By Jayne Robinson

I WAS on my own last night, which provided the perfect opportunity for another clandestine appointment with the man I love. The occasion was 'Chalte Chalte' , which I believe means 'walking along'in Hindi.

It wasn’t one of the best films I’ve seen, but of course, the quality of the film was not the point.

The point was that instantly recognisable profile with that nose, that enormously expressive face, the cherub lips, the puppy-dog eyes which sometimes brim over with tears. His sinews stretching under an open shirt, his languorous looks, his fingers tracing across her cheek, his peeling down her blouse to reveal her shoulder as he bends forward to kiss her neck. I could go on …

I can pause, repeat, but regrettably not run back in slow motion these moments on the DVD player.

I’ve watched his movies with friends but it’s not the same. With them, I have to pull myself out of the reverie in which I am the one who is wrapped in his arms, for whom he has traversed continents to rescue from the bleak prospect of a loveless marriage.

Sadly, I know he is not mine alone. Shahrukh Khan makes love this way to millions of women the world over, who gain colour in their cheeks and a spring in their step after spending three hours with him. This is quite a talent he has.

To my astonishment, my dream collided with reality when I actually experienced him in the flesh, although not to the extent of my fantasies.

Again, I had kept our hoped-for meeting (at Zee Carnival) secret from my non Asian friends in case they would scoff. However, like all infatuated lovers, I have not stopped mentioning his name since.

He was beautiful.

I now know what I’ve been missing all these years working with suits. They need a perfectly sculptured V-line chest to fill them. His was his trademark black, accompanied by a black shirt and gleaming patent shoes only seen on feet which tread the stage.

Surrounded by several hundred other women, I was pressed up close to the barrier, fearing my breath would be squeezed out of me completely as we squealed and screamed his name. And then he appeared right in front of me.

Up close, he was darker than I imagined and shorter (although I’d been warned about his height). I did wish he had discarded his shades which didn’t seem necessary indoors. Naturally, I forgave him this sartorial error, but it deprived me of the chance to look into his eyes and read them.

His hands were within inches of mine. So, gently, I took one, daring only to hold the tips of his fingers. After the few seconds which have stretched into minutes in my memory, we disengaged lightly and he moved on to another section of the crowd.

I was on a high for weeks afterwards.

One day, of course, I’d like to meet him properly. Then I shall compliment him on the films in which I think he’s excelled ("Chak De!", "Main Hoon Na", "Devdas"). Maybe we can have a discussion about the growing appeal of Bollywood to a cynical Western audience. Perhaps he can even teach me a dance step or two …

Until then I am content knowing that the hand I see caress those beautiful ex-model actresses touched mine once, that he also danced on stage for me, that he understood my need to meet him and made it happen.

That will keep me lapping up his films and following him on the celebrity sites for a long time to come.