The year was 1993. I was 17, and heading for the sixth form at a new school in Hounslow, west London. I wasn’t expecting it to change my life. Looking back, I struggle to remember a white face there. It was a sea of brown, where Muslim, Sikh and Hindu students mixed easily: it seemed a surprisingly harmonious environment. Beneath the surface, though, cultural tension lurked, particularly between the Muslims and the Sikhs. All I had to do was keep my head down and my mouth shut. I didn’t want any part in the school politics.

I remember the girls. They all seemed to wear black leather jackets and black platform shoes and they listened to R&B. Rajinder was different. She wore flowing flowery skirts and a faded jean jacket with scuffed Dr Martens boots and listened to Guns N’ Roses. I had never met anyone like her.

I was not one of those cool types who could approach a girl and ask her out; my deep-seated fear of rejection saw to that. However, peer pressure is a powerful thing. My friends, her friends, hounded me until, at 12.40pm on 11 November, I was standing in front of her, mumbling and stumbling my way through those six terrifying words. “Will you go out with me?”

Word spread quickly. A Muslim boy and a Sikh girl amid the cultural tension and confusion. First the whispers started, then friends we held dear distanced themselves. Even some teachers pulled us to one side to deliver a warning, masked as meaningful advice. Wrapped up in each other, we shut it all out, brazenly walking through the playground holding hands. We fell for each other quick and hard without a thought of the impact we were having on our communities.

Khurrum and Rajinder.

At the end of the school day, we would go our separate ways. Rajinder would routinely be ignored on the bus and I would walk the mile home with cars slowing to give me the eye. I was being watched carefully. A few months in, the curtains on the veiled threats were pulled back.

It started with phone calls. I would scramble to the landline in fear of my parents answering and smile my way through the threats. The “older lot”, as they were affectionately known, colourful characters about whom I had heard many gang-related stories, came out of the woodwork and turned up at my house; let’s go for a walk. Rather than having my parents find out about my relationship, I would agree readily.

On one occasion, I was bundled into a phone box, a kitchen knife touching my skin, as half a dozen of the older lot queued impatiently outside. On another memorable occasion, having recently passed my driving test, I was driving my mum’s cherry red Nissan. My rear windscreen exploded at a junction and people with furious faces, armed with bats and bars, circled my car. I put my foot down and led them on a merry dance around the back streets of Hounslow, losing them somewhere en route to the police station.

I never blamed them. I never doubted their intentions. In their own misguided way, they were trying to protect one of theirs from one of us.

Like a typical teenager, I thought I was invincible. I never gave in to them. She meant too much to me. We continued in the same vein, the threats and intimidation slowly dissolving as our opposers found other battles to fight.

Two years into our relationship, we were walking aimlessly. Rajinder stopped at a bridal shop window and pointed at the mannequin wearing a white bridal gown. “That’s what I’ll wear,” she said, before pointing at the mannequin wearing a black tuxedo. “And you can wear that.”

We had never before talked about where our relationship was heading, but that seemingly innocuous comment made us face issues that we had long been avoiding.

It was time our parents found out.

They would be unhappy. We understood that. But it turned out to be so much more. We hadn’t realised that the effects of our actions would take such an emotional toll on our families. They had dreams for our future: plans, visions and hard-earned money from relentless overtime set aside for a path that we would never take.

My father, a man of few words, was stoic. His silence articulated what words never could. My mother, emotionally intelligent, searched desperately for a solution that wasn’t there.

Her father, immensely proud, watched all that he held dear crumble around him. Her mother was strong, honourable and fiercely protective of her family.

Each was behaving in accordance with their beliefs and ideologies as the criticism of our communities tightened around us.

It never felt like us against them. It wasn’t as romantic a notion as that. We finally understood the impact we were having on those closest to us. “Why can’t you be happy for us?” was never going to cut it. We couldn’t blame them for their thinking, which was embedded long before our existence and which they had hoped to pass on. We never begrudged the way they felt. Simply, we had shattered their world.

There wasn’t any way we could mend what we had caused. It was worse for her, I know it was, for the sole reason that she was a girl. From all corners she was taunted and told in no uncertain terms that she was being used. That I, a Muslim boy, would never fully commit to a Sikh girl.

But I did. We did. Rajinder and I married. It didn’t change a thing. We achieved nothing other than proving a poor point. We needed our families. We needed their acceptance.

I can’t tell you exactly what changed. I think time played its part. Something adjusted and our tilted world straightened out. Over the years, a bond that had fractured was slowly mended. Through commitment and never giving up on one another, our families became part of our lives again.

Through it all, my wife and I have never been apart, never considered the alternative. We have been together for 24 years and married for 18. As I write this, she is next to me, invading my space on the footstool and snacking noisily on masala chai and low-fat crackers licked with Nutella. Upstairs, my beautiful boys, six and one, sleep soundly. They celebrate Eid, Diwali, Christmas and everything else in between. They lead a culturally enriched life – the best of both wonderful worlds. Both sets of grandparents dote on them. As a result of our marriage, there may be times where they face hardship, but we are raising them to be strong-willed, open-minded and to question everything.

Tonight, we are visiting my in-laws for dinner. Tomorrow, my parents are coming to ours for Sunday lunch. They are now fully immersed in our lives. The phone calls are frequent, the text messages often. Sometimes it gets too much. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.

• East of Hounslow by Khurrum Rahman (Harlequin, £12.99). To order a copy for £11.04, go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.