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I’d say dating is a close second — it has been for me.The summer before I met Bryan, I briefly dated Ludovic, a White Frenchman who travelled to Delhi for work.
The K-word would assail us everywhere we went, whether as a couple or in a group with other students from African countries.
We met outside a nightclub in Mehrauli, waiting for a mutual friend to drop us home.
My mind had wolf-whistled the second I lay eyes on him — he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen — and, as I got into the front seat, I fervently hoped that his brain had made a similar sound, too.
But, later that night, in the auto-ride back to my apartment, Bryan quietly said, “That’s the first word all African students learn when they come to India — kala (black). What’s the difference between an expatriate and an immigrant? What do we call the persecution of a people because of the colour of their skin? We’re people of colour too, so where did we learn it?
At home, in the playground, our textbooks, in casual conversations, in film and advertising — everywhere.