Poems ,Stories and lot more .. By Maneesha Purandare

  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...