gaelikaa's diary

As a practising Roman Catholic, I was just thinking that I should get myself off to Confession as soon as possible and confess my sins.  The guilt is weighing me down.  I've done something so awful that I cannot believe it myself.  Neil, my eldest son (14), was only telling me the other day, that his class teacher Mrs. Narayan had given the class a fairly strong talking-to on the need to be respectful to one's elders. "If there are old people in your house," she had said, "you must always treat them with kindness and respect."  Now Neil has a lot of regard for Mrs. Narayan.  But this did not go down well with him at all. "I wish Ma'am Narayan would come to this house and see what's going on here," he said.  "She should tell aunt Urmila to treat the other family members with the kindness and respect she'd like to be treated herself."  The boy was right.  I had to agree with him. Aunt Urmila is an elderly relative of our

"Hi aunty.  You're looking very hot!" said the young fellow talking to my son at the gate as I returned from the local market with my purchases.  I was your typical harassed housewife with a six year old clamouring loudly for attention and carrying a big polythene bag full of noodles, tomato sauce and vegetables to make the dinner.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  Did he say hot?  Or what? I looked up at the tall young man.  He couldn't have been more than sixteen.  He was younger. "Aunty, I'm Laksh!  Remember me?  I used to be in Neil's class," he said.  Neil is my fourteen year old son. "Laksh!  Of course I remember you.  How are you beta (son)?  And how is your mother?"  I said, coming sharply back to reality.  One of the many kids who walks in and out of my life on a regular basis. We exchanged the usual pleasanteries, briefly discussed the recent happenings in the family, Laksh's father had been ill and I was careful to show

The temperature has gone up into the forties and it is only April.  I was very uncomfortable as most of my clothes are made of synthetic materials.  And they are so old that I am tired of them.  I took a look through my wardrobe lately and wanted to throw every single item into the bin! I went to see my dress designer immediately!  Dress designer?  Well there's this friend of mine, Richa, who is a member of the Sikh community, married to a man in the same community as my husband.  We get along well, Richa and I.  She owns a  small shop and sells cloth for making suits and all types of dresses.  She has a tailor working with her and he makes the clothes as per the customer's specification. But Richa is a very good designer, so I usually go with her ideas.   So I went and had a look at what cloth Richa had available. "I don't just need a new dress," I told her.  "I need a new wardrobe."  So she advised me to get about three cotton kurtas made in colour

One of my friends, Jacqueline, is not in touch with me nowadays.  It is not that I don't mean to contact her, but I keep forgetting to call her.  Her daughter Carol is in my daughter's class.  The last time I was down at the school I saw the girl.  She told me "please call Mummy, she is missing you!" I did call.  In fact, whenever we speak, it is always me who calls.  We both have mobiles, but to tell the truth,  Jacqueline, who runs a small business, never seems to have balance in her 'phone.  About eighteen months back, when we were in regular contact, she used to call me a lot.  But when I picked  up the call, she was gone.  I would call her back again and again.  I presumed that there was some glitch in her phone.  One day I had to call her for some reason.  Her daughter, who picked up the call said "Mummy's not here right now.  I'll give you a missed call when she comes back."  A missed call?  Then I understood.  She was making these cal