Poems ,Stories and lot more .. By Maneesha Purandare

This autumn, I got an opportunity to attend an ENT conference in Bucharest. I jumped at it, not literally of course, though I almost did! I thought, why not marry business with pleasure, earn a few CPD points and visit a place I normally wouldn’t even think of going to. And oh boy, am I glad I did! From the airport to my hotel, Bucharest felt like a city that was once in its royal glory but had gone through a few rough patches during the communist years. Not too posh, not too poor, just somewhere in between, trying to hold itself together. Honestly, I’ve seen worse lanes in London! Like any other city, traffic jams seem to be a favourite local pastime. Luckily my hotel was just a short walk away from the conference venue, the majestic Palace of Parliament, right next to Europe’s biggest Orthodox cathedral. These two massive buildings stand tall and proud like the city’s crown jewels. The security check there was as tight as an airport. Passport, bag scans, the whole drill. I almost fel...

  There comes a time in life when everything starts to fall apart — skin elasticity, muscle tone, memory, dignity... and occasionally, eyesight. I was at a party when, out of nowhere, the world vanished. Literally. I couldn’t see a thing for a second. And then, when I could see again — it wasn’t normal vision — it was like someone had sprinkled fairy dust on everything. Sparkles, stars, sequins. Every chair looked shiny,! "Embellishments at no cost!", I muttered. Naturally, this episode earned me a full medical investigation buffet: blood tests, ECG, CT scan — the lot. I even managed to pen two poems in A&Ewhilst waiting  there patiently!Eventually, I.was given a clean chit . Sigh. ,And just like that, I was discharged. No ambulance. No handsome paramedic monitoring my pulse. But that wasn’t the end. I was told to get an MRI done — just to be sure my brain wasn’t hosting a surprise inside it!! The day arrived. I entered the scan room minus all that is metallic... earrings...

  So there we were—two slightly overexcited women out on a “catch-up-with-a-friend” day. You know the type: too much talking, zero planning, and a high probability of public embarrassment. The adventure began at Alexandra Palace station, where we were supposed to change trains and glide  into central London. Except... our train decided to show up early. On another platform. Because of course it did. With my slow-motion running. Ash and I bolted up the stairs  Over. Ash, being the braver of the two, flung herself at the train ,stood right in the middle of them — preventing the doors from closing by sheer force of will. Heroine vibes, but with a backpack. I eventually reached the train, panting like a tired pup, and climbed in with the grace of a sloth !. We were both giggling uncontrollably, wheezing like asthmatics, while fellow passengers threw a ' what on earth look' All very Mumbai local meets London drama. Now came the “hunt for the empty seat.” I spotted one! Victory...

  As winter days slowly wind down (or at least that's what I tell myself to stay sane), we inch closer to spring. Not that spring means much here—just slightly less gloomy skies and the occasional sun that’s so rare it should be taxed. But hey, the calendar says we’re moving forward, so who am I to argue? We recently had a cozy catch-up with our ‘Marath-moley’ friends. Naturally, the conversation drifted to Britain’s unofficial national obsession— gardens . You’d think we spend endless summer days basking in floral glory, but nope! We get precisely 31 sunny days a year if the weather gods are feeling generous. Yet, we chat about gardens like we own the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. One friend ranted about how garden mice had devoured her tulip bulbs. I, being the zoologist I never was, confidently declared, “Oh, it must’ve been a fox!”—because why blame small mice when you can blame a fox with attitude ? This reminded me of the day we saw a fox casually hop over our neighbour’s tall ...

  I heard about Margaret’s passing today, and all my old, unsettled memories came rushing back. I know it’s not right to speak ill of someone who is no more, but I can’t help remembering the past. Margaret was the nurse in charge of ENT. Thanks to her, all the old, lazy, and unmotivated nurses somehow found their way into our department. She made sure they got shifts, almost like a savior to them, but they would always end up working with me! Since they were elderly, I rarely asked them to do much, which meant I ended up running around, doing everything myself. Any patient who was difficult—smelly, drunk, or a gypsy—would be sent straight to me. Margaret, being Irish, had a soft spot for them. I know every patient deserves equal treatment, and I gave them my best. But it wasn’t about my skills—she just wanted to shield her favourite doctors from any trouble. There were so many times she dumped work on me that no one else wanted to do. And she never missed an opportunity to remind m...

  Dreams at Finsbury Park Station It was a night of uncontrollable laughter, thanks to Aiyyo Shraddha! The way she captured Indian middle-class quirks—with surgical precision and an extra dash of spice—had us all in stitches. Her witty take on our obsession with politics, cricket, culture, and the holy grail of academic success was so spot on that we all nodded along like bobbleheads on a car dashboard. Still chuckling, we stood at Finsbury Park Station, waiting for our train home. And that’s when I saw it. A shiny, new complex of flats had sprung up right next to the station. My heart did a little somersault. The dream was back! Unlike most people who fantasise about sprawling houses with huge gardens and birds chirping melodiously in the background, I had a different vision—a cosy flat in the middle of all the action. I wanted to wake up to the rhythm of the city, not just the distant sound of a lonely woodpecker drilling into my peace. Imagine this: I wake up to the sight of sch...

 A Sea of Laughs, Sunshine, and Slightly Too Much Rum: My Caribbean Cruise Diary The moment I stepped aboard that magnificent cruise ship, I felt like a little girl in a candy shop — wide-eyed, giddy, and completely overwhelmed (in the best way possible). Before I knew it, we were tagged — not for tracking, but for fun, food, and frolic! That little wrist tag became our magic wand: tap it, and voilà — buffet access, cocktails, shows, shopping. Like Disneyland for grown-ups, but floating. Day 1 was a sea day, which basically translates to: “Eat, drink, dance, and repeat.” We dived right into the cruise life with an open bar, endless food, and a bit of day-drunk dancing that, I hope, wasn’t caught on camera. Our first port was Aruba — white sandy beaches, calm turquoise water, and friendly locals who switched between English, Dutch, Spanish, and Papiamento as smoothly as I switched between mojitos and margaritas. We soaked up the sun and the serenity. Next up, Curaçao, with its row o...

 The Squashed Orange 🍊 Kiran came back from the shops with bags in both hands . I began unpacking like a dutiful sidekick: bananas, tomatoes, cherries, blackberries… all tucked lovingly into the fridge . And then… it happened. I pulled out the bag of clementines and there it was—a squashed orange! Crushed. Flattened. A citrus tragedy. How? How could Kiran of all people allow this? The man has highest level of OCD when it comes to packing. I’ve literally seen him unpack and repack a shopping bag at the supermarket till because the I dared to put the bread near the milk! In the past, I used to get seriously irritated with his obsession about "alignment" and "logical sequencing" of vegetables and groceries .It made me feel like I’d accidentally married an Excel spreadsheet. But now, after years of therapy (read: deep breathing, chai , sarcasm, and giving up), I’ve learnt to let him be. Recently, we were at a friend’s house when the topic of OCD quirks came up. And boy...

  I always imagined menopause would be about hot flashes, mood swings, and a sudden obsession with herbal teas. No one warned me about my vagina turning into the Sahara Desert, with recurring UTIs popping up like uninvited guests at a party. For years, intimacy with my husband was something I cherished. Now? Now, it’s a high-risk adventure that requires strategic planning, hydration schedules, and prayers to the UTI gods. I’ve tried everything—cranberry juice, probiotics, antibiotics, essential oils, yoga, standing on one leg while chanting in Sanskrit (okay, maybe not that last one, but I was close). But despite all efforts, the only foolproof method to avoid a UTI has been abstinence. And let me tell you, abstinence is highly overrated. I find myself thinking about monks, priests, nuns, and single or widowed people—how do they do it? Do they make peace with celibacy, or do they secretly have a stash of romance novels under their pillows? I feel like I’ve unwillingly joined their ...