By Sweta Srivastava Vikram

A writer friend once said, “We, writers, are needy people. We want constant affirmation and assurance about our grandness.” She was right. With the increasing number of creative types in the world, the competition keeps getting tougher. Every one aims to get their hands on a slice of fame. Every writer tries to be different. And sometimes, it’s easier to find your unique voice when you are away from the distractions of your daily life – at writers’ residencies or retreats.

About a month and a half ago, after being accepted at a writer’s retreat in the Beara Peninsula of Ireland, I set out to make my mark. I was extremely excited about the opportunity. The focus of this retreat is just one thing: The accomplishment of artistic goals. The ethos of the place is to enable the process. So chores don’t create a hindrance in the creative journey, artists are pampered to an extent indescribable. Even your laundry is done for you. Every meal is freshly prepared and has homemade taste. And the Irish, like the Indians, are quite obsessed with loving, sinful cooking. Butter, crème, and freshly baked cakes are a significant part of the meals. No wonder I gained weight despite walking for two hours every day.

I couldn’t wait to see my fantasy land. But when I reached the retreat, I found out that the director had to leave for the United States because of a family emergency. My world crumbled a little. But before I could panic, a fellow writer, an Indian Irish woman, came to my rescue. Her name was Cauvery Madhavan (Author of “The Uncoupling” and “Paddy Indian”). She distracted me by sharing information that would excite any budding writer. Legends like Billy Collins and Jhumpa Lahiri had spent time at this retreat. When she told me that I was staying in the same room where Billy Collins had stayed about a year ago, I died of ecstasy. And, of course, I temporarily forgot about my anxiety.

So how did Cauvery know what would work to calm my nerves? Cauvery and I drove up together to the retreat from Dublin because my flight from Dublin to Cork (the closest airport to the retreat) was canceled. The director had put me in touch with Cauvery, who generously offered to pick me up from Dublin airport.

Sometimes it takes eternity to know a person, while other times, a few hours are enough. Cauvery and I got chatty on our four-hour drive. There was a sense of familiarity. I don’t know if it was karmic alignment or just sheer coincidence, but she and I had a lot in common. Cauvery went to the same school, for a few years, in Mumbai as my husband’s sister. She and my brother’s wife studied from Stella Maris college in Chennai. Hold your breath; she and my brother went to boarding schools in Dehradun, which isn’t really far from Mussoorie – the hill station where my boarding school was. It doesn’t end there; both our husbands are April born and she and I were both born in January.

A very optimistic lady, Cauvery spoke fondly of her life in Ireland and her family. She asked me about my career, interests, and family. It was informal banter, which never got stale. Right from the first hour, I learnt a lot from her. It was refreshing to meet a writer who adorned her weaknesses just as gracefully as strengths. A good role model.

I knew Cauvery was a published novelist but didn’t realize how famous she was until one morning at breakfast, when a group of us were discussing immigration and identity, she talked about a particular article that had appeared in the Evening Herald. Cauvery has written for several publications in Ireland. She is also a travel writer for one of the leading travel magazines and has done several radio shows. But she doesn’t wear a brag-tattoo on her forehead. If anything, she attached prolific adjectives to my name while introducing me to other writers.

Every day, after lunch, Cauvery and I would go for at least a ninety-minute walk, if not longer. She would tell me about the history and geography of Ireland. I had so many questions to ask about writing and publishing, and she patiently answered them all. Sometimes, she volunteered publishing tips, words of wisdom, and names of useful contacts. She would say, “You remind me of myself when I was your age.” Oh yeah, age was a big joke at the retreat since I was the youngest of the lot. Cauvery told everyone how I was born the year she graduated from high school. I blame it on the jetlag for letting that information slip out of mouth.

Anyway, as the days went by, the volcano in Iceland erupted wreaking havoc. I was disturbed because after my residency, my husband was supposed to join me in the Eyeries. We had a week of vacation planned around his birthday. But with the European airspace closed, the probability of his trip became dimmer with each passing day. I was anxious. What would I do until the airspace opened? Where would I stay? Our hotel reservations had to be canceled. Flight, train, and car bookings had to be altered. I loved Ireland the warmth of its people, but I wanted to get home.

Cauvery, in a calm tone, said, “No need to stay in a hotel. You stay with me and my family in Kildare.” Kildare is a suburb/village forty minutes outside of Dublin. Normally, I would be hesitant living with a stranger, but Cauvery voice was so nurturing that I trusted her. Something told me it was going to be okay. She comforted me that I was going to be alright. That I would reach New York.

But her bigheartedness didn’t end there. I spent four days with Cauvery, her loving family, three dogs, a kitten, and ten hens, before I moved to a hotel. She said to me, “You lost time at the retreat, as the volcano distracted you. Use this time at my place to write.” She asked if I wanted to call my parents and comfort them. For some reason, my parents and in-laws were under the impression that I was sitting in a desolate corner of Ireland, covered in volcanic ash.

Cauvery’s energy carries over her family and even her animals. Even her thirteen-year old would enquire whether I was doing okay. We celebrated my husband’s birthday, while he was in San Francisco, by cutting a cake and drinking good wine at this munificent novelist’s house. This is when there was personal chaos going on in Cauvery’s life with a series of her friends and then dog falling prey to cancer. But she never once made me feel that I was an additional responsibility.

My mother always says she loves how my husband always makes himself at home, anywhere. But I am not like that. Aside from my own house and my parents’, I am rather formal. I could be dying of splitting headache, but I won’t even ask for tea unless someone offered it to me. But at Cauvery’s, I felt uninhibited. Maybe because she was so relaxed and didn’t treat me like an outsider.

Barbara Babcock, a legendary Hollywood actress and Emmy award-winner who was at the retreat asked, “Did you both get along because of the Indian roots in common or was it chemistry?” Both Cauvery and I answered simultaneously, “Chemistry.” One of the housekeepers at the retreat said to Cauvery, “You look after her like she’s your younger sister.” And you know, what Cauvery Madhavan has done for me, very few humans would. She welcomed a stranded stranger, me, in her house and not even for a moment did she or her family make me feel unwelcomed.

I am a strong believer in the adage, “Every thing happens for a reason.” I am not exactly sure what “good” came out of my changed-plans. I am still unhappy about the time I didn’t get to spend with my husband in Ireland. But I do know that I am glad to have made a new literary friend who taught me humility and benevolence. She's taught a cynical New Yorker, me, that not every stranger who says a hello is a serial killer.

In India, people believe marriages are made in heaven. But does the same hold true for friendships? I don’t know, but fate does have a role to play in bringing people together, not ethnicity. I truly believe that getting along with someone has nothing to do with their age; it’s the attitude.

AUTHOR BIO: Sweta Srivastava Vikram (www.swetavikram.com) is a multi-genre writer and marketing professional living in New York City. She is the author of an upcoming chapbook of poetry from Modern History Press, “Kaleidoscope: An Asian Journey of Colors.” Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in literary journals, online publications, and anthologies across the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, India, New Zealand, and Philippines. Sweta was recently offered a part scholarship for a workshop with the Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation in San Francisco. She is a graduate of Columbia University.