Abhi na jao chhodkar

This isn’t a performance.

It’s a room full of strangers turning into something softer.

These stories were born long ago in the warmth of my Naani’s voice,

in the silence she left between sentences,

in the Punjab that raised her…

and through her, raised me.

For a few hours, we live together.

Stories. Music. Poetry. Laughter that comes from the belly.

About home.

About leaving.

About the ache of belonging to more than one place.

From “dafa ho” to “dekhi jayegi,”

this is the language we grew up with love wrapped in defiance,

courage dressed as carelessness.

It’s everything we feel

but rarely say out loud.

I promise

You might leave lighter.

Or heavier.

But you won’t leave untouched.