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After a spell, I stared hard right back, waved to them (though I had considered flipping her the bird, I did decide to take a classier approach to the situation).

That sort of broke it up and they continued out the door.

But I don’t understand why two people – no matter where they are from – can’t fall in love.

And why the colour of their skin or where they were born should be any concern to anyone else but themselves.

I am used to being stared at simply in their sweet pink sarees, to little girls who wave as they pass by me, to uni students or power women and, of course, most Indian men who spot me.

Normally it never bothers me at all but this time it did.

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All this time I sort of thought that if I were younger, or maybe if I’d never been married, or if I didn’t have my lovely daughter in her last year of high school that maybe I could have a relationship with an Indian man.

But taking it any further like that woman did is just awful.

That side of dating an Indian man is something I won’t relish experiencing ever again and I’m fairly certain that it would be a rather frequent reality.

I was sat next to my ‘power guy’ on the same side of the table – instead of across from each other – at the quaint and lovely North-West Indian restaurant Samarkhand, enjoying some wine and their damn tasty lamb chops.

A large table of 10 guests across the room stood up and one by one started making their way for the door when the ‘mom’ spotted us sitting close to each other and chatting.

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