Unfinished

by Priyanka Chopra Jonas

  Once I’d said yes, we stayed up until eight-thirty in the morning FaceTiming our families and friends. Then the wedding planning essentially began. At first, we thought about getting married the following year, sometime in 2019, but in August when Nick was visiting India again, he said he didn’t want to wait. Neither did I. We knew we were ready, and our families knew we were ready. Why wait? we thought. Let’s just do it.

  When you know, you know. And so we did.

  Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.

  For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

  And stand together yet not too near together:

  For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

  And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

  KAHLIL GIBRAN, THE PROPHET

  FOUR WEEKS LATER, Nick and I were in India for our roka ceremony, the formal North Indian ritual that marks both families’ approval of the union and recognizes the beginning of a new relationship for not just the couple but the families as well. Nick’s parents, Denise and Kevin Sr., were there with us, as well as a group of about thirty of my family and closest friends. Four pandits, or priests knowledgeable in Vedic scripture, chanted for our peaceful union on a sun-drenched afternoon at my home in Mumbai. When it was our turn to chant, we repeated the Sanskrit prayers phrase by phrase after them. Maybe because he’s so musical, Nick was able to pull off the tricky pronunciations and intonations, sometimes even better than I was. My friends and family were so impressed with their “National Jiju”; shortly after we made our engagement public, the affectionate nickname had been given to Nick by print and social media in my country, and now it seemed that we were hearing and seeing the term—Jiju translates as “sister’s husband” or “brother-in-law”—everywhere.

  The roka is the first of the pre-wedding rituals in Hindu tradition, so naturally we had been looking forward to it. What I couldn’t have imagined was how meaningful it would be to me. At this ritual, which is all about the joining of the families, I watched our two families start to braid themselves together. After the Sanskrit Vedas had been chanted, my mother asked Kevin Sr., a former pastor, to lead us in prayer. He and Nick and Denise—who wore her sari as if she had been born to it—had just participated in a ritual full of meaning for us, and now my family and friends had the chance to participate in a ritual full of meaning for them. It was the first step in creating one family out of what had been two.

  Nick and I had started thinking about the kind of wedding we wanted to have almost as soon as we decided to get married. As an actress, I’d played a bride many times, and just like in real life, playing a bride in the movies is a big production; it would take at least four hours in hair and makeup alone to get me ready to shoot. After I’d played my thirty-fifth bride or so, I was just so over it. I decided that whenever I actually got married, I wanted to be able to be dressed and ready in an hour. It would be quick. It would be simple. No big deal.

  Ha!

  As it turned out, our wedding was a huge, insanely joyous celebration, and the planning for the whole thing took place in just two months. Because we were having two weddings—both Hindu and Christian ceremonies—and because there are many Hindu pre-wedding ceremonies, our events would be spread out over three days. That feels really long to most Westerners, whose weddings usually last a few hours, but it’s pretty normal when it comes to the Indian scenario; our weddings routinely last a few days, even without the Christian service added to the proceedings. To make things even more interesting, many Hindu weddings are at night because of the recommendations of astrologers, who must be consulted to determine an auspicious time for the ceremony. After comparing Nick’s and my birth charts, it was determined that on December 2, 2018, the date of our Indian ceremony, our auspicious time would be 10:30 p.m.

  When Nick and I were initially contemplating where to get married, I’d thought about somewhere that wasn’t America or India, somewhere that would be completely private with just family and very close friends. But one night during one of Nick’s many trips to India in August and September—there were at least six of them—we were talking with Tamanna and Sudeep, who were practically giddy with excitement about my new relationship status and the new configuration of our get-togethers. “At last we’ve upgraded from a three-wheeler to four-wheel drive!” Sudeep crowed. When they described to Nick their own wedding a few years earlier in Rajasthan, Nick said, “Why don’t we do it in India? Don’t you think I should take my bride from her home with all of her family and friends surrounding her?” Nick had learned what a big deal it is in India for the groom to travel to the bride and take her from her home in order to start their new life together, and his desire to honor that tradition made my heart melt all over again. We decided if it was logistically possible, India it would be.

  I told Nick about the Taj Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodhpur, where I’d shot a commercial for Lux soap in 2009. I’d been enchanted by the sweeping grandeur of the royal residence, by the elegant grounds and the regal interior. Nick said we should find out right then if it was available. This was at 11 p.m. We called our travel agent, Aparna, and she called the Taj the next morning, and unbelievably they had total availability for our exact dates. For two hundred people. Right from the start, it felt like the universe conspired to make the many moving parts of our wedding fall into place.

  Nick and I always understood that this wedding would be a cultural and religious education for both of our families: the Western wedding would be an education for the Indian side, and the Indian wedding would be an education for the Western side. That’s why we prepared funny, informative booklets for all our guests: Indian Weddings for Dummies and Western Weddings for Dummies. That way everyone would be prepared for each of the rituals and ceremonies as they happened, and we could explain which elements were traditional and which were our own personal variations. We also set up a bazaar in the hotel that featured clothing and jewelry created by local designers I’d worked with or knew of; I knew that family and friends coming from the States might want to partake in their offerings. All of the most important people in our lives were going to be there with us, and we wanted to create a cross-cultural event they’d both understand and never forget.

  The morning of November 30 dawned bright and clear in Jodhpur, as do most mornings at that time of year. We’d had a welcome dinner for all of the guests the night before, and this was the day of the first of the pre-ceremonies since the roka: the mehendi, the henna ceremony, and the musical sangeet celebration. I was so excited to introduce Nick’s family and all our Western friends to these functions, as we Indians refer to them, that I may have literally danced my way to the shower that morning. It was in the palatial bathroom that my dance moves came to an abrupt end as I stepped down hard on a sharp two-inch piece of wood sticking up out of the beautiful old plank floor. This was no splinter or sliver; it was a small spike that drove straight into my heel and more or less buried itself there. Alone in the giant bathroom and unable to make it to the door, I sank to the floor and squeezed my foot to stop the bleeding, then shouted to my longtime assistant, Chanchal Dsouza, who I knew was just outside in the next room. When she entered the bathroom and saw me sitting in a puddle of blood, she shrieked. I told her to get Nick, who was in the shower in his own bathroom. He arrived moments later, and it would have been a comic scene if it hadn’t been so painful: Chanchal screaming, Nick in a T-shirt with a towel wrapped around his waist, a hulking member of our security team who’d heard all the commotion and was checking to make sure we were safe, and me on the floor with blood seeping out of my foot.

  A doctor was on the way, but I was impatient to start getting dressed for this day I’d been looking forward to so much. So Nick quickly pulled on shorts and held my foot steady while I doused it in the only antiseptic I could think of—perfume (alcohol)—and then pulled the bloody spear out with a pair
of tweezers. After years of enduring blistered feet through never-ending dance rehearsals and earning scars in complicated stunt sequences, I had developed a high threshold for pain, thank goodness, and I was pretty stoic about the whole thing. That’s probably why when the slightly messy medical intervention was complete, Nick deadpanned, “This is my future wife. I’m scared.” By making a joke about how tough I was and what that boded for him, he defused the tension, made us all laugh, and reminded me that all would be well because (a) I am tough, and (b) I was marrying the man of my dreams.

  A few hours later I limped to the mehendi, where I had henna applied to my hands and legs in beautiful, intricate designs, and so did the women in my family and any other female guests who wanted to adorn themselves in this distinctive traditional way. And that night I danced at my sangeet wearing heels, because nothing—not even a wooden spike in my foot—was going to stop this from being the best damn party of my life.

  The sangeet—which translates as “song” or “music”—is basically like the rehearsal dinner the night before Western weddings combined with music and dance performances by the families of the bride and the groom. Because we are who we are—the Chopras and the Jonases—our sangeet looked like Coachella, complete with a stage, lighting, costumes, and sound system. There’s a certain element of competition in any sangeet; each family wants to outdo the other. Nick and I had boosted the level of competition by offering a champions’ trophy at the end for the winning family, so for an hour and ten minutes we had a fully rehearsed extravaganza of a show. My family went first, and then Nick’s. We had the home court advantage, naturally, since everyone on my side knew what a sangeet looked like and had participated in one or more before. My clan, with the help of Ganesh Hegde and his team, with whom I had done multiple stage shows, came up with a script that was hilarious and musical numbers that had everyone laughing, stomping their feet, and clapping. My mom and I even showed off some of our dance moves together. It was just like a big Bollywood movie.

  But it was Nick’s friends and family who blew me away. Unbeknownst to me, they’d hired an Indian choreographer and had rehearsed synchronized dance routines complete with Bollywood moves long-distance by video (since some of them live far apart) back in the States long before arriving in India. They pulled it off gloriously. Most of the groom’s side was onstage and had a part to play. My heart was so full to see Nick’s loved ones go all in for him, wanting to do him proud and to demonstrate to their Indian counterparts their appreciation for our tradition. Their commitment to it amped up the joy for me of an occasion I’d thought was already at a 10. We both conceded defeat. The trophy was shared.

  All this, and we hadn’t even had the weddings yet! The first would be the Christian service the next afternoon. It was to be officiated by Kevin Sr., which lent an air of intimacy to our joyous extravaganza. We had decided to have the Christian wedding first because it’s simpler than an Indian wedding and we thought it would be a good idea to pace ourselves.

  After the sangeet and the post-sangeet partying came to an end, Nick and I headed to our rooms with our groomsmen and bridesmaids, respectively. We’d decided to spend our final night as single people surrounded by our closest friends but apart from each other. When I opened the heavy door, Nick managed to take my breath away without even being there. Lit candles flickered throughout the darkened room and roses were strewn everywhere. And then I noticed the gifts that my husband-to-be had left to surprise me, and the notes giving voice to his respect, faithfulness, and love. My bridesmaids and I were speechless. But while I couldn’t use my voice to form words, I was somehow able to formulate them in my head. I really must have done something right, I remember thinking. How else was it possible that I had found someone who appreciated me and loved me so dearly? And who knew me so well. Who knew exactly what I needed to be reminded of the night before our wedding.

  * * *

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I was standing in a ground-floor room of the palace, waiting to take the long walk across the lawn and out to Nick at the altar. It was a gorgeous, sunny day, and Nick was flanked by his groomsmen, including his brothers and his closest friends; Kevin Sr. was standing behind the altar ready to conduct the service. I was wearing Ralph Lauren again. It was only the fourth wedding dress Ralph had ever made and the first for someone outside his family. The dress had not only been designed for me but further personalized: into the scads of the gown’s hand-embroidered lace had been stitched names and words that were meaningful to me and to us:

  Nicholas Jerry Jonas Love 1st December 2018 Compassion Family Hope

  Madhu and Ashok Om Namah Shivay

  Ralph Lauren and his atelier, initially with their role in bringing Nick and me together at my first Met Gala, and later with this exquisite gown, will always be a part of our love story.

  To complement the gown, I wore a seventy-five-foot veil that had to be stitched into my hair by Priyanka Borkar so that it wouldn’t be dragged off by its own weight. The very long veil—almost exactly the length of a tennis court—was the brainstorm of Andrea Ciaraldi, the creative director of the Ralph Lauren Women’s Collection. Because it was such a lengthy walk from the palace to where Nick would be waiting for me at the altar, Andrea thought the dramatic visual impact would serve us well while I covered the vast distance. And if I was going to have an extremely long veil, I wanted it to be the longest in the world. As fate would have it, I lost that competition; just three months earlier a bride in Cyprus wore a veil that was 22,843.9 feet long, the length of sixty-three and a half football fields! But seventy-five feet was plenty long for me. Thank goodness the twenty-five-foot trench-coat dress train had given me practice. (It had given Nick practice, too, and we staged some funny wedding pictures that referred back to the 2017 Gala of the Infinite Train.) And now I will always have a special place in my heart for gowns with dramatic swaths of material trailing behind.

  As a final special touch, Aydin Ahmed, my nephew and the ring bearer, would be carrying the ring on a pillow that incorporated the lace of Denise’s wedding veil. And the next day, at my Indian ceremony, my lehenga would include a portion of the border of my mother’s beautiful wedding sari stitched inside. I wanted both of my mothers close to me as Nick and I made our promises to each other—the mother who had traveled with me in my train compartment since birth and the mother who had just, to my delight and gratitude, so gracefully stepped into it.

  With Yumi Mori putting final touches on my makeup and Priyanka finally getting my veil secure, the bridesmaids started their own lengthy processional. And as I waited for the moment when I, too, would step out of the door, a wave of anxiety washed over me. Behind the curtain that separated me from the grounds of the palace and everyone I loved in this world, I closed my eyes and took a moment to talk to the one person I knew could calm me. “I wish you were here, Dad,” I said. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.” And then the curtain opened and I saw Nick’s face. I saw his eyes. My doubts lifted and I knew, absolutely, that in walking toward Nick I was walking toward the man I wanted to create my future with.

  Mom met me as I approached the altar and she walked me down the aisle, even though when we’d first discussed it she’d said she couldn’t. “I’m a woman. I’m not allowed,” she’d said. Not allowed? My strong, independent mother? “It’s 2018,” I’d replied. “Whatever we want is allowed at our wedding.”

  The afternoon was perfect. And yet, I couldn’t help missing Dad’s presence. He would have been in his element that afternoon. Actually, he would have been in his element for the entire three-day celebration. He would have sat and jammed with Nick and been the life of the party, the consummate host. It was one of his life’s dreams to see me happy like that, to see me with someone who understood, respected, and treasured me, someone who grounded me and made me laugh. The fact that Nick was a musician would have been the icing on the wedding cake. I can imagine Dad taking his new son-in-law by th
e shoulders and saying, “All right, come on, let’s sing a song!” and Nick, being his own understated self, nodding and smiling a little smile and just going with it. I would have loved to have seen that.

  We had decided on a mother-daughter dance at the reception following the service instead of the traditional father-daughter dance of Western weddings, and Nick suggested the soulful ballad “Unforgettable” in honor of my father. A beautiful idea, Mom and I agreed. When it came time for the dance, we took the floor and the first expressive strains of the music came up. Dad’s absence, which we had felt all day, became acutely visceral in a way we could never have been prepared for. All we could do was hold tight to each other and cry our way through it.

  And yet, I had no doubt that my father was there. There had been a number of minor miracles throughout the planning of the wedding, including the Taj Umaid Bhawan Palace’s availability for such a large party on such short notice, for starters, and the fact that almost every one of our closest friends and family was available to attend—a miracle if there ever was one, considering the schedules of so many people and the distances that needed to be traveled—and I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Dad had had a hand in helping us pull everything off. So he was there watching over me and us, of that I was certain. I just wish he had been there there.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, December 2, was our shaadi—our Indian wedding. Most Indian weddings have little games intertwined with a lot of the rituals. The idea, as I understand it, is to keep the bride and groom apart for as long as possible so that he really has to work hard to get her. The first ritual of the day was the haldi ceremony, in which the bride and the groom get covered with turmeric paste by the family. The purpose of the ceremony is to cleanse and purify the body, mind, and soul of the bride and groom to prepare them for their next phase of life. The women are the ones to apply the haldi paste, so imagine the fun they had when it came time to put it on Nick’s face and chest. There may have been the ripping off of a shirt involved.