. With a couple of decades of constant perseverance, you made your dreams come true.”
My exhausted parents were waiting for me in my hotel room when I arrived, and in classic Punjabi fashion, so were at least twenty members of my extended family.
Next stop: my hometown of Bareilly. I was so proud to be going back home to share this moment with all of my friends. But there was a complication. Before I ever entered any pageant, there was a member of the state government in Uttar Pradesh who had criticized beauty pageants for participating in nari shoshan, or the exploitation of women; pageants went against the culture of the country, the minister said. Now, there were those in the state government who were opposed to having any kind of homecoming celebration for me in Bareilly, as being crowned Miss World made me a representative of the pageant system. It took The Times of India to negotiate an agreement. Rather than my hometown throwing me a day or two of massive celebratory events, I would be allowed to return to Bareilly for just a few hours to hold a press conference and visit an orphanage.
My parents and I, along with Mrs. Morley, a couple of people from the Miss India team, and security personnel, flew home in an eight-seater and proceeded to the Bareilly Club, the comfortingly familiar spot where I’d roamed the grounds with my middle school friends, hung out with my high school crew, and been winner of the May Queen Ball. All along the route, the road was lined with people smiling and waving at me. They clogged the sidewalk and they perched in trees. It was totally and utterly mind-blowing—these were the streets where I used to ride my bike with friends and travel in a rickshaw to tutoring. I suspect that part of the reason there was such a massive outpouring of support for me in the streets is because I was here for such a disappointingly quick visit; we weren’t even spending the night. I wasn’t going to be able to hug my friends or visit my old haunts or celebrate with those who’d known me since childhood.
I was sad about that, but the reality of my new world was kicking in. I was coming to understand that my life was not my own anymore. I had public responsibilities to live up to, and for the next year they would have to come first. I would need to be where I was told when I was told, fresh, alert, and ready to be in the limelight. Seeing the people of my hometown crowding into the streets to show me their love and support sent surges of adrenaline rushing through my system, and the excitement of it all appeased my sadness about the brevity of my visit to some extent. Looking back on it, though, I can see that in some ways I was operating on autopilot, as it was all so new and unlike anything I had ever experienced.
Once we left Uttar Pradesh, things didn’t get any easier, in spite of the national government standing up for me. Rumors began to circulate about my family. My parents became increasingly concerned about bringing Sid back to Bareilly in this strange, unpredictable environment—too much
harsh scrutiny, too much cruel gossip, and some threats that they had no idea how to evaluate—and so they made an emotionally wrenching decision. They asked Vimal Mamu, and ultimately Kiran Masi, too, to watch over Sid in America for an undetermined period of time until they figured out how to navigate this new reality. It would be more than a year and a half before they brought him back.
Being left in America was a blow to my brother. Unlike me at his age, he had never been separated from our parents. I’d lived with Nana and Nani as a baby and toddler. I’d gone off to boarding school at age seven. Also, I was a different person, much more extroverted than Sid. He was eleven when he was left in America with no say in the matter; I was just shy of thirteen, and it had been my choice. Our aunts and uncles were loving and generous, as always, but understandably, Sid felt abandoned by my parents and resentful of me. Which was a complete reversal of our earlier life, when I was sent away after his birth and had felt abandoned and resentful. The decision was hard for him to make peace with, because he never really understood why he couldn’t just be with us in India. I may not say it enough, but I’m so grateful to Sid for his kindness and support all these years. As an eighteen-year-old, I simply didn’t understand until much later the degree to which my life’s sudden change of direction had affected him.
* * *
THINGS EVENTUALLY SETTLED down a bit, if you can call traveling around the world meeting heads of state and attending constant photo shoots, press events, and fundraisers “settling down.” Then, early in the summer of 2001, a lingering head cold developed into what I thought was a very bad sinus infection, and I was having trouble breathing. This is a problem someone with asthma can’t ignore. I was in London for work when this happened, so Mom and I went to see a doctor who’d been recommended by family friends. He discovered a polyp in my nasal cavity that would need to be surgically removed. Fortunately, a polypectomy sounded like a pretty routine procedure. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. While shaving off the polyp, the doctor also accidentally shaved the bridge of my nose and the bridge collapsed. When it was time to remove the bandages and the condition of my nose was revealed, Mom and I were horrified. My original nose was gone. My face looked completely different. I wasn’t me anymore.
I felt devastated and hopeless. Every time I looked in the mirror, a stranger looked back at me, and I didn’t think my sense of self or my self-esteem would ever recover from the blow. The experience was very emotional for my whole family—my parents were doctors, after all; how could this have happened?—and to make matters worse, the experience was a public affair.
Plastic Chopra. Let’s just call it out right now. Immediately the name started to show up in articles and newspaper items and it has followed me my entire professional life. I was dared to give an explanation for the obviously different nose, but I chose a course then that I’ve followed in all the years since. I decided that there was a line I was going to draw in my life. I am an entertainer. That’s what I’ve signed on to do, and that’s what I love doing. I will say my lines, dance my dance, hit my mark. I’ll do my best to make you laugh, and I’ll do my best to make you cry, but just because I’m a public person doesn’t mean everything about my life has to be public knowledge. I get to choose what I share and when I share it.
I’m talking about this now because it was a long time ago and we’re all over it at this point—we are all over it, right? Following the polypectomy I had several corrective surgeries, and over time, my nose normalized. While it took a few years of seeing a stranger gazing back at me every time I looked in the mirror, I’ve gotten accustomed to this face. Now when I look in the mirror, I am no longer surprised; I’ve made peace with this slightly different me. On the other side of thirty-five, with somewhere around sixty-five movies and a two-decades-long career in India and the U.S.—and with high-definition television, no less!—I’m just like everyone else: I look at myself in the mirror and think maybe I can lose a little weight; I think maybe I can work out a little more. But I’m also content. This is my face. This is my body. I might be flawed, but I am me.
* * *
IN THE WEEKS before the 2000 Miss World pageant, I remember feeling that being from India was my superpower, a quality that would distinguish me anywhere I was, in anything I did. That superpower fortified me throughout my roller coaster of a year, and though my official Miss World duties ended when I placed the crown on the head of Miss Nigeria, Agbani Darego, in November of 2001, that feeling, that awareness of India as my strength, has stayed with me. Representing my country and culture gave me confidence on an international stage and it would continue to give me confidence as I broke into an industry that can be brutal on those who haven’t had their mettle tested in the glare of public scrutiny—the entertainment industry.
Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water,
sings the pebbles into perfection.
RABINDRANATH TAGORE
EARLY IN MY Miss World tenure, I attended Jai Hind College in Mumbai. I’d assumed there’d be time to attend classes between my various official Miss World duties—I think my mother’s question “What will happen to your studies now?” had lodged in my brain somewhere—but offers for movies started coming in almost immediately. A few had come in after I won Miss India World, but now that I was Miss World, there were a lot more. I soon realized that if I was going to do either academics or entertainment well, a choice would have to be made.
One night my parents and I had a conversation about the dilemma. “Maybe you can look at this as an opportunity rather than a choice, Mimi,” my father suggested. “Try the acting for a year and a half,” he said. “That’s the opportunity. If you’re terrible at it or you hate it, you can always go back to school.” Then he added, “I don’t want you to ever have a what-if in your life.” I decided he was right: I didn’t want any what-ifs in my life, either.
It might seem like a crazy career trajectory—going from winning pageants and having zero professional acting experience to being offered film roles—but at that time, when you won a major pageant you became very famous very quickly in India. Saying you had signed a Miss India for a movie, or better yet a Miss World, seemed to appeal to lots of producers.
The Miss India organization handled any requests that came in after I was crowned Miss India, and then, when I became Miss World, that organization handled them. After a time, my father helped out and managed my career for a while. He and Mom had switched places after the Miss World pageant. She had moved back to Bareilly to resume work in their hospital by then, and he was now living in Mumbai in order to help me navigate an industry I knew nothing about. I was so focused on what I needed to do to establish myself professionally that I didn’t see how the momentous changes in my own life were affecting everyone else in my family. It didn’t fully register that the previous year my mother had given up medicine—at least temporarily—to move to Mumbai with me. It didn’t fully register that both of my parents were now giving up the hospital they’d founded together, Kasturi Hospital—named after my father’s father—so that they could both live in Mumbai with me as I embarked on my new life. My brother had had to move to America and of course I understood that, but I didn’t spend much time considering how he might feel about the move, or what it might have been like for him.
I may not have thought about it much then, but I have been aware for many years of the things that my family gave up on my behalf. Once, when I expressed my gratitude to my mother, she said, “Your father and I always took your career seriously, Mimi. When we were considering closing the hospital and moving to Mumbai, he said to me, ‘We can practice medicine wherever we are. The building of our careers is behind us. She is building hers now. So we have to support her.’ Naturally,” Mom added, “I agreed.”
If my family hadn’t shown me through their actions that my dreams and ambitions were important and to be taken seriously, I might never have believed in them or taken them so seriousl
y myself. My gratitude to the guiding forces in my life knows no bounds.
Although I always consulted my parents before making big decisions, eventually I felt the need to hire professional management and representation, and during that time I started taking meetings with producers and directors. One of the first meetings was with a very famous director/producer who not long ago was caught up in a sexual harassment accusation in India, a man known as much for the giant movies he made as for his notorious philandering. I didn’t know that when I walked into his office with my then-manager, of course. At the time, his experience and all the awards hanging on his walls were what impressed me. Clearly he was a man who knew what he was doing, who knew how to make successful films, who knew what audiences liked. After a few minutes of small talk, the director/producer told me to stand up and twirl for him. I did. He stared at me long and hard, assessing me, and then suggested that I get a boob job, fix my jaw, and add a little more cushioning to my butt. If I wanted to be an actress, he said, I’d need to have my proportions “fixed,” and he knew a great doctor in L.A. he could send me to. My then-manager voiced his agreement with the assessment.
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