I am Novel Club, two years old, living in Pakistan. I am the brainchild of two worlds—half Pakistani, half Vietnamese. You may wonder how a book club can straddle two worlds. Let me tell you my story.

My father, Pham, a 32-year-old Vietnamese Jesuit, arrived in Lahore for Regency. There, amid the quiet whispers of Loyola Hall’s Butler Library, he met the librarian, Shamshad, a 23-year-old Pakistani woman. I was a mere idea then, a burning dream in my father’s heart that had not yet found a voice. Shamshad possessed Urdu’s rhythms and culture, the gentle grace of listening, and guiding hands. I lingered in the margins of their conversations, over a shared ache in their hearts: “How can people in Lahore discover our place? How can we make it a space that invites reading, conversation, and thought?”

Through their union of minds, I was born. In this sense, I am both Pakistani and Vietnamese. My first home was Loyola Hall, and Butler Library was my cradle. My father diligently went out into the city, announcing my birth, while my mother used her wide network, inviting guests, shaping every detail of my launch with care and intention.

Fr Juan Carlos SJ, the local superior, baptised me and gave me the nickname “Seeking The Unknown”. The house was alive with excitement. Friends—uncles and aunties—came from all over Lahore. I knew then that although my parents birthed me, I did not belong to them alone. I belong to the readers, the conversations exchanged between them, the laughter that bounces off the walls, the mingling scent of perfumes and yellowed pages.

I once asked my father why he had given me life and such a name. His eyes softened: “When I was in Vietnam, I read endlessly. I dreamt of one day gathering book lovers together—even the worms that devour the pages. When I came to Pakistan, I asked myself how I could welcome my neighbours if I did not have a space for them. That space became you, Novel Club, a haven for young people and ‘book giants’ to contemplate the beauty of the world both inside and beyond books.”

I turned to my mother, wondering how she shared his dream. “Your father loves Pakistan deeply but still struggles with the culture and people. I help him connect with others, bridging his world to ours. You have become the common ground where hearts and minds meet.”

I grew not in height, but in chapters. Friends arrived every Saturday. We were astonished by their passion for reading and the depth of their thoughts. Young Pakistanis read far more than we had imagined. Their souls were pure and transparent, even if dust covered the books they held.

Gradually, I became known among the people and groups of Lahore. I will not speak further of my influence, but let some of my friends testify:

“Novel Club is remarkable in connecting people. His name, ‘Novel’, reflects his soul, heart, and inner world. I admire both his parents. They have made a true welcoming home,” said Asma.

“Pham and Shamshad have built a space that nurtures ideas, making Butler Library a stronger cradle, able to bear curious and bright young minds. If I had my own book clubs, I would name them ‘Silent Book Club’ and ‘The Sanctuary of Books’. I would bring them here to meet Novel Club. They would form a triangle of ideas, friendship, and wonder,” said Tayyab.

There were moments when I grew weak. For a time, tensions flared between Pakistan and India, barricading the roads leading to our home. My parents could do nothing but wait. My father grew heavy-hearted, unable to welcome friends as he wished. I remembered my elder brother who fell ill during Covid-19. Lockdowns starved him of human presence, and he faded away in silence. I was afraid I would suffer the same fate.

But, my parents never gave up. Over cups of tea, my father introduced new sections to help me grow. After discussing a book or a topic, we would watch its film adaptation. Slowly, people returned and delighted in these new sections. Practising reflection, a core element of Ignatian Spirituality, our ideas simmered until tender and ready to be shared.

Now, a younger brother joins us, “Symposium Club”. I do not fully understand why my father named him such. Perhaps because he feels like a divine gathering—where friends meet, dance, and speak of heaven and earth, of ideas too vast for ordinary life.

In my growth, I see my parents grow as well. My father now dares to speak Urdu, and he ably cares for me when Mother is not around. Sometimes, he calls upon his friends, making them collaborators in my upbringing. Slowly, our circle expands. My mother continues to nurture our home, deepening our literary world. Gradually, I am becoming the child they envisioned—not solitary but woven into community. It is their love, their dreams, and the books they share that make me what I am.

I am a book club, but I am also a story. As long as there are books to open and collective minds that read and reflect, my story continues, awaiting the next chapter.