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  It was a cold night. The wedding was outdoors. Purple flowers coated the ground and the walls and the tables, illuminated by soft purple lighting. It looked like a fantasy. My family escorted me to a little stage with two beautiful chairs. I sat in my chair and waited for Neha and for the first time all week I thought, HOLY SHIT THIS IS HAPPENING. Then, over the speakers a beautiful old Hindi hymn began to play, a religious hymn, and this announced the moment of Kanya Aagman: Neha’s entrance.

  She glided in as her brothers and cousins covered her with a blanket of flowers. I glimpsed her from afar . . . and could see that she was grinning. She didn’t enter as some demure angel. She didn’t pretend to be anything. She simply had the biggest smile on her face, joyous, soaking in every moment.

  I couldn’t believe that this woman was going to be my wife. I had never felt like this. Ever. Not with Grace. Not when I had other relationships that felt “real.” There’s real and there’s REAL. This wasn’t just a case of butterflies. This wasn’t just a rapid beating heart. This was every single cell in my body singing.

  Soon the priest was speaking in Sanskrit. We sat on our chairs, and I tried to understand him, but really, honestly, I couldn’t understand a word. In fact, I was practically destroying the entire ceremony. At one point, for example, I was supposed to take this oil and throw it over my shoulder, but instead I took the oil and almost drank it, before the priest quickly stopped me from poisoning myself.

  We stood up and walked seven steps around the fire, in what’s known as the Saptapadi, and then we sat back down.

  Then the priest kept saying more and more words.

  “Kunal,” Neha whispered. “We’re married.”

  “We’re married?”

  Awesome! I had no idea.

  After the ceremony, at the receiving line, we posed for a photograph, then another, then another, and then a hundred, and then two hundred . . . and then, in total, five hundred photographs. Thank God Neha is a trained model and has that kind of stamina, because I was ready to kill myself. We stood there so long, in fact, that by the time the five hundredth person greeted us, the first greeter had already eaten dinner and danced and gone home. People were leaving and we hadn’t finished posing.

  We have one final tradition. It’s called the Bidaai. When the dust settled and it was time for us to go home, Neha’s parents would walk her from the wedding venue, arm in arm for the last time. Her final good-bye as their daughter, for now she was entering into a new family. This is a very sad moment in Indian weddings. Once she was in our car with me, all of her cousins and brothers would get behind the car and push us for a few moments as we began our journey home.

  Neha slowly walked to my car with her father, and she began to cry. Her parents began to cry. And by now, dear reader, you’ve read enough of this book to know that I started crying, too.

  “Stop crying, you idiot,” my brother whispered to me.

  “It’s a sad moment,” I said.

  “For them! Not for you! You’re bringing her to our house!”

  I tried to wipe away the tears.

  “They’ll think you’re not happy to bring her home. What’s wrong with you?” my brother said, incredulous.

  We got in the car. Neha’s brothers stood behind us and began to push the car. The engine kicked into gear and we were on our way.

  She looked at me, I looked at her, and then I drove home.

  With my wife.

  DAY 6: THE RECEPTION

  The next morning I had that schoolboy feeling again. My wife! We had more people over that morning (of course we did), and following an old tradition, the bride “showed her face” to all my friends and family. (This harks back to the olden times, when you wouldn’t have seen the face of the woman you’d married until it was too late. Suckers.) Now it’s purely ceremonial. Neha put a shawl over her face, then I lifted it and theatrically proclaimed, “This is my wife!”

  As the shawl lifted she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, then started making monster noises. The family ate it up.

  My wife.

  The night after the wedding, we had a reception for a thousand people, we hugged more cousins (or were some of them wedding crashers?), we drank more champagne, and we said farewell to our guests. We followed more customs and embraced more traditions—describing them all would take another seventy pages. And truthfully I myself don’t remember much of the reception. I was lost in thought. I couldn’t soak up any more emotion. I felt so lucky to have been raised in this culture. I love America and I love living in Los Angeles, but in growing up here I was blessed with so much joy, and I felt such a sense of rightness when I fully immersed myself in everything that came with our wedding. The customs are about family. Love. Life. I was proud to be Indian. I am proud to be Indian.

  The week reminded me that nothing is unachievable when you have the support of your family. We planned a one-thousand-person wedding in six months. In fact, come to think of it, we planned a second wedding, too.

  Soon after landing back in America, we arranged an official courthouse wedding at a city court in Beverly Hills, mostly for legal reasons. We invited two guests: my friends Tim and Jason. (This time Jason didn’t have to carry my sword.) I wore a suit and Neha wore a cute dress.

  A beautiful, tall, African-American woman with big curly hair and large diamonds led us through our vows, and as she spoke, I realized that her words had the same cadence, the same themes, and the same core message as the ones said by our Indian priest. She talked about love. About family, and about what it means to be a husband and wife.

  So much is different in these two cultures. And so much is exactly the same.

  In other words, as I said in the beginning . . .

  My wedding was just like every other wedding.

  * * *

  I. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a shout-out to Sid Tytler!

  II. A long coat with lots of embroidery that buttons up the front.

  III. My mother always wanted a daughter but she was stuck with me, so maybe that’s why I am the emotional, soft-spoken, delicate man that I am—she raised me like a daughter.

  IV. Where was this powder three days ago when I had my pimple?

  V. I never did understand how the horse beat us to the venue. Maybe there were two horses. Or maybe it galloped really, really fast. Or maybe they transported the horse in a trailer. Or maybe no one cares.

  VI. Turns out it was my original horse’s twin sister.

  Holiday Traditions Part 4: Diwali

  Diwali (De-WALL-ee) n. An ancient Hindu festival celebrated in autumn every year, considered India’s New Year and the Festival of Lights.

  THE FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS SIGNIFIES the Hindu New Year, and celebrates that Lord Rama, after defeating the evil king Ravana (remember them from page 74?), has finally come back to his kingdom. When Lord Rama returned after fourteen years of exile (think: Aragorn), the ancient city of Ayodhya illuminated the entire kingdom with diyas (oil lamps) to show respect and gratitude for their beloved king.

  This is my favorite Indian festival because every house in India is lit up with diyas and candles, every balcony, wall, and roof shimmering with a brilliant hue of fiery yellow. On Diwali, the entire country is literally glowing. It’s like Christmas lights without the electricity.

  A big part of the tradition is that you give your house a deep cleaning, scrubbing every nook and cranny. Once your home is cleansed, you leave every door and window open to invite Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, to come and bless your home.

  The biggest part of Diwali is the fireworks. Tons and tons of fireworks. And I don’t mean fireworks like big firework displays with all these safety regulations. I mean fireworks in your home, in your driveway, exploded by your own two hands! Fireworks are legal in India so we just jump the gun and start exploding them a few days early. It’s always open season. As kids we threw fireworks at each other;I we hid fireworks in each other’s bags so they would get discovered by the principal. Occasio
nally, because some of the fireworks were so cheap and poorly made, they would just explode in your face of their own accord.

  Diwali is also a very spiritual night, because it signifies the beginning of our new year. Every Diwali, my family huddled into my grandfather’s old office, and we recited a prayer called the Gayatri Mantra seven times. (The prayer is roughly the equivalent of Christianity’s Lord’s Prayer.)

  My grandfather’s office was a special place to us. He had been a prominent dentist, and, in fact, he had been the personal dentist to the president of India. My grandfather had a clinic in our house, and he kept his practice going until the day he died. Even months after his death, patients would come to our house and hope to see him for an appointment. My grandfather used the office to handcraft the tooth caps, braces, and dentures that he provided to his patients. So we left the office intact as a tribute to him, and that’s where we’d stand shoulder-to-shoulder, reciting the Gayatri Mantra in his honor.

  Now, in my own home in Los Angeles, one that came with walls instead of flowing white curtains, I keep Diwali alive. My wife and I light the entire house with candles. My American friends who attended my wedding in India still have all of their traditional Indian clothes, so we all dress up and eat Indian food, clean the house, and leave the doors open so the goddess of wealth can come and grace our home. We built a small Hindu temple to honor our family and our grandparents. And every year, in that small temple, my wife and I say the Gayatri Mantra seven times.

  Diwali (De-WALL-ee) n. 1. An ancient Hindu festival celebrated in autumn every year, considered India’s New Year and the Festival of Lights. 2. A perfect opportunity to remember where you come from, to honor where you are, and to keep traditions alive for the future.

  * * *

  I. Note: Don’t try this at home. This means you!

  Good-bye

  I’VE NEVER BEEN GOOD WITH good-byes. I have had to say a lot of good-byes in my life. It never gets easier. Even writing these words is hard.

  When I set out to write this book I didn’t know it was going to be a soppy joyride of heartbreak, failure, culture shock, and triumph. I just wanted to share my story because I thought maybe it would help people believe that anything is possible. And it is.

  Adieu my dear reader,

  I will miss you more than you know.

  A Thought Recorded on an Aeroplane Cocktail Napkin

  Acknowledgments

  HERE ARE SOME OF THE people responsible for all the love, heartache, inspiration, and laughter that make up this book—in no particular order, I think.

  Chris, Ben, JR. Sarah. Chance, Morgan, James, Michael, Corey, Arnica, and Jenny. Shact, Bitner & Diaby.

  Jim Stein, Matt Shaffer, Jonathan Howard, and the entire Innovative family. Scott Harris for dancing at my wedding.

  Steve Lovett for your never-say-never attitude.

  Kaley, Jim, Johnny, Simon, Melissa, and Mayim, for being my family away from home.

  Mark Cendrowski, Nikki Lorre, Anthony Rich, and the entire Big Bang crew for proving that miracles do come true if we stick together.

  Bill, Steve, Chuck, and all the writers on Big Bang who inspire me to be a better writer every day.

  Chuck Lorre, for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime and teaching me the true meaning of humility and hard work.

  Rob Weisbach, for gently pushing me every day to finish this book—I cried, I fought, I had anxiety attacks, and all the while you encouraged me to keep going. You made me believe in myself. Thank you also for keeping my acid reflux at bay.

  Peter Borland and the entire Simon & Schuster team, for not only believing in me but also providing me with pages to write upon. You gave me a platform from which I could share my story. I am forever in your debt.

  Jeff Wilser, for listening to stories from my whole life, and then actually going to India and experiencing it for yourself. You are a champion, sir. Let’s do one more!

  Anmol Nayyar. I have always wanted to be like you. You embody honesty, strength, and poise. I hope you like this book; your blessing means everything to me. I am lucky to be your little brother.

  Rama Mom and Gulshan Dad. Thank you for your support, encouragement, and acceptance of my family and me. And for throwing one hell of a wedding!

  To the Nayyars, Grewals, Bawas, Dhawans, Kapurs, Bhandaris, and all the rest of my family not mentioned here (mainly because it would take an entire other book), I thank you all for being my security blanket.

  Manavi. Cousin Shmuzin—you’re my real sister and you know it. Thank you for being my biggest champion.

  Dad. Everything I have to say is in the book. You’re the reason these pages exist.

  Jason. There is not one person I trust more with my career than you. Thank you for proving that brothers don’t always have to come from the same mother. Also, thank you for introducing me to sushi and golf.

  Neha. Thank you for not divorcing me when I was spending more time on my laptop than in the bedroom. You’re the real prize. Everything compared to you is second best.

  And finally, to you, dear reader, for spending your hard-earned money on this book. I owe so much to you. Thank you for joining me on this ride.

  KUNAL NAYYAR was born in London and raised in New Delhi, India. He first came to the United States in 1999 to pursue a bachelor’s degree in business administration and went on to receive an MFA in acting from Temple University. Playing the character of Raj on The Big Bang Theory, he has been part of the ensemble since the show debuted in 2007. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Neha.

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  Interior design by Paul Dippolito

  Jacket Design By Phil Pascuzzo

  Jacket Photographs © Peter Yang

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Nayyar, Kunal.

  Yes, my accent is real : and some other things I haven’t told you / Kunal Nayyar.

    pages cm

   1. Nayyar, Kunal. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. I. Title.

   PN2287.N28A3 2015

   791.4502’8092—dc23

   [B]

  2015023438

  ISBN 978-1-4767-6182-4

  ISBN 978-1-4767-6185-5 (ebook)

  “On Children” from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, copyright © 1923 by Kahlil Gibran and renewed 1951 by Administrators C.T.A. of Kahlil Gibran Estate and Mary G. Gibran. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.