I don’t let myself think of coincidences, no matter how serendipitous, as “signs”. Who am I to warrant some cosmic message? I delight in encountering them, but a boring, logical part of me can’t help but put it all down to chance.

I had heard the tale of the microwaveable curry before, but my mother hadn’t, and I knew she’d love it. Joan, maternal grandmother to my boyfriend Ryan, has plenty of stories, all suffused with her good humour.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and we’re all lingering at the table after a multi-course lunch; Indian food, cooked by my mother in Ryan’s family’s kitchen.

It goes like this: Birmingham, in the late 1960s. Joan’s husband, Don, an executive at a multinational company, had been asked to entertain a colleague and his wife, over from India on business. He invites them home for dinner. When the question of the menu comes up, Don suggests lamb, having seen his guest help himself to some in the dining hall. It’s the day of when Joan learns the man’s wife doesn’t eat meat; the roast is in the oven, it’s too late to start over. Thankfully there’s still time to run to the supermarket and buy the only thing she can think of: Vesta vegetarian curry. It isn’t ideal, but it’s better than nothing. Joan transfers it to a nice dish and serves it as her own; her guests appreciate the thought, praising the food. Just as she starts to relax, Don gives the game away. She didn’t make it, you know! She just heated it up. Joan is livid. “I couldn’t believe he’d do that to me in front of Raj Bandhari!”

From across the table, my mother interjects. “Raj Bandhari? From Dunlop?” I’m surprised by her rudeness as she loudly repeats herself. It takes a moment for the rest of us to catch on. The visiting couple are the parents of my mother’s childhood friend, who she’s remained close to; just two years prior I had lived with them in Mumbai for a few months.

It’s been years since this discovery, and I still can’t think about it without tallying up improbabilities, my brain clicking away like a ribbon calculator. Ryan and I finding each other already felt like a happy accident: there are so many ways we could have never met, and to seriously ponder that possibility makes me feel as though I am peering over the edge of a cliff. But to have happened upon an invisible connection between our families, one that long predates our births and spans continents…

My instinct to rationalise it away fades as I let myself bask in the loveliness of this discovery, how it throws formerly insignificant details into relief like sunlight flooding a dark room. I might just be exactly where I’m supposed to be.