When you do something that you love, not only do you enjoy the process, but you get goosebumps every time the universe throws a frisbee your way. I had a blast contributing to the anthology titled Home#ItsComplicated.

And I thought that would be that, but then the universe was like, “Yeah, naah, we’re not done here.”

Out of the blue, on a typical grey London afternoon, I get this call inviting me to speak about what home means — can anyone ever succinctly elaborate on that? I know I can’t — and not just any venue, but a platform named after a person whom I hold in the deepest regard. Someone related to me in a very roundabout way that encapsulates all of life’s idiosyncracies and underlying humour.

Of course, I said yes, stage fright and imposter syndrome be damned!

The first time I found out about Khushwant Singh was when I stole a copy of ‘Delhi’ — on a side note, I did get to visit Delhi as a student in 2004 and while I couldn’t go see Qutb Minar, my lasting memory of that trip was getting a cassette of the Sabri Brother’s ‘Tajdare Haram’ from a bazaar near the Jamia Masjid Delhi — from my father’s stack. Admittedly, it was not the best introduction for a twelve-year-old, but once my ears had stopped burning from the flowery language and details, I was mesmerised by the frank language and the humour that said so much without putting on any airs.

From my paternal grandmother recounting stories of how the young men and women in her village Hadali would play games and socialise to finding a picture online of my late maternal grandfather (he’s the one in the blue in the front row) attending a ceremony when his classmate, Khushwant Singh visited Hadali, to being invited to speak at a literary festival held in the great writer’s name.

It’s life’s full circle moments, such as these, that leave you short of breath and in awe of how the place you call home can transcend borders, oceans, and even, in fact, most importantly, differences.

When I do get the chance to speak, if I manage to find my tongue in such a venue and considering the enormity of the moment, I wonder if I’ll be able to convey all that I want to say. If nothing else, I’ll take comfort in knowing that Baba and Amma Bibi will be listening and looking down on me. Maybe even their childhood friend will find it amusing how a child who secretly read ‘Delhi’ is speaking at a festival named after him.