About two years ago, I visited an ancient monastery in caves near Chisinau ,Moldova . I talked in the best way I could with the monk who lived in the caves. He spoke only Russian and I English.He looked as ancient as the monastery and had been living there for 20 years. It was like being in a surreal painting.  I mean, how on earth could I have devined even a month aao that I would be in a remote place in a country called Moldova and my path would cross with that of an old monk who lived in a cave lit only by oil lamos! 
I had thought then that I wanted to share this experience with people interested .It is only now that I decided to do something about it.  So I started writing . There are too many wonderful people in this world and too many moving experiences  not to get written about ,I think.
My gorgeous daughter set this blog up for me and got me started. I cannot get over the fact that I can write about what I hold dear in my heart and a few of you ,near and far out there will read ! 

So Hello !

,And because we can communicate through this page and I appreciate it, do write your comments . 

Writing comments is a bit of a mystery but I think I figured it out.
1. Write your comment on : “post a comment” at the bottom of the page
2. Select “comment as” – which will show you a drop down
3. Then select the Name/URL or Anonymous option and post


On the 23rd of June this year,after the memorial service for the victims of the Air India plane crash of 1985 (I have written about it in my previous post),we were ushered outside the memorial by local county council members to have some tea. 

Nothing had prepared me for what was on offer. Tables and chairs had been laid out by the road side,by the side of the memorial and the sea. The relatives of the victims had already been seated. It was still raining in tiny drops but most people ,especially the Irish ,were steadfastly ignoring it.

A tiny portable had been set up .This was acting as a kitchen . Some village people and council members were bustling about serving hot tea in china cups and lots of food , among which was the most delicious rhubarb pie I have ever eaten, served with a huge dollop of cream. The families were being pressed to eat more,exactly as we do in India.
It was a unique experience- a tea party in the rain in a tiny village,Ahakista, that even a lot of Irish have not heard of!

I spoke with a few Irish people there. Among them was the lady who offered her cottages to two of the families that came to the memorial every year. She attended the service without fail year after year and had become a dear  friend of the families. Another was a gentleman who had helped with the rescue operations after the crash. He ,too, attended the service year after year.

I was touched by the whole experience. Not only by the humility but also by the love with which everything was being done for people who were mainly strangers.

 Here is the poem I wrote:

The ceremony had just ended.

Strangely the cloud of solemnity had lifted.

Local school children now smiling ,chatting.
Adults posing for pictures,
Now talking ,then laughing.

Rain falls through a sky so grey,
Wind whispers through every leaf.
I ignore the rain – from the others I learn.

I walk out the memorial and by the roadside,
See tables lined up and chairs beside.
I see mothers,fathers,sisters brothers,
Holding up umbrellas ,sitting side by side,
forgetting their pain – they talk and even smile.

Thick sandwiches and cakes
And other interesting bakes
Arranged on the tables in real china plates.
An English style, Irish tea party it was,
But in the rain ,on Ahakista shores !

Steaming hot Irish breakfast tea,
Served in china cups,
Home-baked scones and jam
in tiny glass tubs.
An English style,Irish tea party it was,
But in the rain,on Ahakista shores ! 

Ignoring the rain,
Strangers served and bustled about .
That it was with love,
There was no doubt.

It lifts the gloom ,they said,changes their mood
When families are offered tea with good food.
The thought was simple.
It worked,I could see,
As strangers sat together smiling ,
Over cups of steaming tea.

What makes strangers do that, I wonder,
That they stand by people whose lives are torn asunder.
Year after year come they,
It is strangers beside who they stand.
Soothing tears ,warming hearts,
In the rain and cold they reach out,hold their hand. 

About Adity

Hello ! You are either already a friend or will become one--through this medium! I am an artist and jewellery maker, a wife and mother to two lovely children. Beautiful homes, food, nature and wonderful things happening around me make me ecstatic. That is why I started to write this blog-- to share with you all of these things. After all what good is any experience if not shared !
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3 Responses to

  1. Anonymous says:

    There were tears in my eyes. Wish we could do something similar for father. The poet in you emerges as a painting. I feel I am in Ireland -standing beside you on the shores of the ocean,with the raindrops mingling with the tears trickling down my face as I lift my heads to take in the atmosphere.

  2. Anonymous says:

    Adity, great blog, keep posting, and post pictures of your art work too!! xxx Manel

  3. Shikha Chaki says:

    Adity,I feel very proud that I was with you when you started writing this blog.The piece about Ahakista and the poem must have touched many hearts as it did mine.I love your writing….keep it up.

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