Tea, books and the art of escape - Naked Truth chapter 31

Books save lives

Photo by Tina Dawson on Unsplash

Saturday morning. Snatam Kaur is whispering “Sat Nam—I Am.”

Such simple words, such delicate sounds. No aggression, no conflict. Just presence. I Am.

Martha closes her eyes for a moment. Do I know who I am? she wonders. I am many people, I am…

She takes a sip of her tea. It is strong—PG Tips, some would call it "builder’s tea." Just the way she likes it. Long before she ever worked with builders on sites across the UK and abroad, she had heard the expression. It was always synonymous with the strong, no-nonsense tea that builders drank—often with two or three teaspoons of sugar for good measure.

In Romania, coffee had always been the equivalent of tea a pick-me-up to fuel long hours. In the old days—perhaps even now—it was sometimes fortified with a mouthful of “țuică, - a strong traditional drink, rocket fuel some might say, especially when working outside in the cold and rain. These drinks sustained those who worked with their hands, offering a shot of tannin and caffeine, a moment to pause, to talk, to reset before continuing their labor.

Years ago, in her early twenties, when she first came to England on business, she had fallen in love with Earl Grey. There was something delightfully exotic about its taste. The floral notes of bergamot felt both alluring and all-embracing, wrapping her senses in an unfamiliar yet comforting embrace. Even now, that taste brings back memories of Somerset Maugham’s books. Perhaps because she had read his stories while sipping the same tea all those years ago?

Taste buds are such powerful anchors of memory, don’t you think?

“I had forgotten how it tastes,” Martha whispers.

Her chunky, earthy mug listens in silence, always attentive, absorbing her words, processing her emotions.

Somerset Maugham—his stories, his worlds—was such a part of happy times for her.

“To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.” - Somerset Maugham

Suddenly, she is back in Romania, riding a bus across the city - one hand holding into a bar and the other holding the open book - to a meeting at the National Television station. It is spring, and the sweet, heady scent of “salcâm” blossoms fills the air, coming through the busses open window.

She suddenly remembered the sweetness of each flower as yes they are edible and well that the English translation of the word salcim is black locust. What a name!

Apparently despite its name, the black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia) is not related to true locust trees. It’s native to North America but has spread widely across Europe, including Romania, where you will find it everywhere. The salcâm blossoms have a wonderfully sweet, unforgettable scent, and they’re even used in Romanian cuisine for making fritters or syrups.

The memory washes over her, vivid and intoxicating.

Long bus trips never bothered Martha—they gave her the perfect excuse to block out the world. A book in hand, she could escape into other worlds, her beloved writers as constant companions and friends.

Most of the time, Martha even read while walking. She never bumped into anyone, never crossed the street at the wrong place—always safe, always aware in ways that others might not have noticed. This habit, formed in early childhood, became an invisible shield, a quiet layer of protection between herself and her thoughts, her fears.

Years later, she would realize—it had been one of her ways of coping. A way to deal with trauma, to manage fear. A form of dissociation, separating herself from a reality that had often been too much to bear. Her body moved through the world, but her mind remained elsewhere, tucked away in the safety of stories.

Quite a few people say that books save lives. For some, it’s just a poetic notion—a phrase that sounds profound. But Martha knew, at a visceral level, that it was true.

Life has never been a bed of roses for Martha. It has been more of a battlefield—one after another—yet also a journey where she encountered extraordinary, even providential, people who rescued her when she thought all was lost.

She began writing this piece to the sweet tones of kirtan and Snatam Kaur, and now, as she types the final words, La Llorona plays on her phone. It is a song she loves with all her heart. Many singers have interpreted it, but none as profoundly as Chavela Vargas, especially in her later years. Her performance in her 80s carries a weight that makes your spine shudder—the raw emotion, the dramatic intensity. You cannot listen to her without feeling her pain; you cannot hear her without wanting to wrap your arms around her.

An exceptional song of longing, love, and sorrow, La Llorona is woven into the fabric of Mexican folklore—a tapestry rich in color, emotion, and life itself.

🎶 Chavela Vargas – One of the most famous renditions, an inspiration
🎶 Lila Downs – A touch of modernity but still keeping the traditional vibe
🎶 Ángela Aguilar – There is nothing like keeping the tradition alive
🎶 Natalia Lafourcade – Not your usual interpretation but beautiful

🎶 Sofia Meneses - There is something so tender in this young voice, something so painful and hauntingly beautiful

Martha remembers the moment she first encountered Chavela Vargas—through the film Frida, starring Salma Hayek. It’s a movie she can watch over and over without ever growing tired of it.

Frida Kahlo inspires her—a life lived fully, despite unbearable suffering, loss, and betrayal. So much color, so much zest for life, so much raw honesty, baring her soul for the world to see, unafraid to expose the cards fate had dealt her. She lived like a true rebel—defying politics, society, her own pain, and a destiny almost too cruel to name. And yet, she remained a fighter—brave beyond belief.

Martha’s admiration for Frida runs deep. It is no surprise that several of her own paintings are dedicated to this extraordinary woman—”her own interpretation, her own voice”.

For a long time, painting was the only voice Martha had. This is where her truth lives, where the “untold stories” whisper from beneath the surface. Hidden behind the “vivid colours and flowing lines” are fragments of pain, resilience, and everything left unsaid.

Until next time, be well!

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Frida - when the soul speaks again - painting by Corina Stupu Thomas