Poems ,Stories and lot more .. By Maneesha Purandare

Travelling for me is not about ticking boxes. Not about doing ten activities in one day or chasing thrills like a reality show contestant. For me, travel is about people. The strangers who become stories. The conversations that quietly sit in your heart long after the photos are forgotten. I have already written pages about Tromsø. The lights. The snow. The frozen eyelashes. But when I look back, the real glow also came from the people we met. Like Håkon. I was sitting alone at a table in Sann Café, guarding my mushroom soup and freshly baked bread like a squirrel with winter supplies. The rest of the family had gone to order. From the corner of my eye, I had noticed the man at the next table earlier. He was enjoying a glass of Chardonnay with something called a Norwegian Sann burger. Which, let us be honest, is just a beef burger wearing a Scandinavian accent. He introduced himself. Håkon. From Tromsø originally, now living near Oslo. A teacher. In town for the annual film festival. H...

A few weeks ago, I was running a routine telephone clinic. As I glanced through the notes before the next call, I knew this would not be an easy conversation. She was a follow up patient, someone we had seen only a week earlier. That day, I had to do what doctors dread saying the words clearly and honestly. Her bowel cancer was advanced, widespread, and carried a poor prognosis. Continuing aggressive treatment for her head and neck cancer would only cause more suffering, without benefit. She already sensed this, but hearing it confirmed felt final, heavy, irreversible. When I asked how she was, she answered with unexpected calm. “I have accepted my illness,” she said. “And I know I am going to die soon. What is hardest is the waiting.” She spoke of the uncertainty, not knowing how, or when. The endless waiting that made her restless, unable to plan, unable to settle. She had always dreamed of going to Orlando. But travel insurance was impossible. Her husband, kind and determined, had e...

This January, we decided to do a hatke trip. Not the usual “chalo sunshine dhoondhte hain” holiday. No beaches. No warmth. No vitamin D. Instead, we decided to voluntarily freeze ourselves in the Arctic , all in the name of watching the Aurora Lights. Naturally, there was scepticism. Mainly from me. I’m not a very fussy traveller, but I do like my comfort, my leisure, and the occasional luxury ,especially when I’m supposed to be relaxing. Cold, darkness, and discomfort didn’t sound like a holiday… they sounded like punishment. But once the decision was made, Kiran promptly announced: “Let’s go to Tromsø, Norway.” And just like that, the remaining three family members took over. In no time, a neat, concise, action-packed (or should I say packed with action) 5-day Tromsø itinerary appeared and we got packing. As our flight approached Tromsø, we started seeing faint green streaks in the sky. Suddenly, the whole flight turned into a school bus ,everyone standing, craning necks, pointing ex...

So it was one of those crisp, golden autumn mornings when the world looks like it’s been filtered through honey. We’d just wrapped up a sweaty but super-fun dance practice with Sujatha — full of dramatic moves, chaotic steps, and some serious “Bollywood-meets-gym” vibes. That’s when Apeksha and Jaydeep dropped their brilliant plan: “Let’s do a photoshoot!” Now, I’m not one to say no to free glamour, so of course, I volunteered as tribute — I mean, as the subject.  Enter: The Saree Stylist Extraordinaire All I had to do was stand still, while Jaydeep,who I’m convinced was a costume designer in a past life .. worked his magic. He took a plain old me and wrapped me in nine yards of Narayanpeth silk magic, complete with a stole made of khanache kapad that screamed heritage and elegance. Jaydeep’s attention to detail is something else. He doesn’t just drape a saree; he sculpts it. And the tips he casually shared while doing so — tips I had clearly lived decades without knowing — were...

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...