Welcome to Contemporary Writings by Satis Shroff (Freiburg)

Hi Everybody! Writing is something wonderful, whether you write poems or prose (short-stories, fiction, non-fiction) and it's great to express yourself and let the reader delve into your writings and share the emotions that you have experienced through the use of verbs, the muscles of a story, as my Creative Writing Prof Bruce Dobler at the University of Freiburg, Germany) used to say. I'd like to share my Contemporary Writings with YOU! Happy reading.

Sincerely,

Satis Shroff

Saturday, July 21, 2007

Fatal Decision in the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)


FATAL DECISION (Satis Shroff)

‘Please give me a glass of water,’ said the London-trained Nepalese physician, as he came into the room, where a group of Nepalese people with Mongolian and Caucasian features were gathered, either pitying or wondering what the strange illness could be.


With the glass of water in his hand, the swarthy, thick-set, bespectacled doctor approached the thin, emaciated girl, who'd retreated to a corner of the apartment like a cornered cat, and was having fits. A brown froth oozed out of her thin mouth.


As soon as she caught sight of the stranger with the water, she let out a chilling scream that seemed to echo in the Himalayas.


The physician turned to the girl's father and said, "I'm sorry Mr. Rana, I cannot do anything for your daughter. She has hydrophobia," And with that he packed his black medical bag and left.
Mr. Rana was stunned. The shock of the doctor's poker face, and dry diagnosis hit him with such a vehemence that he reeled mentally.


"But there must be some hope or solution for Sudha, my daughter," he uttered.


He told his wife what the doctor has said, adding that their daughter had no hope of surviving the dog-bite, for Maya Devi spoke only Nepali and no English.


The doctor had spoken in English, as all educated Nepalese did, even among each other.
Sudha was dying and there was no help at hand. Even modern medicine, with all its antibiotics, cortisones, antiferons wouldn't be able to help their child.


"Oh, Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva! Please don't let us down", cried Maya Devi, summoning the Hindu Trinity, with a mixture of fear and worry. And she decided to send for the local shaman, a jhakri, and dispatched a female relative of hers with the nickname 'Bhunti’, which means a fat person, not that she was pregnant or had a pot belly, but because she had a hollow back, with the result that she went through life preceded by her belly.


Mr.Rana had faith in allopathic medicine and didn't trust the traditional medicine or that which passed for traditional medicine, especially the jhakris, dhamis, bijuwas, lamas and others who took to what he called "phuk-phak" methods, which literally meant 'blowing-and-throwing.'
He preferred the old western school-medicine for himself and his family. That was because his brother and grandfather were physicians, having studied at the Grant Medical College in Bombay in the days of the British Raj.


It had almost become a family tradition, and he was contemplating to send his eldest son to this college, despite the astronomical sums that the medical colleges demanded in India in general. They called these criminal sums open-donations, and was a rather done thing.


His wife, being a traditional Tamang tribes-woman, didn't think much of modern medicine and went back to the traditional healers that she knew through her parents and grandparents for they'd lived in the foothills of the Himalayas and had heard only hair-raising stories of the practitioners of modern medicine. Whereas a local shaman was happy with a dozen eggs or a small goat, you had to pay in currency notes to the modern doctor. And currency notes were scarce in the hills of Nepal, where people bartered with natural products.


Maya Devi had seen a sick neighbour receiving a glucose injection with an outsized hypodermic syringe, and that had scared the wits out of her. She didn't know what the thing was, but it certainly looked frightening. The patient, a diabetic, had died soon after.


After that experience she'd decided that she'd definitely not go to a modern doctor.
Her grandpa, who had been a village shaman, had treated and cured the whole village, sometime or other, ever since she knew him. And what's more, he was her grandpa and that meant a lot to her and she had confidence in him, because he'd never do any harm or inflict injury, as was expected of true shamans.


She remembered once asking him how he'd become a shaman, and he'd told her that he'd been picked up in his childhood by the ban-jhakri, a wild, wise man who lived in the jungle in a cave, and who became his guru and had taught him the secrets of the healing plants and profession. Her grandpa had long hair, like that of the Hindu God Shiva of the Snows: unkempt but braided, and it gave him an extraordinary appearance as he'd sit near his house altar, where he had his ritual objects. To her he was Shiva reincarnated.


Maya Devi's husband, an educated civil servant of His Majesty's government, sneered at times about her faith in the jari-buti, as the medicinal roots-and-stems were called.


After what seemed like ages, Bhunti turned up with a lean man, who had Mongolian features. He was thought to be a 'knowing' practitioner of his blow-and-throw trade. He was half Tamang and half Bhotay, as people of Tibetan origin are called, and looked as though he, himself, was suffering from consumption. He was untidily dressed, had blood-shot eyes and stuck his thin black hair under his monkey-cap, and had a pair of drooping moustaches. He was left alone and Bhunti catered to his needs and demands.


First of all, he demanded rice grains to be brought for the blowing part of the ceremony, and then alcohol, since he belonged to the matwali-jat, which means the 'caste-that-drinks-alcohol.'
In the high-caste, ritual purity-pollution thinking Hindu society, it is regarded as a direct affront when one is offered alcohol. But since this was an emergency situation, a matter of life and death in the family, there were no protests. Neither from her otherwise orthodox Hindu husband, not from the relatives and neighbours.


Meanwhile, after gulping some of the raksi (alcohol) as though he was drinking lemon juice, he began the treatment by raising his voice and reciting a mantra and counting the rice grains on a copper plate. After each chant he drew a deep breath and blew his breath thrice in quick succession.


His first intention was to find out whether the child, who was letting out screams intermittently, was seized by a witch in the neighbourhood or a distant demon (bhut), for only then could he apparently begin treatment. After more swigs of the Gurkha raksi, his mantras became unintelligible and he seemed to withdraw within himself.


After a great deal of time, he began shaking and said in staccato bursts, "It's the demon from the othay-khola". A rivulet in the vicinity of the town. 'Othay' means a 'lip' in Nepali.
The diagnosis having been completed, a blood-sacrifice had to be made to appease the concerned river-demon along with a prayer to the Mahaguru: Shiva. It had to be a little red rooster.


Bhunti organised a red rooster in no time, and the jhakri prepared his ritual.
Although Mr. Rana showed respect this time for the traditional methods despite his distrust, he just couldn't help feeling irritated by this particular species of his sort, especially his preference for alcohol at a critical moment in someone's life.


"Perhaps he's just an alcoholic and practised traditional medicine as a quack, a dabbler who could in effect do nothing," he thought. There was nothing he could do at the moment. He had to try it out with this quack too. It was faith healing at its best. Either you believed in someone or not. Take it or leave it. There was no choice. And when you're in a desperate situation, you had to take all the chances that were available to soothe your conscience."


Meanwhile, the thin girl had started seeing double, because her optic nerve was affected, and her brain stem was assaulted by the rabies-virus and she had problems with her swallowing reflex.


Her mother had tried to give her water not knowing the medical implications and her daughter had a spasm of panicky angst and screamed again.


"Oh God, my poor Sudha, what's become of you?" cried Maya Devi as she held her daughter wrapped in a brown blanket. It was pathetic to see a pretty daughter, a girl who was only eight years old, with beautiful black hair and an olive complexion turn virtually into a skeleton, so that even the teeth seemed to jut out, the body growing thin, dehydrating and the psyche a chaos, for she was no longer able to take in the world as it had been.


There was a mighty struggle going on in her nervous system, and it registered through her brown and frothy saliva and her screams of angst and terror, which had seized her. She was evidently losing the fight.


A neighbour suggested that the patient should be immediately transported to Kathmandu for "further treatment." Another thought it would be better to try out a local dhami, a traditional healer, and yet another an ayurvedic practitioner from the town, who wore spectacles and a turban and was from the Punjab. A well-meaning Lepcha neighbour said, "Ranaji, you should call a Lepcha Bongthing who is a mediator between humans and the Spirits. If that doesn't help we could engage a Limbu Yeba exorcist.


Mr.Rana had often seen the Limbu Yeba males going about wearing their ridiculous creased white skirts and turbans, with long feathers, cauri and rudraksha garlands.
"Why not try homeopathy?" said another.


In this lost and helpless state there was nothing to do but to try everything, like a drowning person clinging to the last straw, and so began an odysee of 'treatments' carried out in the hope of saving a child whose body and mind were rebelling and running out of control.
Mrs. Rana's thought wandered to the day when her daughter Sudha had returned with a neighbour's daughter after the bhai-tika ceremony from a distant part of the town. Bhai-tika, the festival during which the sisters proffered various honours on their brothers after a ritual puja, whereby the brothers are blessed with prosperity and protection against the adversities of human existence and unseen evils. And who could think that evil would strike on such an auspicious day?


As is the custom in Nepal, the people have their chicken, dogs, yaks and goats outside the courtyard. The dog, which was a bitch, had let out a few snarls and barks to warn passers-by that they were trespassing her marked territory. The children had been scared by the angry barks and had emitted shrieks of fear, and the bitch had made for the two scared children in a frenzy and had bitten them on their legs after a short pursuit.


The two girls had returned home crying and told their parents about the fierce dog that had bitten them. However, the parents who were entertaining guests in the afternoon hadn't thought anything worse about the consequences of a dog-bite and Mr. Rana had only used the zinc oxide and eucalyptus salve that you find in every household. He had faith it would heal the wound, as in the past against other bites and wounds.


And that had been a terrible mistake.


Whereas the other girl Chitra was immediately sent to a local doctor, who gave her anti-rabies injections, Mr. Rana's daughter was treated with only a smear salve.


"That ought to do the trick," Mr. Rana had thought. "Why spend more money unnecessarily on the doctor? Injections were expensive. And after all, if the salve had the same effect, why not save the money for another purpose?"


Only last Monday the Nepalese Brahmin from Dhankuta had visited them and had predicted something inauspicious in the near future in the family. But in order to counteract that he had suggested making an amulet for his two daughters, with vedic mantras inscribed in them, which were thought to have preventive and protective effects against the bad planets (grahas) that had changed their constellations. The Brahmin was a jotisi, a learned Benaras-returned astrologer, with the ability to interpret and analyse the astrological data of Hindus, for every Hindu possessed a long scroll (janai-patra), which bears all the lucky and unlucky, the auspicious and inauspicious days in one's lifetime, noted according to the constellation of one's zodiac sign, and starting from the date of one's birth.


In the Nepal of yore, this scroll of paper was an important document, and it still is, in the Middle Mountains of Nepal where the Chettris and Brahmins live.


Mr.Rana though a Chettri from birth, didn't think much of the jotisis and other wandering brahmins. As far as he was concerned, they were slimy, garrulous, cunning fellows who went from house to Hindu house talking fancy Sanskrit with the married women who were unfailingly always at home, and departing with a handsome dakshina (offering) in the form of: rice, currency notes and coins, and sometimes even a whole cow. The Hindu religion allowed it, and the priests and astrologers made the best of this belief.


The doctor's words had struck Mr. Rana like a guillotine. It was a death sentence.


A dark, monsoon-like cloud hung over the family. A feeling of mourning, depression and helplessness spread, even though the daughter was breathing, shrieking and struggling with death. Their daughter had developed a hoarse throat and her whole frail body was shaking.
Mr. Rana had heard that it took at least 15 injections to treat the rabies virus. In these days it was even possible to do it with three shots, but what was the use of knowledge? Or when a medical therapy is refused due to the ignorance on the part of the parents who have the money, and therefore the power to decide whether a member of the family should be medically treated or not, through traditional or western healing methods.


The way Mr. Rana saw it, it had been a blatant misuse of power. And he had a terribly guilty conscience regarding his daughter. It had been a fatal decision. One part of his mind accused him and the other seemed to rationalise and shift the blame to the uselessness of medicine, even though man had set foot on the moon and the skies were studded with satellites belonging to the western world.


And Sudha died that night.


ENDS

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About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize. Please read his poems and articles in www.google & www.yahoo under search: satis shroff.


Satis Shroff’s bicultural perspective makes his prose and poems rich, full of awe, and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his prose and poetry. (Sandra Siegel, poetess, Germany)

Women's Woes in the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)

The Nepalese women are very hard-working and there's need for gendering in the Nepalese society as they have been too long ignored and discriminated. When a Hindu woman gets her menses, which is a physiological phenomenon, they are treated as impure in a society which promotes purity and pollution thinking, leadint to discrimination of women. If a Magar, Rai, Gurung, Lepcha,Madhisay would like to add his views it would be only too welcome.

This work draws on my own experience and observations during my visits to Kathmandu and sojourn and student-days in Nepal. Since Nepal is one of those rare places which Nature and culture-enthusiasts would like to visit, I thought the plight of the Nepalese women ought to be told by your truly, because till now Nepal is only known for its tough male Gurkha soldiers, who fought on the side of the British in the First and Second World Wars, in the Falklands and in Kosovo and Croatia, the sturdy male Sherpas who have worked for the glory of all climbing nations in the Khumbu area, and is also known as the Land of the Yaks and the abominal Yeti.


I thought it would also be topical to talk about the fate of the Nepalese women in the Shangri-la. In James Hilton’s book ‘The Lost Horizon’ the local women never get old (unless they leave the enchanting Shangri-la environment), but the average Nepalese women have a lifespan of 50 years in one of the least developed countries in the world, and they never live to be 60.
Women who have spontaneous or natural abortions, or give birth to still born babies are charged with infanticide and sentenced to 20 years of imprisonment because Nepal’s former abortion law was based on an ancient, draconian Hindu law. Imagine: 20 years of imprisonment for a woman, when the average lifespan is 50 years ! Abortion was prohibited in Nepal under any circumstances (rape, incest, or when a pregnant woman’s life is threatened). There are no fair trials for the needy and poor women of Nepal and the justice caters only to the rich and influential people.


‘ Due to the lack in clarity in Nepal’s Law, many Nepalese women have been victimised on the ground of spontaneous abortion, whether it was a simple miscarriage or abortion caused by the heavy manual labour on the part of the woman. The women of Nepal cannot defend themselves because of the lack of definition of abortion’, says Singh B. Moktan, the director of PAM Nestling Home (PAM= Prisoners Assistance Mission) in Kathmandu.


What is needed is a mobilisation of women in Nepal, the USA, Europe and the world over in fighting this ancient, archaic practice of the Rule of Garbhabat. Despite the fact that democracy has dawned in Nepal and different political parties are allowed, the male population still dominates Nepalese politics and the plight of women hasn’t changed much, even though there are tourists in Kathmandu and along the trekking-trails, flocking to Nepal to see the Himalayas and take pictures of its rural women and children for mellow home slide-shows, amid relatives and neighbours. The benefits of democracy and westernisation haven’t caught up with the majority of the Nepalese women as yet.

The entire world knows how hard the average Nepalese woman works in the fields and in urban areas, and the price she has to pay is immense. Ethnic Nepalese women sell their own products in the local markets and provide for the family. In other cases, the men give their earnings to their wives and the latter have a feeling of sharing the income, but when it comes to deciding what to buy, it’s always the men who take over. The desires and plans of the women are just ignored. Nepal’s males control property and decide all financial transactions in the family, and the women are left with peanuts. The women cannot take credits from the banks because they never possess anything, and hence have no security. The women tend to be traditionally docile and dependent upon their husbands due to the fact that they’re cut-off from financial sources.
The Nepalese men spend the family-savings as they please, for drinks and eating out with their friends, and for their own chauvinistic needs.


The women and children, on the other hand, have to do without basic items like clothes and school-fees. The majority of the illiterate and thus socially handicapped women think in the traditional hinduistic way and leave the men to make decisions. Many women also fear that they might lose their positions as family-treasurers.

There are a lot of doctors for the rich people in Kathmandu but none for those in the rural, isolated and God-forsaken hamlets of Nepal, and those deprived, hungry souls eking out a miserable existence in the hovels and slums under the Bagmati and Vishnumati bridges. A land where children are jailed if a mother is sentenced for aborting a dead child. The women in Nepal are handicapped from birth till death in their Himalayan environment--in their families, education, farms, offices and in every sphere of life. It’s a long and thorny path till the Nepalese women are accepted as persons, and not as properties that are malleable, and without wills of their own. The Nepalese women have to develop an awareness and self-esteem of their own worth, women’s rights, potential and the important roles they play in the economy of their families and the country in general.

According to a Unicef report, the children of Nepal have to start doing important work at an early age. They have to do baby-sitting, gather fire-wood, forage for feed for the domestic animals or drive them to the meadows. These chores take such a lot of time that the children don’t have time for school, especially daughters who have to help in the households at an early age. They have to work eight hours a day and the sons work just half of the time. Most Nepalese children work barefoot and wear inadequate clothing because they cannot afford it.


Nevertheless, Nepalese children attract your attention with their attentive looks, open and curious faces and their spontaneous and cheerful laughter. 46 per cent of Nepal’s population are younger than 15 years. And although 45 per cent of the six to eight year olds go to school, only half of them do their primary school exams. Nepal has millions of children without school-education and without carefree childhoods. Education can improve the survival chances of the children because there is a direct relationship between the literacy of women (4 per cent in Nepal) and infant mortality (child-death). In Nepal 134 out of 1000 children die in the first year of their birth.

It was only in 1950 that Nepal’s doors were opened to the outside world. Till then we lived in an age of political darkness. To the average Nepalese, going to Kathmandu was traveling to Nepal, because Kathmandu was Nepal. Later, the Panchayat government talked about a decentralised form of government but it was just a hoax. It was very much centralised, and still is, even after the democratic movement in 1990.

A lot of men and women lost their lives in their attempt to free themselves from the shackles of the Panchayat government and monarchy, and the result is that there’s no stability in Nepalese politics. There’s a change of government after short terms, with an alarming corruption and nepotism, and the NGOs in the aid-giving countries only shake their heads in disbelief, because their counterparts are shuffled and posted to remote places, depending on their political color.
The fact that the Nepalese woman suffers in society is deeply rooted in the social system and the anachronistic and discriminatory, patriarchal, hinduistic Civil Code (Muluki Ain) which was formulated under the reign of a king named Surendra Bikram in 1853.


It was modified by King Mahendra (the father of the present King Birendra) in 1963. If a Nepalese woman gives birth to a still-born child she is charged with infanticide on the evidence of a denunciation, without so much as a gynacological examination, and sentenced by the rule of Garbhabat, which is the Nepalese word for: destruction of life. The Nepalese Civil Code was made in a dark age of Nepalese history during which another form of social and cultural values were prevalent. Though the winds of change have swept in the Nepalese kingdom, the Code still remains unchallenged as far as the poorer section of the Nepalese population is concerned.
Many women who miscarry hide the evidence by not going for medical tratment and this can lead to infertility or even death. The Nepalese Code assumes that every pregnancy that fails due to natural causes is the fault of the mother --in effect, a deliberate attempt to abort the pregnancy, and it’s horrible to see a woman hauled off to jail as a criminal on top of the personal tragedy of the loss of a child that may have been longed for. It is possible for influential Nepalese women to get away with abortion without much fuss in the male-dominated Nepalese society.

Hindu marriage ceremony: If a Nepalese couple wants to elope and marry fast and cheap, all they do is perform a minimum of ‘tika-talo’ ritual ceremony, and they don’t even have to be registered. The normal hinduistic marriage is elaborate and arranged by the parents and is a family matter in which the caste plays a big role even today. The well-educated bridegrooms of Kathmandu Valley prefer to see a video of the bride-to-be in the case of arranged marriages to avoid the ‘cat-in-the-sack’ phenomenon. For the family of the bride it is a matter of prestige and the marriage is celebrated with much ado, and hundreds of guests are invited. This may have ruinous consequences for the family of the bride, because it means blowing up a lot of borrowed money in case the family isn’t wealthy. The dowry comprises both gifts and money and this is also an incentive for the bridegroom. The tradition is stronger than the legislation .
During the marriage ceremony the couple sit down cross-legged in front of the altar where scores of sacrificial objects are spread out on small cups made of banana leaves held together with tooth-pick sticks. The offerings consist of flowers, incense, water, oil-lamps, cinnober-powder, rice, sweets, fruit (depending on the season), coins, and even cloth.


Not all the stainless-steel thalis and Meissner porcelain are ritually pure in compari­son to the hand-made natural taparas from banana and other smooth leaves for the Gods and Godesses of the hinduistic pan­theon. The priest who performs the marriage-ceremony is a Benaras-educated Sanskrit-reciting Brahmin. In civil-life he works for the Nepalese government, but since he is a Brahmin by birth, he is often invited to carry out all forms of pujas by the Hindu population of Kathmandu. The house-bahun is consulted, who calculates the time for the rituals to be performed by consulting his astrological calendar. An auspicious day for the wedding has to be found, for the human being is a microcosm of the rhythm of the universe.

A young daughter is treated as a holy person, even holier as the cows that you see in the streets of Nepal, Sikkim and India and a young daughter brings a lot of positive aspects or punya to her parents. Normally the parents of the bride wash the feet of both bride and groom. The foot-washing is accompanied by the recitations of vedic lore by the Bahun priest beckoned by the parents of the bride. After that follows the gift-of-the-virgin (kanyadan) ceremony.
The bride wears a scarlet seven meter long sari, an embroidered silk blouse, traditional jewelry and her hair is parted in the middle. She wears pearls on her ears decorated with gold. A number of sacrifices are made to the Gods and Goddesses by sprinkling their symbolic effigies with jamara and holy water. This is followed by the entire family chanting "Om jaya jagadisha hare" to the accompaniment of a small ritual drum (dama­ru), the chiming of a bell and the blowing of a conch.

And then comes the actual swayamvara-ceremony with the sacrificial fire, which is made in the form of a quadrangle that encloses the ritual article: the sacred altar, with the fire in the centre.
Hindu Offerings

Various offerings are made to the dieties: Ganesh, Agni the God of Fire, the sky, wind, earth, water, and the hinduistic trinity: Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Sacrificial rituals have been an essential part of the vedic way of life. The sacrifice is simple but its meaning can be complex. This is followed by the sindur-potay ceremony. The bridegroom has to place vermillion (sindur) as a sign of marriage on the parting of the bride’s hair. A Hindu bride is expected to apply the sindur as long as her husband lives. After that the couple are obliged to walk around the sacrificial fire three times. In Hinduism, Agni (latin: ignis) is not only the God of Fire and ritual but also the fire itself and summons the power of the Sun God Surya to the sacrificial altar.
Divorce among Hindus

Even though Hindu marriages are elaborate, they can be annulled quicker than the marriages that end on the rocks of Reno. The divorce rate among the Nepalese is rising even though most marriages are arranged by the parents. It’s the male who files the divorce because he might have been forced to marry by his parents, and later when he has financial resources and is independent from his father, decides that his spouse is an unsuitable match. A couple is divorced when the man denies the relationship. And if the woman has the misfortune to be pregnant or has children, then she’s stigmatised and branded as immoral.

Article 11 of the Nepalese Constitution states that the State shall not discriminate against any citizen on the grounds of sex, but in Article 9 it states that the children of Nepalese male citizens are deemed to be citizens of Nepal by descent. The children of Nepalese female citizens with foreign fathers are considered foreigners, and have to reside in Nepal for fifteen years before they can be granted Nepalese citizenships.

Nepalese males should examine their own attitudes towards girls and women in their immediate surroundings. Do our daughters and sons get the same attention, affection and the same status?

Motherhood and Child-rearing: Marriage and rearing children shouldn’t be the sole aim of a woman’s life. In Germany, for instance, there’s an alarming high number of mothers-with-kids (alleinstehende Mütter). Living with a partner seems to have gone haywire and they prefer to live alone, cashing alimony cheques from the fathers of their children or living on hand-outs of the Social Department throughout Germany. The German law makes it possible. The Nepalese women have a tough time in their hinduistic, patriarchal milieus, which hardly give them a chance to get up once they have fallen in the eyes of the pollution-purity professing Hindu society.


Despite the sweeping changes that have been introduced in Nepal’s Civil Code since 1975, most women are ignorant of their rights because of the high illiteracy, low self-esteem and lack of self-consciousness. The Nepalese society plays a pivotal role in victimising women who have divorced or have separated from their partners. Widows are not allowed to wear scarlet saris, no wedding necklaces and the vermillion powder called tika. They have to wear white as a sign of mourning . The social stigma attached to these unfortunate women reduces their chances in the marriage-market. Nepalese males prefer chaste, untouched females, almost girl-children, as their brides.

After the success of the people’s movement, the new constitution of Nepal was promulgated in November 1990 and broke new ground as far as women’s rights to equality and fair-play are concerned. The State has been given the authority to legislate specific laws for the protection of the special rights of women.

Nothing has changed since then in practice, even though laws have been proclaimed by different governments. Although provisions have been made in the New Nepalese Constitution in favour of women and gendering, the elections showed that the major parties, and especially the males, are not prepared to improve the status of women in Nepal. Women are treated as second-grade citizens and even like servants, as can be seen in the laws relating to property rights, family rights and sexual rights.

My question is: Quo vadis Nepal?

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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).
“ Since 1974 I have been living on and off in Nepal, writing articles and publishing books about Nepal-- this beautiful Himalayan country. Even before I knew Satis Shroff personally (later) I was deeply impressed by his articles, which helped me very much to deepen my knowledge about Nepal. Satis Shroff is one of the very few Nepalese writers being able to compare ecology, development and modernisation in the ‘Third’ and ‘First’ World. He is doing this with great enthusiasm, competence and intelligence, showing his great concern for the development of his own country”. (Ludmilla Tüting, journalist and publisher, Berlin).
“Due to his very pleasant personality and in-depth experience in both South Asian, as well as Western workstyles and living, Satis Shroff brings with him a cultural sensitivity that is refined. His writings have always reflected the positive attributes of optimism, tolerance, and a need to explain and to describe without looking down on either his subject or his reader”. (Kanak Mani Dixit, Himal Southasia, Kathmandu)
“Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace”. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).

Friday, July 20, 2007

Cyberkids, deleting lives and grogginess

A sea-gull over the ocean (c) Aquarelle satisshroff, freiburg 2007


Deleting Lives in the Cyberworld (Satis Shroff)


The young man and his double-clicks
In a cyberworld
Of bits and bytes,
Full of elves, tough turtles, dementors,
Warriors and evil beings,
Who destroy hamlets, towns,
Civilisations,
At the command of a few clicks.
An unreal world
Where the fantasy stories
Are pre-programmed.
The elimination of farmers, slaves,
Knaves and enemy warriors,
But a click away.
You are the creator,
The maker and destroyer,
You are Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma.
Thumbs up or down,
Death to you,
Delete.
Yawn!
Your’re short of amphetamines.
It’s a long way to the apothecary.
More clicks,
More tiredness,
You’re falling asleep.
Drowsy bits and bytes,
You haven’t taken a bite.
Your inner man is growling,
But you have no time,
For bodily needs.
You’re hooked
To your bits and bytes.
Oh, it bites.


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Groggy in the Afternoon (Satis Shroff)


Groggy from the Cyberworld at home,
Fritz goes to school.
He’s tired of school,
And is restless.
Retalin doesn’t seem to work today.
The lessons are irrelevant,
He sees not the classmates.
He sees the goblins, Power Rangers,
Sword-fighting Ninjas ,
Scores of other figures
With terrifying grimaces.
Fritz also makes a grimace.
He is now a monster in his thoughts,
Has to strike the others
With his laser-sword.
The enemy surrounds him,
Laser-blades flash like lightning.
A gash and Fritz falls on the floor.
He’s wounded,
But rotates his prostrate torso
With his fast working legs,
Lashes out with his sword.
He’s almost killed them all.
He’s a hero who never gives up.
Suddenly he hears teacher Frau Hess’s voice:
’Fritz, steh auf!’
He becomes calm,
Gets up.
Gone are the warriors, Power Rangers,
And super heroes and mighty enemies.
Fritz recognises his classmates,
Hans, Joachim, Cassandra, Brunhild,
As they shake their heads.
Was it a dream?
Oh je! Frau Hess will certainly call Mom.
And tell it all.
‘Scheiß ADS!’ mutters Kevin.


Glossary:
ADS: Allgemeine Deficiency Syndrome


------------------------------------------------------------------


THE SEA SWELLS (Satis Shroff)



The sea shells on the sea shore
Suddenly the sea swells.
Ring the church and temple bells.
All is not well.
The sea has gone back.
Brown-burnt Tarzans and Janes
From different continents,
Wonder what’s going on.
A man from Sweden
Is immersed in his thriller under the palms.
A mother and daughter from Germany
Frolic on the white sunny beach.
Even the sea-gulls stop and listen
To the foreboding silence.
The sea swells,
Comes back
And brings an apocalyptic destruction:
Sweeping humans, huts and hotels,
Boats, billboards and debris.
Cries for help are stifled by the roaring waves.
The sea goes back.
Leaving behind lost souls,
Caught in suspended animation.
I close my eyes.
Everything dies.



Tsunami. Tsunami.
Om Shanti. Om shanti.


------------------------------------------------
About the Author:



Satis Shroff is a writer based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.








The Rose Vendor (Satis Shroff)





THE ROSE VENDOR (Satis Shroff)


He comes with his apologetic Asian face,
A swarthy man selling roses,
In cafes, taverns, pubs and eating-places,
In the evenings
When the shops have closed in Germany.


He comes when you're discussing politics
He comes when you're wooing your date
He comes with his roses
In Chinese, Greek and Italian restaurants
Between bites of Peking duck, gyros and lasagne.
He thrusts his bunch of red, mauve roses
Looks at your eyes and hers.


You look away
Or you say, "Nein Danke".
Scared to look into his brown eyes
Eyes that almost plead to you
To buy his roses.
Wet eyes that remind you
Of Fifi, your poodle.
The rose vendor doesn't utter a word


Does he have a tongue?
Or is our tongue too difficult?
Can't he speak pidgin, this asylant?
What brings him to our land?
He isn't allowed to work
He's probably not anerkannt.
He's intimidated, not integrated.
He can only sell roses
In cafes, taverns and pubs.


"It's good so, otherwise
He'll take my job," says a blond German.
It doesn't bother him to do odd jobs
Washing dishes, folding napkins
Pouring out drinks and fruit cocktails.
He doesn't mind being a portier in a hotel,
Carrying other people's bags,
And pleased to get a tip.


It doesn't bother him
To work in the wards:
Psychiatric, neurological or surgical
Helping disabled German patients
Carrying their urine-bottles, pans and pills.


It doesn't bother him one bit
To work in factories that produce:
Chocolates, furniture and microchips.
To inhale poisonous gases and work
With lethal, carcinogenic chemicals.
To do what they ask
For it's again the epoch,
Of inflation and recession,
Of broken contracts, lost jobs,
Split and patchwork families.


Of people suddenly grown envious,
Wary, jealous and fierce.
The basic instinct in the Germans
Breaks through.
The rich, good German shows an ugly face.
Who's to blame for this economic mess?
The sly politicians?
Or the dumb, lobbyless aliens?
The asylum-seekers from the Third World
Or the Aussiedler and others

From behind the Iron Curtain?
The Aussiedler are ethnic Germans
The aliens are not.


Shall we throw bricks into Turkish shops?
And smear swastikas on Jewish graves?
Shall we burn books and works of art again?
And put on brown shirts?
A start has already made.
In Rostock, Hoyerswerda and Mölln.
Some even deny the Holocaust as a lie.
The drums are beating now and then.
The old Reichsflags are seen
In the streets and stadions
And no longer in the attic.
Bomber jackets, baseball bats
Springerstiefel and skinheads
Belong to the Zeitgeist.


A new brown subculture is growing,
Thanks to the electronic media,
Warns the federal Verfassungsschutz.
Conservative, pure, aryan to the core
Skinheaded, blue-eyed,
Arrogant and nationalistic
Is that the neo-German of this new century?


Quo vadis European Union?
The ecu, the multiethnicity?
A united Europe, one big world?
Where's the integration that was spoken of?
Where's the tolerance?
Where is the Miteinander?
Gone down the gutter?

Thursday, July 19, 2007

A Culture of Tolerance in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

A Gurkha regrets after a decade long war in the Nepal Himalayas between the Maoists and the government troops and policemen. Peace is rather fragile and the Nepalese have to learn to get along with each other in the long run in a democratic way, like in neighbouring India (Bharat) where there are many different ethnic people with their own cultures united by a common language: English, and the will and desire to be recognised and respected as a nation, and not as isolated communities. Sketch (c) satisshroff, freiburg 2007

Gewalt erzeugt Gewalt: Towards a Culture of Tolerance in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

Charles Haviland of the BBC was extensively quoted when he interviewed the Maoist’s reclusive chairman Prachandra, who emerged after 25 underground years and said that it was time for King Gyanendra Shah to go on exile or to face trial. But things have changed since then, and there was even a demonstration against the ouster of the King, and a demonstration against this demonstration. As if the problem between the government and the maoists wasn't enough, every Nepalese ethnic groups seems to be seeking its share of the Nepalese cake and jockeying for position in the Nepalese government.


The hills were aflame for a decade and now the Madhiseys, as the people dwelling in the flatlands of Nepal (Terai) are called, have been getting louder and demanding their share of political importance. The turining in of arms under UN and Swiss control doesn't seem to have been satisfactory but elections are around the bend in this Himalayan capital and country, and the political parties have been given symbols for the elections.


What Nepal needs today is a culture of tolerance in this Himalayan conflict. Only then will it be possible for a coexistence in harmony between the warring political parties, cultures and religions in Nepal. This culture of tolerance and a civilisation of peace is only possible if the Nepalese work courageously and decisively towards non-violence. As a German saying goes: Gewalt erzeugt Gewalt. Aggression creates more aggression.

An open dialogue carried out with respect for each other’s opinions leads to a fruitful solution. After years of battling with each other, the Maoists, democratic parties and the monarch should realise that what all in the end desire is peace. There is better path than the path of violence. Aggressive behaviour in this Nepali context will lead to destruction of all involved in this struggle. A further escalation can lead to an irreversible national tragedy.

It is important in Nepal’s case to use a hermaneutic method in which we try to understand all involved sides: the King, the Maoists and the members of the different political parties.
What does the King want? The Nepalese King Gyanendra Shah said in his first Badadasain speech, that he wanted to uphold the Nepalese constitution and nationalism and mentioned “The institution of monarchy, as in the past, will remain steadfast in the commitment to the unity and welfare of the Nepalese people. It remains unwavering in safeguarding the constitution and upholding nationalism.” One can’t speak of unity when a civil war has been raging since a decade, and the people are divided between loyalty to the Royals and the Maoists, who have been in the past intimidating and indoctrinating the previous landlords and intellectuals.

A horrific drama was staged in Nepal. A drama of mothers, who will never see their sons, men, and children who killed other children, men and women, youths who believed, and still do, in aggression, instead of love. We merely have to see the press photos of Nepalese women, children and misled youth who have changed sides to don camouflage battle dresses instead of the dawra suruwal and topi attire in civil, peaceful times. Oh, the horror and shame of it, to have turned a tolerant, peaceful country through boundless egoism and brutal aggression into killing fields under the shadow of the Himalayas.

The search for quick, aggressive solutions by humans armed with imported weapons in the Himalayas, as in other societies of the world, is due to the pride of belonging to a pure, super race, a higher culture, better ideology, religion, and caste or class in society. This leads to a monopolistic line of thought in which one’s ideology, class, caste, race is regarded as dominant and superior to others. We have seen such instances in Auschwitz, Pol Pot’s massacres, in Iraq and elsewhere.

In order to have peace in the Himalayas, the Nepalese have to develop a heart that is ready to change, and try to resist the temptation of making serfs out of the vanquished. The human factor is missing, and the society is helpless and paralysed in this tragedy. And the arsenal of death has been growing, the many deaths and executions due to bullets and mines. Only tolerance can lead to a culture of peace and tranquillity. We have no alternative but to regard each other as humans, and not as objects, and try together to carry out fruitful dialogues that are open for tolerance and respect for the lives of each other.

The Maoists, alias Maobadis, dream of Mao Zedong’s ideology, use his strategy and are determined to establish a socialist republic in Nepal, which naturally means a humanitarian disaster, with reluctant Nepalese fleeing across the border seeking asylum and refuge from the brutal Maoists, in democratic and friendly countries in the neighbourhood and elsewhere. According to some organisations at least 200,000 Nepalese have left their homes and another 1,8 million have sought refuge in other countries. Among them are Nepal’s intellectuals: politicians, civil servants, teachers, medical doctors, male and female nurses. Between 1996 and 2005 the Maoists killed 4,500 Nepalese and the Royal Nepalese Army and police killed 8,200 Nepalese.

In the past, the Maoists gathered money for their battle operations through donations forced at gun-point. For a long period the Maoists gave the impression that they had no intention of doing away with the monarchy, because they knew that the uneducated subjects of the kingdom worshipped the King as an incarnation of Vishnu. So they wanted to carry out talks with the King and not the bickering, power-drunk leaders of the different political parties. Monarchy is at the moment down, but not out, but lying low.

Nepal’s Maoists have to learn that their faith in Maoism, namely that theirs is the only true ideology suitable for Nepal, has its limits. The Maoists of Nepal have yet to develop a tolerant, civilised behaviour in the positive meaning of the word, for at the moment they are in the brutal and aggressive phase of the conflict. They have to be allowed a re-entry into politics through an amnesty under the condition that they approve of laying down their weapons. This hasn’t happened as yet, for the Maoists have grown fond of their weapons.

Then comes the retreat in which they will show a passive behaviour and thirdly a dialogue-phase, during which they have to recognise the values and norms set by the democratic constitution of Nepal.

This dialogue can take place only through a realistic and rational analysis by Nepal’s Maoists, the King and the other political parties involved in this struggle for power in the Nepalese political landscape. Only this path leads to solidarity between the different holders of power in the country.

Even the Panchayat democrats had to realise that the ancient Hindu idea of a Panchayat rule, derived from the model of five village elders at the national assembly level, was a system and religious ideology that did not go with modern times. It must be mentioned that the Panchayat politicians were more or less marionettes of the Royal Narayanhiti Palace, who were sacked and others appointed, when they made mistakes in decision-making or were used as scapegoats during political upheavals.

The political parties have had their share of power after the declaration of democracy in 1990, and they had to solve the problems of a rising population, a shortage of food, degeneration of the ecology, the rising number of jobless Nepalese. The social tension was also getting worse. In January 2004 senior leaders of democratic political parties edged towards the students’ and the Maoists’ point of view, which was indeed a critical and disturbing development in Nepal, for it included the political centrists who had helped negotiate Nepal’s transition from absolute to constitutional monarchy after the riots of 1990 for democracy.

Since then, the farmers of Nepal have seen eight governments and seven prime ministers. The leaders of the political parties were hungry for power, corrupt and unable to give the country the necessary boost. The Nepalese have an average income of 200 euros per person. 31 % of Nepal’s 27 million people live under the poverty line.

There is no doubt that the Rana and Shah families, which have ruled Nepal for 250 years, have profited immensely since the days of Prithvi Narayan Shah. In the Kathmandu Valley of yore, there were three independent kingdoms with kings ruling the Newari subjects. In 1768 the ninth Shah King Prithvi Narayan conquered Kathmandu Valley and moved his capital from Gorkha to Kathmandu and founded what we know as Nepal today. The Shah dynasty was established and Prithvi Narayan Shah’s successors ruled till 1846. The Kot massacre took place near Kathmandu’s Durbar Square whereby Jung Bahadur Rana emerged as Nepal’s prime minister, and later became the maharaja of Nepal, a hereditary title which the Ranas held for 104 years. The successors of King Tribhuvan were King Mahendra, King Birendra and the present King Gyanendra Shah.

But the economic curve of this country has rapidly sunk in the past years. Nepal’s carpet industry, which gave work to 550,000 workers in 1992 has shrunk to less than half. The textile industry which had previously 70,000 workers has gone down to 20,000 workers. Tourists have also been advised by their respective embassies to avoid Nepal because of the Maoist struggle and has sunk to 38% since 1998. And the agricultural sector is also in bad shape.
Globalisation has shown that the world is becoming a global village with trade and commence based on mutual respect of laws and rules, tolerance and a policy of give-and-take. The former East Bloc countries are competing with each other to become members of the European Union and Nato, provided they embrace and introduce democratic values and norms. In this sense, the Maoists of Nepal cannot hope to create a communist enclave in the Himalayas for long, because Nepal is important as a bulwark and buffer-state between China and India, two military super-powers and economic giants. Nepal is like a hinge between China and India, and possesses geopolitical importance and the Himalayan vacuum, which is feared to develop, is of interest to the USA and other countries.

King Gyanendra Shah is on record as saying to his countrymen, “We should be pragmatic in the analysis of our geo-political sensitivities, socio-cultural systems and economic realities, ensuring a just and equitable share for all.” King Gyanendra dismissed the admittedly corrupt and incompetent government of PM Sher Bahadur Deuba in October 2002. Soon after King Gyanendra assumed executive authority himself. The King picked two governments but they could not resolve Nepal’s problems.

A new development is rather disturbing, for the political parties and the Maoists have joined together and pulled a fast one on King Gyanendra Bir Bikram Shahdeva. I dread to think about the consequences of this unholy alliance. In the past the political parties of Nepal have said that they would not enter into any formal relationship with the Maoists, unless and until the Maoists renounce violence. The latter have yet to put down their weapons and commit to supporting the democratic process. Abduction and extortion is still the order of the day beneath the shadow of the Himalayas.

The goal of my words for tolerance is to make the Nepalese realise that tolerance is of universal value and is necessary for the development of peace and solidarity. If we are tolerant, we can seek peaceful solutions in the case of conflict between the King, the Maoists and the political parties. There cannot be a progressive dialogue between the quarrelling parties involved in this poor Himalayan country. The longer the dialogue is blocked by aggressive means, the longer will be the suffering of the average Nepalese in the Terai and the hills of Nepal. It is only through tolerance, solidarity and brotherhood that the peoples of Nepal can achieve their goals of a better life, good governance and a livelihood in peace. We are all seeking a common goal, though the means are different at the moment.

I wish Nepal a new era of democracy, peace and tolerance, generosity and broadmindedness in the Nepalese society, above the narrow-minded, illiberal, bigoted, prejudiced caste and ideology thinking in the past. It is hoped that we Nepalese will preserve our rich culture, ethnic diversity and great religions, and still go with the rest of the world towards an enlightened, peaceful and tolerant society in the Himalayas, by laying down the weapons of death, and beginning anew to respect human values and norms that have helped the Nepalese people ever since this nation was established.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nepal, Quo vadis? (Satis Shroff)

My Nepal, what has become of you?
Your features have changed with time.
The innocent face of the Kumari
Has changed to the blood-thirsty countenance
Of Kal Bhairab,
From development to destruction,
From bikas to binas.
A crown prince fell in love,
But couldn’t assert himself,
In a palace where ancient traditions still prevail.
Despite Eton college and a liberal education,
He chose guns instead of rhetoric,
And ended his young life,
As well as those of his parents and other royal members.
An aunt from London aptly remarked,
‘He was like the terminator.’
Another bloodshed in a Gorkha palace,
Recalling the Kot massacre under Jung Bahadur Rana.
You’re no longer the same
There’s insurrection and turmoil
Against the government and the police.
Your sons and daughters are at war,
With the Gurkhas again.
Maobadis with revolutionary flair,
With ideologies from across the Tibetan Plateau and Peru.
Ideologies that have been discredited elsewhere,
Flourish in the Himalayas.
Demanding a revolutionary-tax from tourists and Nepalis
With brazen, bloody attacks
Fighting for their own rights
And the rights of the bewildered common man.
Well-trained government troops at the orders
Of politicians safe in Kathmandu.
Leaders who despise talks and compromises,
Flex their tongues and muscles,
And let the imported automatic salves speak their deaths.
Ill-armed guerrillas against well-armed Royal Gurkhas
In the foothills of the Himalayas.
Nepali children have no chance, but to take sides
To take to arms not knowing the reason and against whom.
The child-soldier gets orders from grown-ups
And the hapless souls open fire.
Hukum is order, the child-soldier cannot reason why.
Shedding precious human blood,
For causes they both hold high.
Ach, this massacre in the shadow of the Himalayas.
Nepalis look out of their ornate windows,
In the west, east, north and south Nepal
And think:
How long will this krieg go on?
How much do we have to suffer?
How many money-lenders, businessmen, civil servants,
Policemen and gurkhas do the Maobadis want to kill
Or be killed?
How many men, women, boys and girls have to be mortally injured
Till Kal Bhairab is pacified by the Sleeping Vishnu?
How many towns and villages in the seventy five districts
Do the Maobadis want to free from capitalism?
When the missionaries close their schools,
Must the Hindus and Buddhists shut their temples and shrines?
Shall atheism be the order of the day?
Not in Nepal.
It breaks my heart, as I hear over the radio:
Nepal’s not safe for visitors.
Visitors who leave their money behind,
In the pockets of travel agencies, rug dealers, currency and drug dealers,
And hordes of ill-paid honest Sherpas and Tamang porters.
Sweat beads trickling from their sun-burnt faces,
In the dizzy heights of the Dolpo, Annapurna ranges
And the Khumbu glaciers.
Eking out a living and facing the treacherous
Icy crevasses, snow-outs, precipices
And a thousand deaths.
Beyond the beaten trekking paths
Live the poorer families of Nepal.
No roads, no schools,
Sans drinking water and sans hospitals,
Where aids and children’s work prevail.
Lichhavis, Thakuris and Mallas have made you eternal
Man Deva inscribed his title on the pillar of Changu,
After great victories over neighbouring states.
Amshu Verma was a warrior and mastered the Lichavi Code.
He gave his daughter in marriage to Srong Beean Sgam Po,
The ruler of Tibet, who also married a Chinese princess.
Jayastathi Malla ruled long and introduced the system of the caste,
A system based on the family occupation,
That became rigid with the tide of time.
Yaksha Malla the ruler of Kathmandu Valley,
Divided it into Kathmandu, Patan and Bhadgaon for his three sons.
It was Prithvi Narayan Shah of Gorkha,
Who brought you together,
As a melting pot of ethnic diversities.
With Gorkha conquests that cost the motherland
Thousands of ears, noses and Nepali blood
The Ranas usurped the royal throne
And put a prime minister after the other for 104 years.
104 years of a country in poverty and medieval existence.
It was King Tribhuvan’s proclamation and the blood of the Nepalis,
Who fought against the Gorkhas under the command of the Ranas,
That ended the Rana autocracy.
His son King Mahendra saw to it that he held the septre
When Nepal entered the UNO.
The multiparty system along with the Congress party was banned.
Then came thirty years of Panchayat promises of a Hindu rule
With a system based on the five village elders,
Like the proverbial five fingers in one’s hand,
That are not alike and yet functioned in harmony.
The Panchayat government was indeed an old system,
Packed and sold as a new and traditional one.
A system is just as good as the people who run it.
And Nepal didn’t run.
It revived the age-old chakary,
Feudalism with its countless spies and yes-men,
Middle-men who held out their hands
For bribes, perks and amenities.
Poverty, caste-system with its divisions and conflicts,
Discrimination, injustice, bad governance
Became the nature of the day.
A big chasm appeared between the haves-and-have-nots.
The social inequality, frustrated expectations of the poor
Led to a search for an alternative pole.
The farmers were ignored, the forests and land confiscated,
Corruption and inefficiency became the rule of the day.
Even His Majesty’s servants went so far as to say:
Raja ko kam, kahiley jahla gham.
The birthplace of Buddha
And the Land of Pashupati,
A land which King Birendra declared a Zone of Peace,
Through signatures of the world’s leaders
Is at war today.
Bush’s government paid 24 million dollars for development aid,
Another 14 million dollars for insurgency relevant spendings
5,000 M-16 rifles from the USA
5,500 maschine guns from Belgium.
Guns that are aimed at Nepali men, women and children,
In the mountains of Nepal.
Alas, under the shade of the Himalayas,
This corner of the world has become volatile again.
My academic friends have changed sides,
From Mandalay to Congress
From Congress to the Maobadis.
The students from Dolpo and Silgadi,
Made unforgettable by Peter Mathiessen in his quest for his inner self
And his friend George Schaller’s search for the snow leopard,
Wrote Marxist verses and acquired volumes
From the embassies in Kathmandu:
Kim Il Sung’s writings, Mao’s red booklet,
Marx’s Das Kapital and Lenin’s works,
And defended socialist ideas
At His Majesty’s Central Hostel in Tahachal.
I see their earnest faces, with guns in their arms
Instead of books,
Boisterous and ready to fight to the end
For a cause they cherish in their frustrated and fiery hearts.
But aren’t these sons of Nepal misguided and blinded
By the seemingly victories of socialism?
Even Gorbachov pleaded for Peristroika,
And Putin admires Germany, its culture and commerce.
Look at the old Soviet Union, and other East Bloc nations.
They have all swapped sides and are EU and Nato members.
Globalisation has changed the world fast,
But in Nepal time stands still.
After King Gyanendra’s coup on February 1, 2005
Nepalis aren’t allowed to assemble, even peacefully,
The right to assemble has been scrapped,
Preventive detention has become the law of the day.
Rights to property and privacy are denied at will.
The subjects of Nepal enjoy no free press.
The blind beggar at the New Road gate sings:
Lata ko desh ma, gaddha tandheri.
In a land where the tongue-tied live,
The deaf desire to rule.
Oh my Nepal, quo vadis?
The only way to peace and harmony is
By laying aside the arms.
Can Nepal afford to be the bastion of a movement and a government
That rides rough-shod over the lives and rights of fellow Nepalis?
Can’t we learn from the lessons of Afghanistan and Iraq?
The Maobadis have been given a chance at the polls,
Like all other democratic parties.
Even the Maobadi warlords are Gurungs, Tamangs,
Rais, Subbas and Bahuns and Chettris,
Be they Prachanda or Baburam Bhattrai,
Leaders who prefer to retain their power in Nepal,
With weapons still.


Glossary:
Maobadis: Maoist communists who have been fighting for a communist-ruled Nepal since 1996.
Raja ko kam: the King’s Service
Kahiley jala gham: when is it going to be sunset
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange .

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Senior Fulbright Professor in Creative Writing, University of Pittsburgh)
Satis Shroff writes political poetry in his anthology of poems and prose Between Two Worlds (http://www.lulu.com/). He writes about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.
„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).
Since 1974 I have been living on and off in Nepal, writing articles and publishing books about Nepal-- this beautiful Himalayan country. Even before I knew Satis Shroff personally (later) I was deeply impressed by his articles, which helped me very much to deepen my knowledge about Nepal. Satis Shroff is one of the very few Nepalese writers being able to compare ecology, development and modernisation in the ‘Third’ and ‘First’ World. He is doing this with great enthusiasm, competence and intelligence, showing his great concern for the development of his own country. (Ludmilla Tüting, journalist and publisher, Berlin).
Writing experience: Satis Shroff has written two language books on the Nepali language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). He has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems in http://www.nepalforum.com/ (I dream, Oleron, an Unforgettable Isle, A Flight to the Himalayas, Which Witch in Germany?, Fatal Decision, Santa Fe, Nirmala, Between Terror and Ecstasy, The Broken Poet, Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, A Gurkha Mother, Kathmandu is Nepal, My Nepal, Quo vadis?). Articles, book-reviews and poems in, http://www.isj.com/, http://www.inso.org/. See also http://www.google/ under search: Satis Shroff.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Die heilige Kühe von Kathmandu (Satis Shroff)

The holy, nonchalant cows of Kathmandu strolling languidly in the Himalayan vegetable market (c) satisshroff, freiburg 2007

Die heilige Kühe von Kathmandu (Satis Shroff)
Heilige Kuh!
Der Bürgermeister von Kathmandu
Hat es geschafft.
Seit Jahrhundert eine Tabu
Die freie, nonchalant Kühe von Kathmandu
Wurden zusammengetrieben
Wie bei einem Rodeo von der Nepali Polizei.
War es Nandi, Shivas Stier?
Oder heilige Kühe?
„Trotzdem sind sie Rinder,“ sagte der Bürgermeister.
„Streunende Kühe sind nicht erwünscht.“
Achtundachtzig heilige Kühe
Kamen unter das Hammer
Nicht bei Sothebys
Sondern in Kathmandu.
Die Auktion brachte 64,460 Rupien.
Kühe waren Hindernisse
Für Fußgänger und Touristen in Thamel.
Kühe die Dünger lieferten,
Und andere Produkte:
Milch, Joghurt und Butter
Für den Hindus und Buddhisten in Kathmandu.
Kühe gaben Urin
Das die Hindus eifrig sammelten
Und für religiöse Zeremonien brauchten.
Kühe waren Heilig
Und wurden angebetet und verehrt
Als die Kuhmutter.
Kühe die geschenkt wurden
Und frei gesetzt von den Brahmanen und Chettris
Um sich von ihren Sünden zu befreien.
Kühe, die eine Zeichen für Gaijatra waren,
Eine achttägige Hommage an den verstorbenen.
Es war ein König, so eine Legende,
Der Befahl, dass Kühe freigesetzt sollen
Von Familien die trauerten,
In den Strassen von Kathmandu,
Lalitpur und Bhadgaon,
Um die Schmerzen von einem verstorbenen Prinz
Zu verkraften,
Und eine traurige Mutter und Königin
Zu trösten.
Die Kinder verkleideten sich
Als groteske Kühe und lustige Figuren
Und tanzten zu Nepali Musik,
Um die Königen zum lachen zu bringen
Und ihre Tränen zu wischen.
Glossar:
Rs. 64,460=1150 Euro

Day Dreaming, Without You,Why?I Saw Love

What hope of answer or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil. (Tennyson)
When I lie on my couch,
Which our German grandma
Used to fondly call chaiselongue,
I drink a cup of Ilam tea.
I am so awake
That I kiss your lips,
Caress you,
Listen to you
Speak to you,
After every sip.
I talk about our children
About our house and garden
About our dear parents,
Friends, new or old.
It’s a superb idyll we’ve created.
I’m too tired
To open my eyes
To see you and to realise
That you are not here,
In this sunlight flooded room.


-----------------------------


Without you life is nothing
Only the silence,
Die Stille.
Without you
I cannot enjoy
The flowers in the garden.
Without you
There’s no joy
In this world.
Without you,
A success or victory
Is nothing.
Without you
I’m dumbfounded
For it is your countenance,
Your sparkling azure eyes
Your sympathetic smile
That make me speak.
Only then do my words
Have a meaning.
Without you
I speak only
With myself,
Or with our small Florentin.
Little Flori longs for you,
And so do I.
You are the queen of our hearts,
Our Mama,
Our Seelenstück,
Who loves us
And now needs repose.
So relax.
Be happy and contented
With the other children.
It’s true that we all need you
And love you,
The way you love us
Without bounds.
Glossary:
Die Stille: silence
Seelenstück: soul


---------------------------------------------------


Why do I love you?
Because you love me.
I love you,
And no one else.
I have to love you.
I cannot do otherwise.
And you?
Do you love me,
Because you have to love me,
And no one else?
Perhaps you love me
For I am, the way I am.
And I love you
Because you are
The way you are.
Now we love our children
And the children love us
And we love each other.
Perhaps it was our destiny
To love each other,
As destiny goes.
-------------------------------------------------


One wintry evening I saw love.
She wore glasses
At the university dancing classes.
We danced fox-trot, cha-cha
Then came the rumba.
I looked deep into her sky blue eyes.
Eyes so blue, without a hint of a cloud.
Clear blue eyes,
Like the waters of the Maladives.
A joyous feeling overcame me.
My hormones were out of control.
My cardiac status said ‘tachycardie.’
My lungs began to over-function.
Hyperventilation.
My knees were sagging.
By Jove, I’d fallen in love.
-------------------------------------------
& poet: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction). He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
experience: Satis Shroff write regularly for http://www.americanchronicle.com/ and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA. He has written two language books on the Nepali language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). He has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems in http://www.nepalforum.com/ (I dream, Oleron, an Unforgettable Isle, A Flight to the Himalayas, Which Witch in Germany?, Fatal Decision, Santa Fe, Nirmala, Between Terror and Ecstasy, The Broken Poet, Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, A Gurkha Mother, Kathmandu is Nepal, My Nepal, Quo vadis?). Articles, book-reviews and poems in: http://www.isj.com/, http://www.inso.org/. See also http://www.google/ & http://www.yahoo/ under search: Satis Shroff.

What others have said about the author:

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).
Wonderful clarity and good details. (Sharon Mc Cartney, Fiddlehead Poetry Journal)

The Flaw, About You,Separation

A magnificent sunset (c) satisshroff, freiburg 2007

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears. (Romeo and Julia: Shakespeare)



THE FLAW (Satis Shroff)
I constantly live in angst.
Angst to be unmasked.
My spouse knows it.
My daughter knows it.
But no one else does.
I feel like a failure in life,
Because I have this flaw.
My parents had no time.
They worked and slaved
To earn our daily bread.
Father came often with a bad breath
From the taverns and inns.
He beat us and mother.
My teacher thrashed me too.
I had concentration problems.
As a child I had to work
With a wooden hoe and a bull,
For terraced farming wasn’t easy,
And my father was a farmer.
I felt ignored by my parents.
My mother would have helped me
Were she not perpetually tired
And at her wits’ end.
I cheated at school
But didn’t pass the school exam.
I grew up as a man
Without reading
Without writing.
I had the gift of the gab though
Throughout my life,
And even bluffed some
Quite a few sometimes.
----------------------------------

ABOUT YOU (Satis Shroff)
To think about you
To long for you
To see you and to love you,
The way you are.
A beautiful blonde face
With well-chiselled Allemanic features
Eyes as blue as the sky,
That look at me
And smile
That disarming
Sympathetic smile.
The closeness that I have felt
The wonderful children we have,
Each with its own character and personality
As they fill the rooms of our home
And our lives
With music from flutes, violins,
Piano and kids’ laptops.
Laughter and tears,
Screams and hurrahs.
Oh, I miss everything
When you are not here.

-----------------

SEPARATION Satis Shroff)

The first day was cumbersome
For it was fresh in my memory.
The second day Florentin asked:
‘Papa, where is Mama?’
I was at a loss.
How was I to explain
A two-year old,
Where Mama was?
The third day we were relieved
To get cards and descriptions:
Of cows, sheep, horses grazing
In the Norderheide meadows.
Of windmills and the howling
North Sea breeze.
Of a fishing trip in a trawler,
With North Sea fishermen,
Who spoke East Friesian dialect.
Of Husum’s colourful harbour
With Yachts and fisher boats
And a Schifffahrtsmuseum.
Whitewashed houses with red rooftops
Endless blue skies over the horizon,
Interspersed with fluffy clouds.


---------------------------------------------------

Writer & poet: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction). He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
Writing experience: Satis Shroff write regularly for http://www.americanchronicle.com/ and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA. He has written two language books on the Nepali language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). He has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems in http://www.nepalforum.com/ (I dream, Oleron, an Unforgettable Isle, A Flight to the Himalayas, Which Witch in Germany?, Fatal Decision, Santa Fe, Nirmala, Between Terror and Ecstasy, The Broken Poet, Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, A Gurkha Mother, Kathmandu is Nepal, My Nepal, Quo vadis?). Articles, book-reviews and poems in: http://www.isj.com/, http://www.inso.org/. See also http://www.google/ & http://www.yahoo/ under search: Satis Shroff.
What others have said about the author:
‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry—about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’
(Sandra Sigel, Poetess, Germany).
Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace.
(Bruce Dobler, Senior Fulbright Professor in Creative Writing, University of Pittsburgh).
Wonderful clarity and good details.
(Sharon Mc Cartney, Fiddlehead Poetry Journal)
satisshroff@googlemail.com

LYRICS ON LOVE (Satis Shroff)

(Two lovers)


How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears. (Romeo and Julia: Shakespeare)



Love yourself
Accept yourself,
For self-love and self-respect
Are the basis of joy, emotion
And spiritual well being.
Watch your feelings,
Study your thoughts
And your beliefs,
For your existence
Is unique and beautiful.
You came to the world alone
And you go back alone.
But while you breathe
You are near
To your fellow human beings,
Families, friends and strangers
As long as you are receptive.
Open yourself to lust and joy,
To the wonders of daily life and Nature.
Don’t close your door to love.
If you remain superficial,
You’ll never reach its depth.
Love is more than a feeling.
Love is also passion and devotion.
Grow with love and tenderness.
------------------------------------------
We speak with each other
A wonderful feeling overcomes me
And I’m touched to the roots of my existence.
As though it was a doubling of my existence.
It becomes a passion
To speak with each other.
Our lives filled with togetherness:
With ourselves and our children.
I discover myself in you
And you in me.
Where one is at home
In the company of the other
And vice versa.
Where you can be the way you are
Where I can be the way I am.
Our tolerance for each other is crucial
There are moments when one forgets time.
We speak to each other without words.
It’s not sung,
It’s not instrumental chords.
Just our hearts understanding each other.
In tact with each other.
Our eyes speak volumes
And a nod is enough.
---------------------------------------------
THE TANTRIC WOMAN (Satis Shroff)
An eruption of scarlet flush
On her cheeks, throat
And between her breasts
Became visible.
She wore a silvery satin top.
Her breasts heaved as she inhaled
And said in a throaty voice:
‘I have a vision that all
Men and women are brothers and sisters.
I am a woman with power,
And possess female energy.
I have done Zen meditation with my guru.
Lately I had tantric-sex with my partner.
I felt our energies mingling
As they rose from our groins,
Along the chakras to our heads
And back again.
Wonderful moments of bliss
And fulfilment.
Through tantra I have realised
How wonderful I am.
I feel enriched and strong,
My sexuality has grown.
I had a male admirer for erotic relationships.
Tantric-sex is reserved for my boy-friend,
Whom I regard as my spiritual partner.
Through the healing power of self-love,
I have experienced healing and sexuality.
To love means to let a man be a man
And a woman a woman.
I’ve combed and tied my hair behind.
I’m wearing loose woollen clothes
To distract the youngsters and other males
And hide my curves,
When I work as a social worker.
They all want to have
Body contact with me.
I try to look unappealing,
Though I’m in love
With my body, heart and soul.
I feel like a wise woman,
And I have visions.
In my childhood my father mishandled me.
My grandpa did the same
With a cousin of mine.
Even I was on the verge of mishandling
A female cousin of mine.
I have danced
The Dance of the Demons.
A negative energy
Gets the better of me at times.
I threw my son from my lap
When I wanted to fight
With my partner.
Another time I thrashed my son
With his teddy bear,
A dozen times.
My aggression gets the better of me.
I get wild when I’m angry
And turn to a fury.
Tantra is a cocktail
Of love, sexuality and meditation.
I haven’t embraced the inner child in me.
I’m still working on the polarity
Of my yin and yang.
--------------------------------
Writer & poet: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction). He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

Writing experience: Satis Shroff write regularly for http://www.americanchronicle.com/ and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA. He has written two language books on the Nepali language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). He has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems in http://www.nepalforum.com/ (I dream, Oleron, an Unforgettable Isle, A Flight to the Himalayas, Which Witch in Germany?, Fatal Decision, Santa Fe, Nirmala, Between Terror and Ecstasy, The Broken Poet, Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, A Gurkha Mother, Kathmandu is Nepal, My Nepal, Quo vadis?). Articles, book-reviews and poems in: http://www.isj.com/, http://www.inso.org/. See also http://www.google/ & http://www.yahoo/ under search: Satis Shroff.
What others have said about the author:
‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry—about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’
(Sandra Sigel, Poetess, Germany).

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace.
(Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa.

Wonderful clarity and good details.
(Sharon Mc Cartney, Fiddlehead Poetry Journal)
satisshroff@googlemail.com


Kathmandu Blues:
THE LAND OF THE GREY-EYED (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)


‘Mom, I’ve received an invitation from Raj. I’m going to Germany!’

Saraswati’s mother, who had just finished her morning puja1 and meditation in her house-altar, and was carrying a copper plate with tika and other offerings, replied rather shocked,


‘Germany? Why on earth do you want to go to Germany? All those terrible skinheads and neonazis! How could you do such a thing? Didn’t you see the horrid pictures in Nepal TV and BBC? And the sad letters that your brother Raj wrote to us? It’s sad enough to have a son living abroad and now you want to leave your country, your matribhumi2.’

Saraswati tried to comfort her mother and said, ‘ But mom, I’m not leaving my country forever. I’ll just do a bit of sight-seeing and return home.’

‘Your brother also went to study and came back with a memsahib as a buhari3. Not that I have anything against Claudia, she’s a decent daughter-in-law, but I’m worried about you. You’re a young girl, and not a man. Think of the dangers in a foreign country’.

‘Mom, you can’t worry about everybody all your life. In my absence you could live with Sandhya and her family in Biratnagar.’

‘Please don’t mention Biratnagar,’ replied Mayadevi disdainfully.

‘You know that I can’t bear the beastly heat down there in the Terai. I am a pahari4 woman. All those cockroaches, lizards, snakes and pesky mosquitoes. No thank you. I prefer to live here in Kathmandu and battle with the bad air, rising prices of vegetables, change of governments and so forth.’

Mayadevi blessed her daughter by applying a scarlet tika on her forehead and went on to admonish her. ‘Let me read what Raj wrote about Germany’. And with that she went to her bedroom took out a letter from a bundle of blue-and-red striped airmail envelopes and put on her reading glasses.

‘Mom, I’ve also read the letters quite a few times.’

‘And you still want to go to Germany? A country where 45,000 Nepalese soldiers died in trenches in the two World Wars ?’

It took weeks to pacify her mother but finally Deviji resigned to her fate and moaned, ‘Perhaps it is my tagdir. Perhaps the Gods will it this way.’

And so it was on a lazy Saturday afternoon in June that Saraswati out to board the jet that was to take her to Germany. There was a haze over Kathmandu, obscuring the normally picturesque blue Mahabharat Mountains girdling the valley. The Himalayas weren't visible either.

A Nepalese policeman with a walkie-talkie was strutting on the tarmac of Kathmandu's Tribhuvan International Airport rather importantly. The mobile staircase sped away from the belly of RNAC's Frankfurt-bound 747 jet. The engines began to purr and whistle to a crescendo. Saraswati peered out of the jet-window to catch a glimpse of Surendra and Rani, who'd come to see her off, in vain. Surendra was a college friend with whom her brother had lived at the Amrit Science College hostel in Thamel. They had gone to school in the Darjeeling district and both of them came from Eastern Nepal. They’d done their Intermediate in Science from Ascol and had stayed on in Kathmandu to do their Bachelor's degrees. After college Surendra had gone to Australia for higher studies and her brother had gone to Germany on a scholarship, but they’d remained good friends. Whereas Surendra had returned to Kathmandu and had married and built a house, her brother had settled down in Germany.

Inside, two experienced sari-clad stewardesses, with rich glistening jet-black hair, began to show the passengers the routine safety and emergency gadgets. A moustachioed Nepalese steward started along the aisle with a bamboo basket full of bon-bons, a curt commercial smile on his round face. The jet headed for the northern end of the runway, swerved around, came screaming down towards the southern approach and left the ground.

There was a time when this same airport was described as being the size of a handkerchief. Some handkerchief, with DC-10, Jumbo-Boeings and Airbuses landing all the time, not to speak of the internal-flights of RNAC, Necon, Nepal Airways and so forth.

The sun was going down in the Mahabharat mountains and the clouds appeared yellowish, with orange taints. Through a break in the clouds you could see the lights of Kathmandu winking at you, and glittering as though myriads of gemstones were scattered from the heavens by Manjushri5.

And suddenly Saraswati saw the Himalayas: majestic and breathtaking. It certainly is one thing to look at the snows from below, but quite another to peer at them from above. Snowy clouds appeared and then a meandering river and behold, the Himalayas, those tectonic giants.
There were orange tipped mountains in the distance because the sun was setting and you recognised Mt. Langtang instantly with its broad conical peak. Further to the west another massif: the Ganesh Himal, and then the Manaslu and Himalchuli. Far out, sticking out like the tail-fin of a fish, the Machapuchare, followed by the still higher Annapurna South. But Saraswati’s thoughts were elsewhere.

She was thinking about the wonderful Nepalese friends she was leaving behind. She thought about her sister Sandhya and her traditional presents meant for her brother. Her mother Deviji, who'd insisted on sending a radish -chutney (pickel) and some expensive Nepalese rugs. She had no idea that an air-passenger was permitted to take only 20 kilos of baggage. How could she, anyway? She'd never flown in her life.

She'd travelled with her husband throughout the India subcontinent by train and bus and had often been to Bombay and Calcutta, and naturally to places of pilgrimage from Hardwar in the north to Kanyakumari in the south, and naturally to Benaras and Mathura to bathe in the holy, but hopelessly polluted Ganges. She'd seen a lot of US air-planes flying sorties to the jungles of Burma against the Japanese during the Second World War, when she spent her holidays in Assam with her grandma and grandpa. Grandpa used to run coal-mines in Assam and was rather influential and entertained the British gorasahibs6 and their memsahibs by organising hunts in the Terai for them, and was also known for his parties.

Deviji was a child then, and cherished and treasured a green toothbrush an American fighter-pilot had given her as a parting present, before he went on a mission and never came back. The Japanese must have got him in Mandalay.

‘We're flying over Lucknow city, fine weather, ninety degrees Fahrenheit,’ cut in the captain. Then came the usual Nepalese and western music. And in next to no time they were soaring over Delhi and headed for the United Arab Emirate.

Lunch was an orgy with shiek kababs, tuna and dessert. And the dinner was a cinch. Saraswati sat near a small woman from Sikkim named Nirmala who'd been invited to Germany by her German boy-friend. She'd only seen him a year ago in Gangtok. And here she was with mixed emotions, for the first time in a big jet that was hurtling through foreign skies taking her to a destination and fate that was unknown. She had no idea what Germany was like, the German language, leave alone life in Germany. It was a big question mark. She was trying to hope for the best and to make the best of it. Saraswati thought, at least she had the assurance that her brother would be waiting at the other end, for she'd sent him a fax through Surendra’s NGO office and had telephoned with him.

A Sikkimese male, a Lepcha, was sitting next to her and he answered her questions put in Nepali, in English. He was one of those convent-educated brown sahibs, who took pride in speaking English and even humming the latest MTV-hits, oblivious of politics, culture, tradition and religion. An orientation towards the west without any objective criticism. But Saraswati preferred a sympathetic Sikkimese to an arrogant Bhutanese official, especially after they threw out thousands of Bhutanese of Nepalese origin, and Nepal has been taking care of them ever since.

The German newsmagazine Der Spiegel once called Bhutan’s King Jigme ‘a buddhistic ecological dictator which takes pride as a model-nation of the Himalayas.’ The poorer section of the Bhutanese people are just as innocent, unspoilt, honest-to-God like the Nepalese. It’s only that the King of Bhutan and his government approve of subtle, medieval, undemocratic methods in their dealings with the Nepalese, creating thereby tragic problems for thousands of Nepalese, instead of letting them live according to their own ancient Nepalese traditions and customs. On the other hand, Bhutan isn’t exactly, what one might call, a democratic state. What the King of Bhutan and his Foreign Minister have precisely done is shove their Bhutanese ethnicity and bureaucratic ideals and values down the throats of the so-called Lhotsampas.7 A policy of live and let live would have been appropriate in that Himalayan Kingdom. Bhutan doesn’t seem to have learned and absorbed much from the teachings of Buddha. One thing that Bhutan understands is tourism management.

When the passengers alighted at the United Arab Emirate, Saraswati and Nirmala followed their Sikkimese dandy to the terminal where he advised them to stick together ‘lest they be enticed to a sheikh's harem.’ It was strange and exciting to see so many sheikhs in flowing kaftans, sauntering around with their families, heading for destinations around the globe: have oil, will travel. The cleanliness and sterility of the Arab airport terminal and the luxurious shop windows impressed her. Soon it was time for them to board the jet again. The next stop was Frankfurt.

As the jet flew over Frankfurt Saraswati felt elated. She was wondering what her brother would look like after such a long time. Perhaps he'd put on weight and looked like one of those middle aged German tourists that came to Nepal to do a bit of trekking in the Himalayas. Perhaps he's just as worked up and anxious to see her. Somehow, even though she really hadn't seen her brother very often, they still had a great deal of respect and sympathy for one another. Since the people in Nepal believe in astrology, their planetary constellation was auspicious, and that was why they understood, respected, and harmonised with each other. The Nepale­se expression for it is: graha milyo. However, when the 'grahas'8 of two persons don't agree or coincide, the result is: ashanti, that is restlessness, turbulence, conflict and disharmony.
Before a hinduistic Nepalese goes on a journey, a jotisi or astrologer is consulted to seek out an auspicious date for the travel, so that no mishap should befall the traveller. The jotisi also chooses the proper time for departure. Saraswati’s mom had beckoned a bahun9 from Dhankuta, who happened to be on tour, and he'd consulted the stars and planets in his 'patro' or astrological calender, and had fixed a date, but getting a visa from the German Embassy in Kathmandu had taken more time than the astrologer had planned, so she had to extend her flight date. She’d hoped nothing inauspicious would occur. As a Nepalese she was obliged to take some rice, a beetle-nut and a coin wrapped up in a piece cloth to assure a journey without inauspicious things occurring to one.

She’d told her mom not to worry, but she'd already fixed up a day for a puja so that she’d be blessed. After all, her daughter was crossing the kalo pani10 (the black water) and going abroad to the Land of the Beef-eaters, pork-eaters, the Land of the Grey-Eyed, which they called 'kuiray-ko-desh' in Nepali.

Her mom was scared that she’d begin to eat pork and beef, because she was an orthodox Hindu and very religious and never left her karma and dharma-principles. But she was a sympathetic, well-meaning soul, and wouldn't even hurt a fly. She prayed and meditated throughout the better part of the day, and fasted on Sundays. Saraswati meditated every Wednesday. Deviji was of the opinion that even when the sons didn't care much about religion, the daughters had to carry out the traditions, and accordingly Saraswati was to undergo a three-day Hindu ritual purification ceremony called: pani patiya. This particular ceremony is meant for Nepalese Hindus returning from overseas to help them regain their caste, which might have been lost inadvertently during their sojourn in a foreign country with its strange customs, religious and eating-habits.

There was a time when the Nepal Durbar (Royal Palace) was so strict with regard to religion that the Gurkhas, those fearless fighters, were liable to punishment and arrest if they were known to enter Nepal without undergoing the ritual purifying ceremony. That's why every Gurkha regiment has its own pundit or bahun. Moreover, the traveller is given an egg, dried fish, meat and curd, and friends and relatives bring marigold garlands , spices, fruits and perform an ritualistic aratie with minute oil lamps placed on a bronze plate and moved in circles in front of the person bidding farewell. Saraswati had often seen such small farewell puja being performed at the Tribhuvan airport when her college friends left for Russia, France or the USA on government scholarships.

When in 1982 the First Battalion of the Duke of Edinburgh's Own Gurkha Rifles was sent to the Falklands, the battalion-bahun went along with them to cater to the religious needs of the Gurkhas. It is a Nepalese tradition to put two gagros (bronze pitchers) on the two sides of the decorated doorway when a member of a household is leaving for a far-off destination and also in case someone is returning home, in which case the traveller is obliged to put in some coins. The gagros are posted near the doors also during marriage because they are thought to be auspicious.

It took a long time to get through the German customs at Frankfurt. There were scores of jetliners parked outside. It was a different air that she breathed. It wasn't the fresh Hima­layan air of Lukla, the pungent cocktail of kerosene and petrol of the Tribhuvan Airport. Nor the hot blast of the desert air at the Gulf. In Frankfurt it was a whiff of car exhaust and industrial discharge. Yet there were people who'd adapted to this environment, and wouldn't dream of changing places.

The passengers were escorted by a hostess to a lift, and when the door opened Saraswati recognised her brother Raj, who was busy making a video with his camcorder. Her German sister-in-law Claudia held her three-year old daughter Elena-Chiara’s hand and came forward to hug and kiss her. Claudia looked beautiful with her pearl-and-gold ear rings and her blonde hair. Her well-chiselled facial features seemed to have acquired a certain pinkness, for she seemed rather pale when Saraswati had seen her last in Nepal. At the traditional Nepalese marriage in Patandhoka, Dada had looked at her and had exclaimed, ‘She looks like a Bahuni from the hills of Nepal. So fair and slim.’

Saraswati was shy as usual, and Raj greeted her and gave her a kiss on her cheek. That was unusual for a Nepalese, because they generally folded their hands and wished the other: namaste, which means ‘I greet the godliness in you’. The elder person touches the head of the younger and blesses him or her with the words ‘bhagyamani hunu!’ He was a bit modernised and Germanised, she thought. Her brother looked the same, except that he had more grey hair. Nevertheless, it was strange to meet him in a foreign country, the country of his choice.
They posed for the obligatory photographs, and proceeded to the other end of the airport where their baggage were to arrive and they had to separate again. They saw fat Germans, Europeans, the international set, flight captains and crew, women in fashionable dresses, elegantly groomed males going about their business with urgency.


When they finally came out with their baggage, there were a lot of Nepalese and German faces and greetings in Nepali and German. Saraswati bade farewell to Nirmala, who was picked up by a decent-looking blond guy, probably a student from his looks, and the gallant Sikkimese dandy, who seemed to have business connnections, was greeted by a baldy German. Saraswati went with Raj. They took an U-bahn (tube) to the railway station, and then an sleek, fast, white ICE (inter-city-express) train to Southern Germany. Destination: Freiburg, a university-town at the foot of Germany’s Black Forest.

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About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet who writes in German & English. He has written over a period of three decades, what the Germans would call a “Landesumschau,” for his readers with impressions from Freiburg, Venice, Rottweil, Prague, Paris, London, Frankfurt, Basel and Grindelwald. Satis Shroff has worked with The Rising Nepal (Gorkhapatra Sansthan), where he wrote a weekly Science Spot and editorials and commentaries on Nepal’s development, health, wildlife, politics and culture. He also wrote weekly commentaries for Radio Nepal. He has studied Zoology & Geology in Kathmandu, Medicine & Social Science in Freiburg, and Creative Writing under Prof. Bruce Dobler (MFA University of Iowa) and Writers Bureau (Manchester). Satis Shroff sees his future as a writer and poet. He was awarded the German Academic Prize.


Satis Shroff’s bicultural perspective makes his prose and poems rich, full of awe, and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his prose and poetry.Please read his poems and articles in http://www.google/ & http://www.yahoo/ under search: satis shroff.
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Copyright © 2007 Satis Shroff, Freiburg
satisshroff@googlemail.com
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1 Puja: ritual prayers with offerings
2 matribhumai: motherland
3 buhari: daughter-in-law
4 pahari: hill-woman
5 Manjushri: the legendary patriach of Kathmandu Valley, and also the God of Learning
6 gorasahibs: white gentlemen
7 Lhotsampas: Bhutanese citizens of Nepali descent
8 grahas: the planets
9 bahun: male hindu priest; bahun= priestess
10 kalo pani: black water, a term used for oceans