Creating dichotomies in my identity was harmful, because while Bollywood used to be just a facet of my identity, it became an escape and refuge. Kal Ho Naa Ho made me sob, not just because of Aman Mathur’s tragic demise, but because I felt so connected to some semblance of home surrounded by hundreds of similarly weeping Indians surrounding me in the cinema.

I was consciously, palatably British outside of the house, and as Indian as I wanted at home.

Being music-mad, I can get quite righteous about what I love, and that’s what kicked me into a jarring epiphany. A guy I liked at 15 was my cooking-class partner and had asked to listen to my music while writing our notes on chocolate cake. When he heard “Main Toh Raste Se Ja Raha Tha” from Coolie No.1, he scrunched his nose in disgust, as Kumar Sanu and Alka Yagnik sang about the foods they’d like to feed one another on a stroll together.

“What the fuck were they saying?” he asked, flinging my headphones off.

I felt a rage brew up.

“It’s one of my favourite songs,” I told him.

I’d known all the dance moves since I was a kid. How could anyone not like the trainlike orchestration that got you in a dance-y mood?

It may have been ordained that it just had to be a dumb white guy who prompted the cathartic tumbling-out of my anger. I realised that if he was too closed-minded not to appreciate how well-crafted that song was, then clearly he was missing out on a world of comedic and masala-fied offerings from Govinda films.