BOMBAY BURNING (Satis Shroff)

Munjo Mumbai!
Bombay’s burning.
All Muslims are not terrorists,
Although some Muslims are.
Not all Hindus are honourable,
But many are.

Whether one is a terrorist,
Lies in the eyes of the observer.
Are the eyes
Those of Hindus or Muslims,
Jains or Sikhs,
Christians or Parsis,
Buddhists or Bahais,
Animists or atheists
Or the Dalits of the Hindu society?

Are the 130 million Muslims of India
To be judged by the Hindus,
Because Bombay’s Taj Mahal Hotel blew up
At the hands of the ‘Deccan Mujahidin?’
The ghost of Osama’s al-Qaida
Makes the rounds again.

India’s liberal, secular status
Is at stake,
When anti-Muslim resentiments
Are fired
By emotional Hindu nationalists.
Is it Hafiz Saeed versus Babu Bajrangi?
There’s more to it
Than meets the eye.

The USA can bomb
Al-Qaida and Taliban
Hideouts in Pakistan.
But India cannot follow suit.
The wounds in the consciousness
Of Indians and Pakistanis,
Caused by the division of the subcontinent
Haven’t healed yet.
The Babri mosque,
The slaughter of Muslims in Gujerat,
The war in Kashmir
Still linger in the memories
Of the Pakistanis.
An attack would only
Open old clots
And trigger a nuclear war.

Have not the Muslims
Of this subcontinent
Shown solidarity and loyalty
When China waged a Himalayan krieg,
When India freed the people of East Pakistan,
When India fought against the Nizam of Hyderabad?

Hindus and Muslims
Can be friends,
Just as Buddhists and Christians.
Let not communal strife
Pollute our minds.
Let us live
And let live.
Togetherness,
Miteinander,
Should be the cry of the day,
Not bloodshed and mayhem
In the name of Allah, Shiva or Christus.

It is humans,
Fanatical humans,
Who create crimes,
Injustice and folly
On human souls.
Gewalt breeds only Gewalt.

Hush, read the holy Koran,
Bible, Vedas and Upanishads
Between the lines,
And struggle for more words of love,
Understanding, tolerance, dignity
Of humans and animals
In this precious world.
Shanti!
Shanti!

· * *
Cocktail Klatsch (Satis Shroff)

A cocktail party is an intermittent dance,
With champagne glass in the hand,
And a blonde’s waist in the other.

Dodging and negotiating
Between sips and slips,
Small talk.

With zeitgeist music,
As a psycho-barrier,
When confronted by
Ladies and gents,
You don’t prefer
To exchange niceties,
Personal secrets
Or somatic secretes
With.

* * *

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

The dance floor,
A heaven to those
Who know how to dance:
The salsa, samba, tango,
The fox and the waltz.

How many shoe soles have I danced,
How may souls have I conquered?
Here I am,
Longing for a dance,
A paraplegic dancer.

I dance now
With my eyes,
Even when I seem
To gaze in the distance.

I hear wonderful melodies
From the Spring of my life.
I dance now
In my mind.

* * *

Isolation (Satis Shroff)

She had a small soul
And little education.
She gave,
But sought
Something else in return.

She loved her husband,
Pampered him in society,
For all to see.
Did she love him,
Or his wallet?
And things money can buy?

She shielded him from his friends,
With whom he’d fought
In the trenches of Stalingrad,
Cornered together like rats,
And prayed when Stalin’s Orgel
Screamed murderously over them.

He needed love and care
After the trauma of war.
Woke up in sleep
With nightmares of the krieg.

He gave up his camarades,
For a wife who said she loved him.
They had sauerkraut and spätzle,
Watched tennis and thrillers on TV,
And had no time for others.
Lonesome pensioners,
In self-inflicted isolation.

What came was depression
Sans eyes,
Sans friends.
Failing senses
Varicose veins,
Cerebral sclerosis,
Alzheimer and strokes.
The light went out.
Was someone out there?

* * *

The Feud (Satis Shroff)

The feud I fought
Was not whole heartedly.
I handed it to a lawyer,
Who made a hash of it,
And a judge who was subjective.

I had to pay a heavy loss.
Would it have been better,
Had I put my heart
Into the feud?

Can I forget it,
But not forgive?
Can you forgive,
But not forget?
Questions that still
Torment my soul.

* * *

Surya at Benaras (Satis Shroff)

My eyes and mind were fading
Under the rays of the scorching sun.
I was at Benaras,
Standing in the polluted
But holy river.

Half naked,
With a sacred thread,
Greeting Surya,
The child of dawn,
The great source of light
And warmth:
The Sun.

You are the nourisher,
The brilliant light-maker,
The eye of the world,
The witness of men’s deeds.
Oh, you king of the constellations,
You,
Who possesses a thousand rays.

I was mumbling a Sanskrit litany,
I’d learned from my dear Mom :
Hara, hara Gungay,
Saba paapa langay.
May all the sins of this world
Be washed away
By the Ganges.

Glossary:
Gungay: Holy Ganges of the Hindus
Saba: all
Paap: sin
Benaras: Old name for Varanasi

* * *

Wine (Satis Shroff)

He who drinks sings,
He who sinks drinks,
You say.

He who drinks
Drops and spills
His wine,
His self,
His Ich
His life.

And when it’s spilt,
Can you still drink?
Is it you
Or is it the wine
That spilt your life?

* * *
Glossary:
Ich: German word for Id (Freud), I, me

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

Why do you run after me?
You are seduced by my voice,
My style and verse.

Follow your heart,
Your own words.

Till then,
We go different ways.
We follow different paths,
Though we hear the same rhythm.
And in doing so,
We meet again.
Aufwiedersehen,
Arrividerci.

* * *
The Whiteness in the Zone of Death (Satis Shroff)

The best view of the world
Is from the top of the highest mountain,
The Abode of the Gods.

‘The best way to climb a peak
Is not to give it
A single thought.
Think of a thousand other things,’
Said the climber from abroad,
To the sherpa.

Suddenly it became stormy,
The dreaded whiteout came
With howling, biting winds,
Tons of snow everywhere.

The sahib had only a single thought.
‘Hilf mir, O Gott!’
And cried like a new born baby,
Scared of the wilderness,
Scared of the whiteness
That surrounded him.

He found the sherpa,
Who said:
‘ Here, where you stand,
Is almost the summit, Sir.
Welcome to the Abode of the Gods.’
‘The abode of what?’
‘The Gods,’ said the sherpa.

The climber turned around:
Whiteness in the death zone,
As far as he could imagine.

A step to the right,
A step behind,
And a blood-curdling scream.
Swallowed by a treacherous crevice.

The half-frozen sherpa mumbled,
‘Om mane peme hum,
Vajra guru
Peme siddhay hum!’
Till sunrise.

He opened his eyes,
Thanked the Gods of the Himalayas
For saving his life,
Felt sorry for the sahib,
And descended
With a heavy heart.

* * *
Manjushri and the Heart of the World (Satis Shroff)

The green fields in the Vale of Catmandu
Shuddered as the heavens parted,
Revealing the secrets of the Himalayas.

Manjushri appeared with his mighty sword,
At this very place where you now stand,
For here was once a lake,
With turquoise waters.

The people hid behind their house-walls
And ornate windows.
They peered with awe
At what unfurled before them.

The Sanskrit and Nepalbhasa they spoke,
Left them wordless,
For Manjushri was there
To release their hearts,
To create a fertile land,
Below the barren hills.

The warrior from the East,
Raised his sword
And cut a gorge,
Where now the Chovar stands,
With its century old sediments.

Lo and behold!
The turquoise water became
A foamy, swirling, spiralling,
Circling mass with music
Rising to a crescendo.
It left Catmandu Valley
With incessant roars.

What remained was a fertile valley,
Rich in alluvium.
From the centre bloomed a lotus
And became
The heart of the world.

* * *

A White Page (Satis Shroff)

On a white page,
I’m searching for you.
I cannot bear to lose you.
Where have you been,
My lovely?

I remember the day
You entered my life.
Your soft gaze
With deep blue eyes.

We drank white wine at the bar,
Went home laughing,
Tipsy and joyful.
I thought it would last forever
And a day.

We were intoxicated
With love,
I thought.
Skins that sweat
And whispered
From the pores.
A never-ending longing
For you.

I heard the screeching of an owl,
Ach, where tenderness was uncovered,
When the clouds slithered past the moon.

I humoured you,
I reeled under the silence
Of the years.
There were distant cries,
But I heard only you.
I had to bear with you,
But you remained
A white page
In my life.
Adieu.

* * *

Souvenirs (Satis Shroff)

They come from lands afar
In search of impressions,
Kitsch or treasures,
For their designer cupboards,
Back home in western countries.

Busloads of them stream out,
Digital cameras, camcorders
Mobiles with cameras
And take shots of the village people,
Dilapidated huts,
Ornate windows, tattered clothes.
Guerrillas with guns,
Children with running noses,
For Mom is down in the vale,
Chopping wood for the hearth.

They click and store the temples,
Shrines, pagodas, palaces,
Gigabytes of global images
For family albums,
Power-point presentations.
Slide-shows for all and sundry,
The intimate images
Of a foreign country.

Will the tourists tell,
When they reveal
What they’ve stored,
Of how hard it is to survive,
In the foothills of the Himalayas?
Where the sun shines at day
And Himalayan winds and wolves
Howl at night.

Where the monsoon brings
Torrential rain and death
From June to September,
And where the earth is dry,
Barren in winter.
Where the waters of the lake Phewa
Mirror the snows of Annapurna
And the fish-tailed one,
Like in a pretty post-card.

* * *
The Music of the Breakers (Satis Shroff)

I remember the beautiful music
From the streets of Bombay,
Munjo Mumbai,
Where I spent the winters
During my school-days.

Or was it musical noise?
Unruhe, panic and flight for some,
It was the music of life for me
In that tumultuous,
Exciting city.

When the sea of humanity was too much for me,
I could escape by train to the Marine Drive,
And see and hear
The music of the breakers.
The waves of the Arabian Sea
Splashing and thrashing
Along the coast of Mumbai.
Your muscles flex,
The nerves flatter,
The heart gallops,
As you feel how puny you are,
Among all those incessant and powerful waves.

'The manner in which Satis Shroff writes takes the reader right along with him. Extremely vivid and just enough and the irony of the music. Beautiful prosaic thought and astounding writing.
'Your muscles flex, the nerves flatter, the heart gallops,
As you feel how puny you are,
Among all those incessant and powerful waves.'
“Satis Shroff's writing is refined – pure undistilled.” (Susan Marie, www.Gather.com

Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg. He’s a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff).
His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:
„Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich)
Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).
“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.
'Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German form mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix. Nepal is a jewel on the Earth’s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.' Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007.