Yes, My Accent Is Real: And Some Other Things I Haven't Told You
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In the spirit of Mindy Kaling’s bestseller Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? or Judd Apatow’s Sick in the Head, a collection of humorous, autobiographical essays from Kunal Nayyar, best known as Raj on CBS’s #1 hit comedy The Big Bang Theory.
Of all the charming misfits on television, there’s no doubt Raj from The Big Bang Theory—the sincere yet incurably geeky Indian astrophysicist—ranks among the misfittingest. Now, we meet the actor who is every bit as loveable as the character he plays on TV. In this revealing collection of essays written in his irreverent, hilarious, and self-deprecating voice, Kunal Nayyar traces his journey from a little boy in New Delhi who mistakes an awkward first kiss for a sacred commitment, gets nosebleeds chugging Coca-Cola to impress other students, and excels in the sport of badminton, to the confident, successful actor on the set of TV’s most-watched sitcom since Friends.
Going behind the scenes of The Big Bang Theory and into his personal experiences, Kunal introduces readers to the people who helped him grow, such as his James Bond-loving, mustachioed father. Kunal also walks us through his college years in Portland, where he takes his first sips of alcohol and learns to let loose with his French, 6’8” gentle-giant roommate, works his first-ever job for the university’s housekeeping department cleaning toilets for minimum wage, and begins a series of romantic exploits that go just about as well as they would for Raj. (That is, until he meets and marries a former Miss India in an elaborate seven-day event that we get to experience in a chapter titled “My Big Fat Indian Wedding.”)
Full of heart, but never taking itself too seriously, this witty collection of underdog tales follows a young man as he traverses two continents in search of a dream, along the way transcending culture and language (and many, many embarrassing incidents) to somehow miraculously land the role of a lifetime.
much is not communicated by the bobble. It could mean: I’m full. I’m hungry. I’m confused. I’m happy. I understand. Talk to me. Stop talking. Never talk to me again. So how does one decipher the bobble? The truth is, you can’t. There aren’t any bobble variations or inflections, and this one universal head bobble works greatly to our advantage. Imagine you’re trying to buy something from me and you say, “Ten rupees.” I bobble my head. “Twenty rupees.” I bobble my head. “Thirty
Frisbee and sunbathing. The truck careened straight toward this lawn, and before I could make a move, the truck hit the bottom of the ramp, toppled upside down in the picnic area, and flipped on its belly. Oh man. In my hurry to grab the desk I had forgotten to set the emergency brake, and the truck simply glided back down the ramp. Out of nowhere—somehow within seconds—a man came sprinting toward the scene, barking into a walkie-talkie. A short, stocky guy. Looked like a God of War villain.
when the studio head goes to sleep that night, he has a dream that the reviews for his new show—his baby—are mostly positive, except the reviews all said the same thing: the actor is thirty-two, and this led to the audience becoming so outraged that they staged a protest and marched upon the studio, leading to the studio head’s downfall and eventual early demise. So the next day . . . you’re fired, even though you really were great in the part and do look twenty-three. Things have to align
deeply touched and charmed by their efforts. It was all in good fun. Next, one of Neha’s aunts wowed us with a beautiful traditional solo dance. She strutted her stuff with vigor as the entire crowd cheered her on. Suddenly she slipped and fell out of sight and the DJ scratched the music to a halt. “Are you okay?” Neha cried as we all raced to the stage. Her aunt jumped to her feet and sprang back to life. The music restarted with a bang and she finished the dance with even more gusto. I swear
of Friends Club, and perhaps the biggest moment in the history of Indian sport competition. At this point we are too exhausted to really be thinking strategy. It is just flat-out war. The crowd gasps after each and every point, and I am too tired to do my usual showman’s trick of diving for birdies that are easily within reach. Just point after point after point, back and forth, drop shots and smashes, deep shots, long rallies, short rallies, and we’re both dripping with sweat. You have to