Unfinished

by Priyanka Chopra Jonas

  Eventually Principal Keller’s tough-love approach worked, because after those six months of Mom not visiting, the whole thing kind of turned around for me. I made friends, did well academically, and felt more and more at ease. I loved returning home during school breaks and showing off to people how independent I was. And I think that was exactly what my mom had wanted.

  Dad was posted out at the border in Leh, near China, during much of my time at La Martiniere. Mom chose to take early retirement from the military in order to stay back in Bareilly since my brother, having been born prematurely, was still too small and vulnerable for the high altitude of Leh. Now that I was more settled and adjusted, the principal allowed her to see me more often; unfortunately, it was too far away for my father to visit. Once I felt more settled, Mom’s trips had only positive effects. In the early days, seeing her reminded me of being pushed away, of feeling rejected and banished, but seeing her now reminded me of how far I’d come, how much I’d grown and changed. I loved showing her where I slept, my cubby, my classrooms. I loved introducing her to my friends and teachers. This was no longer just the place where she’d once left me. It was my place now, and I was proud to show her everything about it.

  By my second and third years at La Martiniere, in fourth and fifth grades, I started to thrive. I’d made some close friends, and as eight- and nine-year-olds we used to spend recesses running around on the large playground or sitting on the little merry-go-round and talking—the school gave us a delicious couple of hours of outdoor play every day. It was a gorgeous setting, with plenty of bright green grass, flowering shrubs, and ashoka, mango, and guava trees, in which monkeys loved to perch.

  One afternoon I was sitting on the merry-go-round talking with a friend when I noticed a monkey in one of the tall ashoka trees; usually the monkeys hung out in the shorter trees—they loved the guavas—but on that day the monkey overhead was watching us from the ashoka’s higher vantage point. For some reason this fellow was having trouble peeling a banana. I noticed and started laughing loudly, maybe even pointing at him. At which point the monkey made eye contact with me, scampered down the tree, slapped my face, and clambered back up. I sat too shocked for words while my friend laughed hysterically, as did everyone else on the playground who’d seen the comic bit. Meanwhile, the monkey ate his banana calmly, having succeeded in peeling it upon his return to the high branch.

  I take it as an indication of my feeling comfortable enough at school that I wasn’t totally humiliated by this scene. A little humiliated, yes. But even then I could see the humor in the situation once my cheek stopped smarting. I mean really—having a monkey call me out for my poor manners in making fun of him? As much as I hated to, I had to admit that it was funny—and that I deserved it.

  During fourth and fifth grades, I was finding things that I enjoyed and had some aptitude for. I was encouraged to get involved in public speaking, debates, and swimming. Most Indian schools focus largely on academics, but La Martiniere had an arts focus as well, which suited me perfectly. I remember very clearly the first time I was asked by a teacher to come up in front of the class and sing for everyone. I danced for family and other people at any opportunity, but I’d never really sung for anyone other than my family or the very encouraging audiences at my parents’ dinner parties. When I finished my song—“My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music—the entire class got to their feet and clapped vigorously. And I loved it. I loved the warm, happy feeling that their applause gave me. I loved being in a spotlight of any sort, whether it was for singing, dancing, acting, public speaking, or sports.

  La Martiniere provided a liberal education and all religions were welcome there. It was a perfect school for me because it aligned with the family values of peace, harmony, and secularism that I had been raised with. My mother’s mother was a Catholic before she married my grandfather. My aunt Sophia converted to Islam after marriage. My father sang in temples, mosques, Sikh gurdwaras, and churches. It was no surprise, then, that when my parents discovered the teachings of Haidakhan Baba in the 1980s, his wisdom resonated with them. Babaji stressed respect for all religions, saying that although he followed Hindu customs, following any religion would ultimately help you reach God. My parents had long wanted a second child, and after encountering Babaji’s teachings on a chance visit to his ashram, their years of difficulty finally ended and Sid came into this world. Since I can remember, Babaji has been a part of my life and the face of my faith. Part of that faith is knowing that every individual on this planet who believes in a faith has their own face for it.

  This acceptance of everybody is exactly what I saw at La Martiniere. We celebrated one another’s faiths and holidays—Diwali, Eid, Gurpurab, and Christmas were all recognized—and we always got them off. We’d usually have celebrations the day before, giving one another gifts where appropriate. Religion wasn’t used to define anyone; it was just another part of who we were. And no religion was considered more important or less important. We didn’t need to be instructed to have mutual respect for all; it was the air we breathed.

  My years in boarding school ended up helping me to be both adaptable and fiercely independent, so I look at them as a gift, a priority item in the tuck box of my life. Being on my own at such a young age taught me how to find my own solutions. If I needed something, I’d figure out a way to get it somehow rather than waiting around for someone else to get it for me. I’m still that way, absolutely. I developed a skill set that’s served me well in my career and my life so far.

  But I know that being sent away at such a young age affected me in other ways, too. I learned to compartmentalize difficult moments and events in my life—to focus on the next amazing thing I wanted to do and move on without always fully processing whatever had just happened to me. Keeping the sections of my tuck box neatly organized and separated, and moving forward, always moving forward, without looking back. My version of being like water.

  * * *

  GIVEN THAT I was so happy at La Martiniere, I might have stayed on there through middle school and high school. But the summer before sixth grade I contracted typhoid fever when I was home in Bareilly. I was treated there and returned to school in Lucknow as planned but had attended classes for only a few weeks when I had a relapse, which was severe; I ended up staying in the hospital for two weeks. I had gotten sick frequently during my years away at school (actually sick, as opposed to looking-for-attention-from-the-nice-nurse-in-the-infirmary sick), and this final, dangerous illness convinced my parents that it was time to bring me home. Dad had been transferred back to Bareilly and so our family lived together for the first time in years on Barrack Road, Bareilly Cantt. (Cantonment). This airy double-storied house—we were on the first floor, another family lived upstairs—was located in a neighborhood where all the officers and their families lived, one that offered multiple activities for a curious preteen. I rode bikes, played badminton, and built castles in the sand traps of the neighborhood golf course with other officers’ kids. As much as I’d eventually liked boarding school, I was happy to be back with Mom, Dad, and even Sid, who was now a rambunctious three-year-old. The independence I’d discovered in boarding school allowed me to continue my nascent steps into a broadening social world even as I was safe in the arms of my family.

  At La Martiniere, the teachers had been serious about our academics, comportment, and presentation, but they also knew how to laugh. Though the faculty and students of my new school were of all religions, the school itself was run by nuns. I’m not saying that all nuns are humorless, but this group certainly was. At St. Maria Goretti Inter College we learned that girls should be soft-spoken and boys shouldn’t cry. We studied a subject called Moral Science and learned about the seven deadly sins; not a lot of room for humor there. Even at the age of ten, I couldn’t help but have a bit of skepticism about classes like that.

  Those years we wore blue tunics with white shirts, black shoes, and white
socks. The ritual of ironing my clothes and shining my shoes had been drilled into me at La Martiniere, and now it was actually fun because as I attended to my uniform, Dad attended to his, too. It was a thing we did together.

  As careful as I was to follow the rules regarding my uniform, however, there were plenty of other rules I wasn’t so careful about. I quickly became the girl who always got sent to the principal’s office for being too loud and for passing notes—there was so much to say to my best friend and unfortunately I just happened to feel the most communicative during class, especially when the teacher was speaking. I was at an age when I felt clever enough to get away with anything, the way all kids do—I’d been clever enough to survive boarding school, hadn’t I? But of course I was destined to be caught more often than not. Upon being sent to the principal, I would be made to stand outside her office on one leg in an effort to cure me of my predilection for back talk. I didn’t understand why talking or being spirited was considered to be so awful—the principal regularly told me that I was the naughtiest one in the class—or how standing on one leg was going to change anything, but the more I was told how naughty I was, the more I rebelled. I have often thought that the behavior that got me into trouble regularly then, all that boundary pushing, eventually helped me in my career, as boundary pushing is an advantage rather than a problem in most creative fields.

  Despite the school’s attempts to control my behavior, I was still able to find ways to assert my independence. This was the first time I traveled from home to school alone. Before boarding school, my parents had driven me to and from school every day. Now I took a rickshaw with six other kids, which made me feel grown up. In seventh grade, I got my first scooter and traveled back and forth that way. And I got my own dog, Brutus, a greyhound, when I was twelve, and was responsible for walking and feeding him. One afternoon I thought he might prefer a good run to a boring old walk, so I tied him to my bicycle and started to pedal; I found out the hard way that he was a lot faster than I was. (Note to self: Never tie a greyhound to your bicycle.)

  My attitude in those preteen years can be pretty much summed up as Nothing’s gonna kill my vibe. Not the principal making me stand outside her office on one leg; not the ridiculously awkward, gawky age; not all the bad hairstyles I sported. Ridhima, Saloni, Neelakshi, and I were a posse, a crew, gravitating to one another as we were the ones always getting sent to the principal’s office. (Except Ridhima, who was the “good girl” in the group. She and I really clicked anyway and we’re still friends today.) Most afternoons we would hang out at the Bareilly Club, a private club with both military and civilian members—the equivalent, more or less, of a country club in the U.S.—where we mostly just sat around and talked.

  It was during my second year at St. Maria Goretti that I started to notice the older girls at school being met at the gate by their boyfriends after classes had ended for the day, and I began, ever so slightly, to look at the male of the species with different eyes. From the time I was little, I’d had plenty of friends who were boys because I was an active child, always climbing trees or on my bike. I loved the rough-and-tumble stuff that boys seemed to gravitate toward and I didn’t hesitate to compete with them. Now something was beginning to shift. Though I didn’t have a boyfriend yet as an eleven- and then twelve-year-old, I was pretty sure I could get one if I wanted to. I just didn’t want to. Yet.

  LOL.

  I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being, with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.

  CHARLOTTE BRONTË, JANE EYRE

  AMERICA. LAND OF the rich, gorgeous, and spotlessly clean. Mom had always tuned in to The Bold and the Beautiful, Dynasty, Baywatch, and Remington Steele, so naturally the America of those shows was the America of my fantasy. Then, in May of 1995, shortly before I turned thirteen, I arrived for a vacation with Mom in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It was my first trip abroad. I didn’t see any mansions and I had to search hard for perfectly blown-out hair and haute couture fashion. It wasn’t like the glamorous television shows at all. The people in this midsize American city were just normal people, living in normal houses, doing normal things.

  Still, it felt a universe away from India. The population of India is more than four times the population of America, yet America has almost three times the physical space. Which meant that as seen through my teenage eyes, American space was mind-blowing. There was so much distance between things. And with organized systems to everything—the neighborhoods, the traffic, the way people stood in line—where was the poetic chaos? The energetic commotion of a crowded country that’s always in motion, always alive?

  Mom and I had traveled to Cedar Rapids to visit her youngest sister, Kiran Mathur, a computer engineer who lived there with her husband, Amitabh, and their daughters, Priyam, age ten, and Pooja, age three. My disappointment in the real America as opposed to the TV version of it changed a few days after we arrived. My aunt Kiran, or Kiran Masi—Masi translates as “like mother”—asked if I wanted to check out an American high school and I jumped at the offer. I couldn’t get over how huge the buildings were at John F. Kennedy High School—the vastness of the gymnasium, cafeteria, auditorium, and playing fields seemed absolutely luxurious to me, accustomed as I was to generally smaller spaces and fifty or sixty students in a classroom. The theater and music programs sounded amazing. And kids actually changed classrooms for their different classes! At my school and many others in India, our teachers came to us; given the number of students, it was easier to have the instructors go from room to room than to have kids flooding the halls between classes. Overall, it seemed to me that the kids here were trusted with more responsibility and allowed more independence, and I’d already gotten a taste of that at La Martiniere and loved it. So when my aunt asked me if I might like to go to high school in Cedar Rapids, I considered the question against the backdrop of students bustling through the hallways to and from their classes. The lockers were painted in cheerful blocks of color. The school mascot—the Kennedy Cougar—roared at me from the walls of the hallway. Sports trophies glistened in their glass cases. No one was wearing uniforms. I blinked. Seriously? No uniforms? Kids can dress however they want? Girls can wear makeup and their hair down?

  Are you kidding? YES. Decision made.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to talk to Mom about staying in America. Boarding school had made me feel ready to take on the world, so the prospect of being far from home didn’t scare me. My life had always been a little nomadic anyway—living with my grandparents early on, moving from city to city due to my parents’ army postings, going to boarding school—so attending high school in America felt like it was just the next step in my peripatetic education. My cousin Priyam had stayed with my mom for two years when Kiran Masi was moving to America while I was in boarding school. Wouldn’t it be nice if I now stayed with my aunt, who had helped care for me when I was a baby living with my grandparents?

  Mom said she thought it would be a great opportunity for me and called Dad to see if he’d go for it. After a rational, logical Chopra Family Conversation, Dad agreed: “Let her give it a shot.” If I liked it, I could stay. If I didn’t adapt, I could come home. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And so it was decided that I would stay with my aunt and her family and give the U.S. a try.

  At least that’s how I thought my move to the U.S. came about; only recently did I discover that wasn’t the full story. When I was living in Bareilly, my cousins who had already moved to the States—Sana, Irfan, and Priyam (Pooja was too young, and so was my cousin Parisa)—were writing and telling me how great America was, and sending me pictures of themselves dressed in cool American clothes. In my persistent preteen way, I took to telling Mom how much I wanted to live in America, too. Of course, I knew that was impossible; my cousins all lived with their parents, but my parents had careers in India that they weren’t about to leave. My mother’s mother, Nani, told me that i
f I got good enough grades, maybe my parents would take me on a trip to America. So that’s what I thought this trip was—a special vacation as a reward for my hard work in school.

  Unbeknownst to me, before we arrived in the U.S., Mom had already reached out to her sister Kiran about the possibility of me living with her and attending school in the States. Knowing my independent streak and my love of adventure, Mom thought that I might relish the chance to live and study in the States; it would also give my parents time to settle into a new living situation after Dad’s recent retirement from the army, and to establish their new joint private practice. But Mom wanted to make sure that going to school in America was what I truly wanted, and that I made the decision with open eyes and without feeling any pressure about it. She chose not to include my father in her thought process until she knew whether it was something I was actually drawn to.

  “I would love to have Mimi live with us!” Kiran Masi responded when Mom asked her. “What’s three kids instead of two?” Then she contacted the local high school to see about getting a student visa for me.

  So that visit to the high school? It had all been planned in advance. There had even been a conversation with a guidance counselor. When it was clear that the possibility of going to school in the States excited me, Mom and Kiran Masi allowed me to think the situation had occurred spontaneously. And the conversation my mom then had with my father? Well, let’s just say my mom got her way.

  A note on family member designations for those unfamiliar with them. In Hindi-speaking culture there is a specific term for everyone in the family so you immediately know who’s who and exactly how they’re related. For instance, in addition to Masi, we have Mausa, which means “mother’s sister’s husband.” Mamu means “mother’s brother” and Mami means “mother’s brother’s wife.” Chacha means “father’s brother” and Chachi means “father’s brother’s wife.” Dada means “paternal grandfather” and Dadi means “paternal grandmother” (though we called our paternal grandparents Pitaji and Mataji, because that’s what my parents called them). Nana means “maternal grandfather” and Nani means “maternal grandmother,” and so on and so forth. For someone new entering a large extended family, as many Indian families tend to be, these designations are incredibly helpful in making sense of all the relationships.