गैनेय्को कथा, राजी को गुप्ती लेखक,गोर्खालिहरू को samasya

A minstrel's wanderings and experiences in the Himalayan republic of Nepal


Gainey: A Minstrel’s Songs of Love and Sorrow (Satis Shroff)

Once upon a time,
my grandpa said:
“In Nepal even a child
Can walk the countryside alone.”
It’s just not true,
Not for a Nepalese,
Born with a sarangi in his hand.

I’m a musician,
One of the lower caste
In the Hindu hierarchy.
I bring delight to my listeners,
Hope to touch the hearts
Of my spectators.

I sing about love,
Hate and evil,
Kings and Queens,
Princes and Princesses,
The poor and the rich,
And the fight for existence,
In the craggy foothills
And the towering heights
Of the Himalayas.

The Abode of the Snows,
Where Buddhist and Hindu
Gods and Goddesses reside,
And look over mankind
And his folly.

I was born in Tanhau,
A nondescript hamlet in Nepal,
Were it not for Bhanu Bhakta Acharya
Who was born here,
The poet who translated the Ramayana,
From high-flown Sanskrit into simple Nepali
For all to read.

I remember the first day
My father handed me a sarangi.
He taught me how to hold and swing the bow.
I was delighted with the first squeaks it made,
As I moved the bow on the taught horsetail strings.
It was as though my small sarangi
Was talking with me.
I was so happy,
I and my sarangi,
My sarangi and me.
Tears of joy ran down my cheeks.
I was so thankful.
I touched my Papa’s feet,
As is the custom in the Himalayas.
I could embrace the whole world.

My father taught me the tones,
And the songs to go with them,
For we gaineys are minstrels
Who wander from place to place,
Like gypsies,
Like butterflies in Spring.
We are a restless folk
To be seen everywhere,
Where people dwell,
For we live from their charity
And our trade.

The voice of the gainey,
The sad melody of the sarangi.
A boon to those who love the lyrics,
A nuisance to those who hate it.

Many a time, we’ve been kicked and beaten
By young people who prefer canned music,
From their ghetto-blasters.
Outlandish melodies,
Electronic beats you can’t catch up with.
Spinning on their heads,
Hip-hopping like robots,
Not humans.
It’s the techno, ecstasy generation

Where have all the old melodies gone?
The Nepalese folksongs of yore?
The song of the Gainey?
“This is globanisation,” they told me.
The grey-eyed visitors from abroad,
‘Quirays’ as we call them in Nepal.
Or ‘gora-sahibs’ in Hindustan.

The quirays took countless pictures of me,
With their cameras,
Gave handsome tips.
A grey-haired didi with spectacles,
And teeth in like a horse’s mouth,
Even gave me a polaroid-picture
Of me,
With my sarangi,
My mountain violin.

Sometimes I look my fading picture
And wonder how fast time flows.
My smile is disappearing,
Grey hair at the sides,
The beginning of baldness.
I’ve lost a lot of my molars,
At the hands of the Barbier
From Muzzafapur in the Indian plains,
He gave me clove oil
To ease my pain,
As he pulled out my fouled teeth,
In an open-air salon
Right near the Tribhuvan Highway.

I still have my voice
And my sarangi,
And love to sing my repertoire,
Even though many people
Sneer and jeer at me,
And prefer Bollywood texts
From my larynx.

To please their whims,
I learned even Bollywood songs,
Aginst my will,
Eavesdropping behind cinema curtains,
To please the tourists
And my country’s modern youth,
I even learned some English songs.
Oh money, dear money.
I’ve become a cultural prostitute.
I’ve done my Zunft, my trade,
An injustice,
But I did it to survive.
I had to integrate myself
And to assimilate
In my changing society.
Time has not stood still
Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

One day when I was much younger,
I was resting under a Pipal tree
When I saw one beautiful tourist girl.
I looked and smiled at her.
She caressed her hair,
And smiled back.
For me it was love at first sight.

All the while gazing at her
I took out my small sarangi,
With bells on my fiddle bow
And played a sad Nepali melody
Composed by Ambar Gurung,
Which I’d learned in my wanderings
From Ilam to Darjeeling.

I am the Sky
You are the Soil,
Even though we yearn
A thousand times,
We cannot be together.

I was sentimental that moment.
Had tears in my eyes
When I finished my song.’
The blonde woman sauntered up to me,
And said in a smooth voice,
‘Thank you for the lovely song.
Can you tell me what it means?’

I felt a lump on my throat
And couldn’t speak
For a while.
Then, with a sigh, I said,
‘We have this caste system in Nepal.

When I first saw you,
I imagined you were a fair bahun girl.
We aren’t allowed to fall in love
With bahunis.
It is a forbidden love,
A love that can never come true.
I love you
But I can’t have you.’

‘But you haven’t even tried,’
Said the blonde girl coyly.
‘I like your golden hair,
Your blue eyes.
It’s like watching the sky.’

‘Oh, thank you,
Danyabad.
She asked: ‘But why do you say:
‘We cannot be together?’
‘We are together now,’ I replied,
‘But the society does not like
Us gaineys from the lower caste.
The bahuns, chettris castes are above us.
They look down upon us.’

‘Why do they do that?’
Asked the blonde girl.
I spat out:
‘Because they are high-born.
We, kamis, damais and sarkis,
Are dalits.
We are the downtrodden,
The underdogs of this society
In the foothills of the Himalayas.’

‘Who made you what you are?’ she asked.
I told her: ‘The Hindu society is formed this way:
Once upon a time there was a bahun,
And from him came the Varnas.
The Vernas are a division of society
Into four parts.
Brahma created the bahuns
From his mouth.
The chettris who are warriers
Came from his shoulder,
The traders from his thigh
And the servants
From the sole of his feet.’

‘What about the poor dalits?’
Quipped the blonde foreigner.
‘The dalits fell deeper in the Hindu society,
And were not regarded as full members
Of the human race.
We had to do the errands and menial jobs
That were forbidden for the higher castes.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.
‘Like disposing dead animals,
Making leather by skinning hides
Of dead animals,
Cleaning toilets and latrines,
Clearing the sewage canals of the rich,
High born Hindus.
I am not allowed to touch a bahun,
Even with my shadow, you know.’
‘What a mean, ugly system,’ she commented,
And shook her head.

‘May I touch you?’ she asked impulsively.
She was daring and wanted to see how I’d react.
‘You may,’ I replied.
She touched my hand,
Then my cheeks with her two hands.
I found it pleasant and a great honour.
I joined my hands and said sincerely,
‘Dhanyabad.’
I, a dalit, a no-name, a no-human,
Had been touched by a young, beautiful woman,
A quiray tourist,
From across the Black Waters:
Kalapani.

A wave of happiness and joy
Swept over me.
A miracle had happened.
Like a princess kissing a toad,
In fairy tales I’d heard.
Perhaps Gandhi was right:
I was a Child of God,
A Harijan,
And this fair lady an apsara.

She, in her European mind,
Thought she’d brought human rights
At least to the gainey,
This wonderful wandering minstrel,
With his quaint fiddle
Called sarangi,
His jet black hair
And infectious smile.
She said in her melodious voice,
‘In my country all people are free and equal,
Have the same rights and dignity.
All humans have common sense,
A conscience,
And we ought to meet each other
As brothers and sisters.

I tucked my sarangi in my armpit,
Clapped my hands and said:
‘That’s nice.
Noble thoughts.
It works for you here, perhaps.
But it won’t work for me,’
Feeling a sense of remorse and nausea
Sweep over me.

* * *


THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

When I close my eyes,
I see everything in its place
In the kingdom of Nepal.

I see the highest building in Kathmandu,
What looms higher than the Dharara,
Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati?
The former King’s Narayanhiti palace,
Built by an architect,
From across the Black Waters.
Therein lived Vishnu,
Whom many Hindus still call:
The unconquerable preserver.

The conqueror of Nepal?
No, that was his ancestor
Prithvi Narayan Shah,
A king of Gorkha.

Vishnu is the preserver of the world,
With qualities of mercy and goodness.
Vishnu is all-pervading and self-existent,
Visited Nepal’s remote districts
In a helicopter with his consort
And militia.

He inaugurated buildings
Factories and events.
Vishnu dissolved the parliament too,
For the sake of his kingdom,
As I was told to write.

His subjects and worshippers were,
Of late,
Divided.
Alas, Ravana and his demons
Have besieged his land.
The king was obliged to go,
And with him I lost my life-job
As a ghost-writer.

I cannot remember
How many articles, speeches, decrees,
Proclamations I’ve penned
In His Majesty’s Service.
Who would have thought
That I’d have to look
For another job?

Towards the end,
My boss not only lost his shirt,
But also his land,
And blamed me,
His sincere ghost-writer,
For my bad verse and prose.
He barked in a tirade:
“You are to blame for the misery
In my country.”

I, who had praised him,
Written admirable speeches,
Full of love, pathos and empathy
For his poor subjects,
Was now a mere scapegoat.

I, who had written
Soothing lines for the unruly masses,
Who were in revolt,
After centuries of feudal hierarchy,
Mismanagement,
Bad governance,
Corruption and nepotism.

I, who had sought a voice
To pacify the lynch mobs
In the streets of Catmandu,
Biratnagar, Dolpo
And Janakpur.
That was the unkindest cut of all.

The royal newspapers and the paid-press
Were blooming with news
Of development in Nepal.
But the people knew better.
They were waiting.

The dam of development
Had been broken,
A word play on ‘development.’
When the royal dam collapsed in Pokhara,
The people had a big laugh.
The king’s dying father said:
‘When I die,
My country should live.’
On still moments,
I hear the refrain:
Ma marey pani,
Mero desh,
Bachi rahos.

Nepal is now a republic
With cantons instead of zones,
We even have a fish-tailed mountain
That looks like Zermatt.
We have tourism too,
But where are the bankers,
The executives and firms?
We have an Aid Industry,
Cashing in dollars
From foreign governments
And NGOs.

Nepal exports carpets,
Human labourers
For the emirates,
Sherpas for the climbers
And Gurkhas for the Brits
And flesh for the Upper and Lower Grant Roads.

When I open my eyes,
I see Vishnu still slumbering
On his bed of Sesha,
The serpent
In the pools of Budanilkantha
And Balaju.

Prithee,
Where is the Creator?
When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?
Only Bhairab’s destruction
Of the Himalayan world is to be seen.

Much blood has been shed
Between the decades and the centuries.
The mound of noses and ears
Of the vanquished at Kirtipur,
The shot and mutilated
At the Kot massacre,
The revolution in front of the Narayanhiti Palace,
When Nepalese screamed
And died for democracy.
And now the corpses of the Maobadis,
Civilians and Nepalese security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.
I, who wracked my cerebrum for the King,
Am sickened by the royal demeanour,
For Mr. Shah is now a mortal,
A politician to boot.

I, a royal ghost-writer,
Who once smelt the air
Of the Narayanhiti Palace,
Have nowhere to go.

I’m a writer no more.
I’m a ghost
Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

· * *


On Her Majesty’s Lyrical Service:

Poet Laureate (Satis Shroff)

Wanted:
A person who writes in lyrical form,
Composes verses for occasions,
Good stanzas in favour of kings and queens,
Princes and Princesses,
For the price of 5000 Sterling pounds
And, of course, 650 bottles
Of Sherry,
To inspire the poet.
And the title of Poet Laureate.

A court poet is a smith of verses,
Not a bass-guitarist
Of the royal band
Based in Buckingham.
Beginners need not apply.
Candidates should be
A professor of English Literature.

The last Poet Laureate penned
Verses in praise of Edward
And his beautiful Sophie,
A hundred years of the Queen Mother
And the latter’s sad demise.
The Queen’s diamond wedding anniversary,
A rap-rhyme for rosy-cheeked Prince William,
When he turned twenty-one.
Yeah! ‘Better stand back
Here’s a age attack.’
He even congratulated Charles and Camilla
On their belated marriage.
The Prince was overwhelmed
When he heard Motion’s
‘Spring Wedding.’
But all verses weren’t,
As we say in Germany:
Friede, Freude, Eierkuchen.
Motion’s ‘Cost of Life’ on Paddington,
‘Causa belli’ emphasised
Elections, money, empire,
Oil and Dad.
Themes and lyrics that bother us,
Day in and day out.
The rulers and battles won are expected
To be praised to Heaven,
Like Master Henry,
Ben Jonson et al have done

In 1668 John Dryden was sacked
Not for his bad verses,
But for changing his confession.
Sir Walter Raleigh and William Morris
Didn’t relinquish their freedom
And said politely: No thank you, Ma’am.
And with it a keg of wine
From the Canary Isles,
That could have been theirs.

Free literary productivity and court-poetry
Are strange bedfellows indeed.
In these times of gender-studies,l
Women’s quotes and emancipation,
It wouldn’t be far-fetched
If Carol Ann Duffy,
A Scottish poetess,
Became the next Poetess Laureate.
What a lass!
She’s openly gay,
Didn’t you say?
Has fire anyway.

What a thankless job:
A royal lyrical whisperer,
Striving for public relations
In poetry prize panels,
In the name of poetry.
A thankless job:
Take it
Or leave it.

* * *

Poet Laureate Shortlist

Carol Ann Duffy
Ian McMillan
Geoffrey Hill
Rowan Williams
Tony Harrison
John Betjeman
Simon Armitage
Michael Rosen
Stephen Frey
Lynne Trusse
Don Paterson

(Ed.: You are free to add some more of your own prospective poet laureate candidates).

The Chance to Change (Satis Shroff)

“Education is the best thing in the world for Nepal’s children, be they Gurkhas, Sherpas or Madeshis. And what Nepal needs most in this crucial transitional period is peace, co-operation between the different ethnic groups, a craving to mend ways, build bridges between its cultures, connect and find common goals.”Satis Shroff

Mr. Swaroop Chamling, who is a Rai and ex-Gurkha settled in UK, is gathering signatures for a Gurkha petition on www.Darjeeling Forum (google or yahoo search will do) and I find it interesting that the Gurkhas, civilians and military, are getting organised to fight for their rights at last, after years of discrimination, hiring and firing, and low-pay on the part of the Ministry of Defence (MoD) in Britain. What I found interesting was the inference of a Gurkha reader on www.Gurkhas.com that it was Bahuns and Chettris all the way in Nepalese history and even today, whether in the opposition or in the ruling parties. The same sort of infighting that you see in Delhi between the Punjabis, Bengalis and other Indian ethnic groups is to be seen in Catmandu’s ministries. It’s always Newars versus Bahuns and Chettris, with the rest of the ethnic groups as onlookers. If you want to make a career in Catmandu you have to learn the local lingo, which is a language with monosyllables---Nepal Bhasa.

It is a fact that there are only bahuns and chettris on both sides: among the maoists and political parties in Nepal. The reason why bahuns and chettris dominate the political, economic and other landscapes in Nepal is that they have been privileged through Hinduism, its raja-praja set-up and caste-system, with its purity and pollution implications that have swept and divided the families in Nepal and the Nepalese diaspora for centuries (as in India even today), and I think that Dor Bahadur Bista has illustrated this amply in his writings, and was cursed wrongly by critics in Catmandu and elsewhere as a 'Nestbeschmutzer.'

One can combat this discrepancy by uniting to create a new, ethnic-friendly Nepal by decree of law, and by observing the new democratic developments in Nepal as a chance to change the old, federal structures and bringing in a secular state, like our big neighbour India. India did, what Nepal is in the process of doing, by introducing Privvy Purse for the Royals fifty years ago. The king has been sacked and the Narayanhiti Palace now a museum, just like the Hanuman Dhoka palace which can be viewed by Nepalese and tourists alike, and should act as an incentive for young Nepali school-kids to preserve the democratic rights of the country, lest it fall in the wrong hands, and not let history repeat itself.

The Nepalese society finds itself in a period of transition and has yet to decide which form of government is suitable and practicable for the society. Naming the former anchals or zones as cantons alone won’t make a Switzerland out of Nepal, but the will of the people to live under a governmental form based on public opinion and votes might bring this Himalayan country closer to the wishes of its people.

I remember the first page of The Rising Nepal bore the latin words: vox populi, vox dei. That was a time when a king and reincarnation of Vishnu ruled the land. The king had to sadly realise that the voice of the people was not the voice of God. And the voice of the king was certainly not the voice of the people. It was perhaps the voice of the ghost-writer. And thereby hangs a tale.

Education is the best thing in the world for Nepal’s children, be they Gurkha, Sherpa or Madeshi. And what Nepal needs most in this crucial transitional period is peace, co-operation between the different ethnic groups, to mend ways, build bridges between its cultures, connect and find common goals.

But there’s the beginning of democracy in Nepal now, and the tribes and castes that were neglected in the past should get their rights by creating a federal form of government, like in German or in Switzerland, whereby the country has to be formed administratively as federal, local government with the power to carry out trade and commerce with neighbouring countries or states. Only then will there be a freedom of trade and commerce in all geographical and ethnic sectors.

The way it has been in the past: Kathmandu was Nepal. It was too centralised, the King lived in Kathmandu, the parliament was, and still is, in Kathmandu. Even for small things one had to have Kathmandu’s blessings. I hope the new governments will see to this matter and think of Nepal holistically, and not like in the past. I say government, because the political situation hasn’t shown much stability in the past for observers abroad.

Nevertheless, there is hope, and this torch of hope will be carried by the children and youth of Nepal. Whether we are Gurungs, Tamangs, Chettris, Bahuns, Bhujels, Kirats or Madhesis we have to unite and make Nepal a land that we can be proud of through our own endeavours. To borrow a line from JFK ‘ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.’ After all, we are a republican democracy, aren’t we?

The comity of nations would only be too willing to see a politically and economically stable Nepal and render assistance as in the past, before the war between the government troops and the maoists began.

So let us unite above the communal feelings and ideologies, and think in terms of Nepal as a nation, and not in terms of the opposite of democracy, namely anarchy. Let the children of Nepal from the plains and the hills have the same educational opportunities and work under human conditions. Let us show the world that we have a word for negotiation in our language, and that we also have the ability of carrying out a dialogue in the parliamentary sense of the word.

Peace, trust, faith, character, integrity, tolerance, dignity are qualities that cannot be attained by nurturing communal feelings and ethnic hatred. It is only through peaceful means, trust, honesty, cooperation and coordination that the long arduous task called development can be attained and the people can attain mental, physical and social wellness in the tedious march towards progress. To this end, we have to decide to change. Revolution is change, and the young men and women who were fired by their imagination during the decade long krieg have to do so in a constructive way, or else Nepal will forever remain ‘a yam between two rocks’ and a perpetual member of the least developed countries, in every sense of the word.

Change or perish should be the battle-cry of democracy loving Nepalese.
Yes we can, if we want it strong enough.

About the Author:

Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg, and is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (Lehrbeauftragter für Creative Writing, Albert Ludwigs Universität Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:
“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.
Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).
‘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, Writer, Germany).
'Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German form mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix. Nepal is a jewel on the Earth’s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.' Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007.
“Beautiful prosaic thought and astounding writing. Satis Shroff's writing is refined – pure undistilled.” (Susan Marie, www.Gather.com

BOMBAY BURNING (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

· * *
Cocktail Klatsch (Satis Shroff)

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

Dodging and negotiating
Between sips and slips,
Small talk.

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

* * *

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

* * *

Isolation (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

The Feud (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

* * *

Surya at Benaras (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Wine (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

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

Follow your heart,
Your own words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

A White Page (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Souvenirs (Satis Shroff)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

बूक्रेविएव: सफेद बाघ, अरविंद अडिग (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़)

Creative Writing Critique: Chicken of India Unite! (Satis Shroff)

Review: Aravind Adiga: The White Tiger. Atlantic Books, London, 2008. Man Booker Prize 2008. German version: ‘Der Weisse Tiger’ published by C.H. Beck, 2008.

Aravind Adiga was a correspondent for the newsmag Time and wrote articles for the Financial Times, the Independent and Sunday Times. He was born in Madras in 1974 and is a Mumbai-wallah now. The protagonist of his first novel is Balram Halwai, (I’m a helluva Mumbai-halwa fan, you know) who tells his story in the first person singular. Halwai has a fantastic charisma and shows you how you can climb the Indian mainstream ladder as a philosopher and entrepreneur. An Indian entrepreneur has to be straight and crooked, mocking and believing, sly and sincere, at the same time (sic). Balram’s prerogative is to turn bad news into good news, and the White Tiger, who’s terribly scared of lizards, slits the throat of his boss to attain his goal, and doesn’t even regret his deed.

In the subcontinent, however, Aravind Adiga’s novel has received sceptical critique. Manjula Padmanabhan wrote in ‘Outlook’ that it lacks humour, and the formidable Delhi-based Kushwant Singh 92, who used to write for the Illustrated Weekly of India and is regarded as the doyen of Indian English literature, found it good to read but endlessly depressing.

‘And what’s so depressing?’ you might ask. I found his style refreshing and creative the way he introduced himself to Wen Jiabao. At the beginning of each capital he quotes from a part of his ‘wanted’ poster. The author writes about poverty, corruption, aggression and the brutal struggle for power in the Indian society. A society in which the middle class is reaching economically for the sky, in which Adiga’s biting and scathing criticism sounds out of place, when deshi Indians are dreaming of manned flights to the moon, outer space and mountains of nuclear arsenal against China or any other neighbouring states that might try to flex muscles against Hindustan.

India is sometimes like a Bollywood film, which the poverty-stricken masses enjoy watching, to forget their daily problems for two hours. The rich Indians want to give their gastrointestinal tract a rest and so they go to the cinema between bouts of paan-spitting and farting due to lack of exercise and oily food. They all identify themselves with the protagonists for these hundred and twenty minutes and are transported into another world with location shooting in Switzerland, Schwarzwald, Grand Canyon, the Egyptian Pyramids, sizzling London, fashionable New York and romantic Paris. After twelve songs, emotions taking a roller-coaster ride, the Indians stagger out of the stuffy, sweaty cinemas and are greeted by the blazing and scorching Indian sun, slums, streets spilling with haggard, emaciated humanity, pocket-thieves, real-life goondas, cheating businessmen, money-lenders, snake-girl-destitute-charmers, thugs in white collars and the big question: what shall I and my family eat tonight? Roti, kapada, makan, that is, bread, clothes and a posh house are like a dream to most Indians dwelling in the pavements of Mumbai, or for that matter in Delhi, Bangalore, Mangalore, Mysore, Calcutta (Read Günter Grass’s Zunge Zeigen) and other Indian cities, where they burn rubbish for warmth.

The stomach groans with a sad melody in the loneliness and darkness of a metropolis like Mumbai, a city that never sleeps. As Adiga says, ‘an India of Light, and an India of Darkness in which the black, polluted river Mother Ganga flows.’

Ach, munjo Mumbai! The terrible monsoon, the jam-packed city, Koliwada, Sion, Bandra, Marine Drive, Juhu Beach. I can visualise them all, like I was there. I spent almost every winter during the holidays visiting my uncles, aunts and cousins, the jet-set Shroffs of Bombay. I’m glad that there are people like Aravind Adiga, Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy and Kiran Desai who speak for the millions of under-privileged, downtrodden people and give them a voice through literature. Aravind deserves the Man Booker Prize like no other, because the novel is extraordinary. It doesn’t have the intellectual poise of VS Naipaul or Rushdie’s masala language. It has it’s own Mumbai matter-of-fact speech, a melange of Oxford and NY. And what we get to hear when we take the crowded trains from the suburbs of this vast metropolis, with its mixture of Marathi, Gujerati, Sindhi and scores of other Indian languages is also what Balram is talking about. Adiga was bold enough to present the Other India than what film moghuls and other so-called intellectuals would have us believe.

Balram’s is a strong political voice and mirrors the Indian society which wants to present Bharat in superlatives: superpower, affluent society and mainstream culture, whereas in reality there’s tremendous darkness in the society of the subcontinent. Even though Adiga has lived a life of affluence, studied at Columbia and Oxford universities, he has raised his voice in his book against the nepotism, corruption, in-fighting between communal groups, between the rich and the super-rich, a dynamic process in which the poor, dalits, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s Children of God (untouchables), ‘scheduled’ castes and tribes have no outlet, and are to this day mere pawns at the hands of the rich in Hindustan, as India was called before the Brits came to colonise the sub-continent. Balram, Adiga’s protagonist, shows how to assert oneself in the Indian society, come what may. I hope this book won’t create monsters without character, integrity, ethos, and soulless humans, devoid of values and norms. From what sources are the characters drawn? The story is in the form of a letter written by the protagonist to the Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao and is drawn from India’s history as told by a school drop-out, chauffeur, entrepreneur, a self-made man with all his charms and flaws, a man who knows his own India, and who presents his views frankly and candidly, sometimes much like P.G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster. The author's attitude toward his characters is comical and satirical when it comes to realities of life for India’s poverty stricken underdogs, whether in the form of a rickshaw puller, tea-shop boy or the driver of a rich Indian businessman. His characters are alive and kicking, and it is a delight to go with Balram in this thrilling ride through India’s history, Bangalore, Old and New Delhi, Mumbai and its denizens. The major theme is how to get along in a sprawling country like India, and the author reveals his murderous plan brilliantly through a series of police descriptions of a man named Balram Halwai. The theme is a beaten path, traditional and familiar, for this is not the first book on Mumbai and Indian society. Other stalwarts like Kuldip Singh, Salman Rushdie, Amitabh Ghosh, VS Naipaul, Anita and Kiran Desai and a host of writers from the Raj have walked along this path, each penning their respective Zeitgeist. In this case, the theme is social, entertaining, escapist in nature, and the reader is like a voyeur in the scenarios created by Balaram. The climax is when the Chinese leader actually comes to Bangalore. So much for Hindi-Chini Bhai-Bhai. Unlike Kiran Desai (The Inheritance of Loss) Adiga says, “Based on my experience, Indian girls are the best. (Well second best. I tell you, Mr Jiaobao, it’s one of the most thrilling sights you can have as a man in Bangalore, to see the eyes of a pair of Nepali girls flashing out at you from the dark hood of an autorickshaw (sic). As to the intellectual qualities of the writing, I loved the simplicity and clarity that Adiga has chosen for his novel. He intersperses his text with a lot of dialogue with his characters and increases the readability score, and is dripping with satire and humour, even while describing an earnest emotional matter like the cremation of Balram’s mother, whereby the humour is entirely British---with Indian undertones. The setting is cleverly constructed. In order to have pace and action in the story Adiga sends Balram to the streets of Bangalore as a chauffeur, and suddenly you’re in the middle of a conversation and narration where a wily driver Balram tunes in. He’s learning, ever learning from the smart guys in the back seat, and in the end he’s the smartest guy in Bangalore, evoking an atmosphere of struggle for survival in the jungles of concrete in India. Indeed, blazingly savage, this book. A good buy this autumn.


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

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

स्विट्जरलैंड हस अ लिटररी प्रिज़े (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)

SWITZERLAND HAS A LITERARY BOOK PRIZE (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)
Blonde & Books (c) satisshroff, freiburg


Books galore at Basle 08. An author named Wolfang Bortlik went even so far as to say,
“books have now ( after the fixed price went down) the same character as commodities like socks and toothpaste.” Thereby implying that touching a book is like touching any other ware. It’s not a sacral but a profane object of delight. Which reminds me of the publisher who started reading a manuscript, then went to change his clothes and came out wearing a dark suit and a bow-tie to show reverence towards the would-be author. The book was a classic. ‘Education,’ said Dr. John G. Hibben, a one-time President of Princeton University,‘is the ability to meet life’s situations.’ He could have added the word ‘aqequately.’

‘What’s the difference between BookBasle and Book 08?’ you might ask. BookBasle is a thing of the past and was more or less a well-organised Fair. But Book 08 has new ambients, and for the first time Switzerland has created a Swiss Book Award for established and aspiring writers of this ravishingly beautiful Alpine Republic. I went to Morschach in Central Switzerland during the Summer holidays and thought I was already in Heaven, you know. Alone in 2007, 110 organisers and 152 participating publishing houses (small and big) were interested in Book 08. Now it’s over 400 publisher-stalls and rather international. ‘International’ in the Swiss context means, of course, publishers from big German and Austrian cities like: Munich, Frankfurt upon Main (not Frankfurt upon Oder), Berlin and Vienna. Lübbe is a good name, for instance, with Dan Brown’s ‘Sacrilege’ and others. If you prefer listening rather than talking or reading, there are author forums where the authors read from their latest books.

Now the question: who’s gonna read at Basle 08? I find Friday 14,2008 rather interesting not only because Cornelia Schinzzilarz, Adam Davies, Slavenka Draklic and György Dragoman will be reading and answering questions, but also this year’s Man Booker Prize recipient Aravind Adiga with ‘The White Tiger’ (German title ‘Der Weisse Tiger’ published by C.H. Beck, 2008. Aravind works as a correspondent for the newsmag Time and The Financial Times. He was born in 1974 and the protagonist of his first novel is Balram Halwai, (I love halwa from Mumbai, you know) who tells his story in the first person singular. Halwa has a fantastic charisma and shows you how you can climb the Indian mainstream ladder as a philosopher and entrepreneur---and ends as a murderer. You’ve probably read ‘Goodbye Lenin,’ dear reader. This time it’s ‘Goodbye Lemon,’ a touching novel with dark humour about memories, mourning and forgiveness written by Adam Davies.

In this fast-living, egoistic consumer society, relationships tend to be fragile. It’s often touch and go. A series of wrong words and the partner looks for and finds another. The Swiss journalist Karin-Dietl-Wichmann knows what she’s talking writing about in her ‘Lass dich endlich scheiden,’ (published by Heyne 2008) which means ‘File a divorce for Heaven’s Sake.’ She was married thrice and knows how to go about it and admonishes women, without batting an eye-lid, to evaluate their marriages and shows that there’s no reason to uphold a partnership where there’s no fundament.

‘Leben Spenden’ published by Zsolnay, 2008, which means ‘Donate Life’ is a book by one of the most well-known Croatian authors: Slavenka Drakulic. She had to go to the USA in September 2004 to get a kidney-transplantation. It wasn’t her first, you know.

‘Der weisse König’ which means ‘The White King’ is György Dragoman’s second novel. The first one was ‘The Book of Destruction’ with the German title ‘Das Buch der Zerstörung’ which received a literary prize. The current book is being translated at the moment into fifteen languages. Dragoman was born in 1973 in the Seven-Hills of Romania (Siebenbürgen) and lives since 1988 in Budapest. His books have been published by Suhrkamp, a German publishing house.

At last year’s BuchBasel Fair you could find strange books like: Das Kifferlexikon, a compact encyclopedia on Cannabis sativa (hash) and others books like ‘Das Joint Drehbuch’ with a pun on the verb ‘drehen’ and even a cooking book with the title ‘Das Rauschkochbuch.’ Thomas Kessler, an author from Basle, has even written a book with the title ‘Hanf in der Schweiz.’ At the moment Kessler is responsible for the Integration of Migrants at the Canton-Basle City. Another interesting character at the past BookBasel was Tom Kummer, a journalist, who’d written interviews with Hollywood stars. The problem was he’d met them only in his mind. Herr Kummer had an explanation: he said he was representing Borderline-Journalism in which reality is consciously mixed with fantasy. His incredible book? ‘Blow Up: The Story of My Life’. I personally think he made a hash of the genres. I’ve heard about borderline medical cases during my medical and social science studies, but this really beats it. A wonderful example for students of Creative Writing classes how not to create and stir fiction with non-fiction. If you do, then please declare your ingredient as fiction and you’re on the safe side.

Can a book, film or PC game have the same negative effect on small readers? There have been discussions about the Grimm Brothers and their Fairy Tales which are said to be ‘too brutal at times.’ I had a talk with a bespectacled, elderly Freiburger European ethnologist, Frau Schaufelberger, who lectures on the subject and she said, “No, I think that it’s good to have bad or scary tales also, otherwise we’ll be giving a wrong picture about real life to the children.” Compared to what the kiddies watch in TV and DVDs, the Grimm and other Fairy Tales around the world are tame, not-so-scary and have educational values for they uphold values and norms of the concerned societies and their cultures.

So who’s going to win the Swiss Book Prize 2008? There are five favourites. Lukas Bärfuss, Rolf Lappert, Adolf Muschg, Peter Stamm and Anja Jardine. It’s evident that the Swiss ladies are underrepresented in the alpine literary world. The Swiss Book Prize involves a matter of 50,000 Swiss Franks (the German Book Prize offers 25,000 Euros) and the four losers will go home with 2,500 Swiss Franks in their pockets, which is indeed a great discrepancy compared to the first prize. Well loser can’t be choosers, oder? But one thing is sure: all five authors will cash in on publicity, honour, privilege and special presentations at other diverse Book Fairs.

Anja Jardine, is a newcomer and her book carries the title ‘Als der Mond vom Himmel fiel’ which in English means ‘When the Moon fell from the Sky’ published by Klein & Aber, Zürich.). Lukas Bärfuss has written an explosive political book on Ruanda ‘Hundert Tage’ published by Wallstein, Göttingen. Author Adolf Muschg is already prominent and is known for his minimal writings that have maximum effect. His book has the title ‘Kinderhochzeit,’ a love story and a portrait of a family based in the Upper Rhine, published by Suhrkamp, Frankfurt. Peter Stamm is billed as a typical Swiss author with his normal tales about everyday life and his book ‘Wir fliegen’ has been published by S. Fischer, Frankfurt. Rolf Lappert has penned a major novel based in Ireland among other places, and he combines great story-telling with experimental makings. His book ‘Nach Hause schwimmen’ has been published by Carl Hanser, Munich. Lappert was nominated for the German Book Prize but didn’t make it. He’s 50 and lives in Ireland. Perhaps he’ll swim home to win the Swiss Prize. I wish him luck. This year’s German Book Prize winner is Uwe Tellkamp, a sympathetic fellow who also lives in Freiburg, like Yours Truly, and will also read from his prize-winning book ‘Der Turm’ which means ‘The Tower.’

Unlike the jury decisions of the Man Booker Prize in UK, the Swiss Jury has a Swiss yardstick called quality. The prize will be announced on November 15,2008 at the Book 08 in Basle.

The five critic in the jury are: Martin Ebel from the Tages-Anzeiger, Sandra Leis from Der Bund, Manfred Papst from the excellent NZZ am Sonntag, Hans Probst from Radio DRSZ and the free-lance critic Martin Zingg. Switzerland is small and everyone knows the other, and whether the literary prize will be renowned or not will naturally depend on the reputation of the jury and its sense and idea of excellence, curiosity and independence in decision-making and choosing a winner. Swiss TV will carry out the entire spectacle, of course, because it has to be a big event. To borrow a line from P. B. Shelley: if November comes, can the Christmas book-business be far behind?

Grüezi! Hope to see you there.

* * * *


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

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

बोस्पोरुस को कवि रा लेखाक्हरू (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)

Frankfurter Book Fair:
Pearls from the Bosporus (Satis Shroff)

What happens when a TV moderator organises a show and prizes are awarded to Veronica Ferres 43 (best actress), Misel Maticevic 38 (best actor), ‘Contergan’ (best film) and the best show ‘Germany sucht den Superstar?’ An award show is in itself a comedy and slapstick affair but Thomas Gottschalk made a mistake this time. You can’t award stars and starlets, pruducers and directors in the same way you that you award a literary heavy-weight like Marcel Reich-Ranicki 88, the Literary Pope of the German speaking world. The octogenarian refused the prize for his well-known ‘Das Literarische Quartett.’ Reich-Ranicki went on record as saying: “I’ve seen so much stupidity this evening and I don’t believe that I belong to them,” thereby distancing himself from the jolly superficial crowd at the TV show. Gottschalk couldn’t believe his ears but was his old self, as usual, imitating Reich-Ranicki and trying hard not to lose his face, and making attempts to repair the damage to his show. Serious German literature and frivolous entertainment are indeed strange bedfellows.

I’m off to the Frankfurter Book Fair (October 15-19,2008) and this year’s host country is Turkey, which is an excellent choice because Turkey lies between the Orient and the Occident, and there are some pearls of contemporary literature from this nation on the Bosporus. The Turkish poets and writers will be introducing 200 new works and translations to demonstrate the fascinating and colourful spectrum of a culture which lies between Europe and Asia. Some 350 Turkish writers and poets are expected to turn up at the Main metropolis.

Since Islam has been in the world’s headlines since a long time, Turkey has a special role to play as a modern Islamic country, and literature from the Bosorus has received a great deal of attention, especially in the German speaking world: Germany, Austria, Switzerland and South Tyrole. A lot of German publishing houses have Turkish literature in their programs and catalogues. Kiepenheuer & Witsch have published Feridun Zaimoglu and Emine Sevgi, dtv (German pocket book) has brought out Osman Engin’s books, the Swiss Unionsverlag has printed Yesar Kemal and Esmahan Aykol (crime fiction).

Europe has so many migrants from Turkey and the Germans want to understand the mentality of the Turks and wish to present a enuine picture of life in Turkey today. To this end, Germany’s Robert Bosch Stiftung and a few Turkologists from Freiburg (Erika Glassen and Jens Peter laut) and the Swiss Unionsverlag have cooperated and created a ‘Turkish Library’ comrising 20 volumes of not yet translated writings and lyrics from the past century to our times. What a treasure for readers around the world.

The fact that two Turkish authors were awarded the German Peace Prize, Yasar Kemal (1997) and Orhan amuk (2005) gave Turkish literature the necessary boost that it needed. And when the latter received the coveted Nobel Prize for Literature a year later, it was the most wonderful thing for writers and poets from the Bosporus.

Orhan Pamuk has brought out a new novel with the title : The Museum of Innocence. The German edition bears the title ‘Das Museum der Unschuld’ published by Hauser (500 pages). Pamuk tells us the story of his protagonist Kemal, who falls in love but is engaged with someone else. Since he cannot forget his first love, he steals everyday objects from her house. And these stolen objects are the exponates of his museum. The novel is timed in the seventies in the town on the Bosporus. Even though the people look very westernised and extroverted, the nevel reveals that the Turks still hang on very much to their old traditions and beliefs, especially when it comes to behavioural patterns between the sexes. At the same time, the novel documents a plethora of objects of daily use from the surroundings of the unhappy beloved and it is his way of symbolically setting up a Taj Mahal of Innocence. We know from history that when Mumtaz, the favourite wife of Shah Jehan died, he built for her a memorial of white marmor, which is a symbol and a metaphor for eternal love.

Turkish literature has come of age due to its provincial character and the fact that it is different in comparison to German literature, and now it belongs to the world stage. Pamuk’s favourite Turkish author is Tanpinar who died in 1960 and he was the author’s hero. Tanpinar was at home with literary authors like Proust and Gide, as well as the Ottoman culture. Pamuk wrote about him in his ‘Istanbul’ book. Ahmet H. Tanpinar’s ‘Das Uhrenstellinstitut’ was also published by Hanser (432 pages, 24,90 euros). Whenever Ohran Pamuk had private or political problems, he just wrote on his cherished work: The Museum of Innocence, which gave him solace and protection. Perhaps that’s the reason it’s 600 pages thick. Surely a good buy for the reader seeking the same quantum of solace and protection from the political and psychic turmoil of our daily lives. Asked about Istanbul’s poetic places, he mentions: Bosporus, Taksim Place, Beyoglu and the Golden Horn.

Another man-of-letters from Turkey is Yasar Kemal, who was born in 1923 in a south Anatolian hamlet. His father was a rich landlord who turned poor later. Small Yasar was impressed by the poems, epics of the wandering minstrels and folk-singers of his country. After school he worked as a shepherd, drove a tractor, worked as a cobbler and then tried his hand as a street-writer to make both ends meet. And that was the beginning of a great career as a writer. His novel ‘Mehmed, my Falcon’ (1955) made him the most-read writer of Turkey. He lives and works in Istanbul.

एइत्गेइस्त्ल्य्रिक: थे गुरखा ब्लुएस (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)

Zeitgeistlyrik: The Gurkhas Blues (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart,
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England has failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty and affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.
Do the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas dead and gone
Still linger seeking injustice
At the hands of Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies, they died for.
How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
And added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Gets a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So do Brits who play classic and pop.

When it comes to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigns myopia.
She sees not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high,
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passes the ball
And proclaims from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers come and go,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remains,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevails.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Is the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG1,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that.’

A sentence like a guillotine.
Is the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It’s like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments have come
And gone,
The Gurkha injustice has remained
To this day.
Apparently,
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians,
But in this case even fellow officers.2
Colonel Ellis and General Sir Francis Tuker,
The former a downright bureaucrat,
The latter with a big heart.
England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed gerontological problems.
‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
And are still treating us,
Is a mystery.’

Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her majesty’s far off Government,
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The sturdy, betrayed Gurkha puts on
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri3,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry.
Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He is a regular contributor on The American Chronicle and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA, in addition to Gather.com etc.

एइत्गेइस्त्ल्य्रिक (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़)

Zeitgeistlyrik: Drinking Darjeeling Tea in England (Satis Shroff)

Beware the Ides of September
Manchester will be a milestone
In Gordon Brown’s polit-life.
Your economic ‘competence’
Has become an Achilles heel,
Your weak point.

The people’s party of New Labour
Wants to get rid of you.
These are the rumours,
Heard in the trendy streets of London.

Twelve months ago Gordon Brown
Was the Messiah of Brit politics,
After Blair’s disastrous role in the Labour,
Unpopular, depressed,
His energy absorbed by Iraq.
Alas, even the new Messiah
Has lost his face,
Within a short time.
His weakness: decision making.

England is nervous, fidgety,
For Labour fears a possible loss,
Of its 353 Under House seats.
Above the English cabinet,
Looms a Damocles sword.

Will Labour watch
And drink Darjeeling tea,
Till a debacle develops?
Labour is in a dilemma.
Hush, help is near.
David Miliband is going vitriolic.
A silly season indeed,
Drinking Darjeeling tea in England.



Zeitgeistlyrik: The Gurkhas Are With You (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart,
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England has failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty and affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.
Do the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas dead and gone
Still linger seeking injustice
At the hands of Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies, they died for.
How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
And added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Gets a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So do Brits who play classic and pop.

When it comes to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigns myopia.
She sees not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high,
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passes the ball
And proclaims from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers come and go,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remains,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevails.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Is the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG1,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that.’

A sentence like a guillotine.
Is the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It’s like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments have come
And gone,
The Gurkha injustice has remained
To this day.
Apparently,
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians,
But in this case even fellow officers.2
Colonel Ellis and General Sir Francis Tuker,
The former a downright bureaucrat,
The latter with a big heart.
England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed gerontological problems.
‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
And are still treating us,
Is a mystery.’

Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her majesty’s far off Government,
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The sturdy, betrayed Gurkha puts on
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri3,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry.
Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He is a regular contributor on The American Chronicle and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA, in addition to Gather.com etc.

ओह, कन्चंजुन्गा (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़), फ्रेइबुर्ग)

Oh, Kanchenjunga (Satis Shroff)

A splash of the crimson rays of the sun appeared on the tip of the 8598m Kanchenjunga Range. Then it turned into orange and was gradually bathed in a yellowish tint, becoming extremely bright. You could discern the chirping of the Himalayan birds in the surrounding bushes and trees, amidst the clicking of cameras. I was on Tiger Hill. But my thoughts were elsewhere.
I was thinking about Kanchenjunga, my Hausberg as we are wont to call it in German, and the former memories of my school-days in the foothills of the Himalayas. These mountains had moulded and shaped me to overcome odds, like other thousands of other Gorkhalis, Nepalese, Lepchas, Bhutanese, Tibetans and Indians, from both sides of the Himalayas. I have watched the Kanchenjunga ever since I was a child in its different moods and seasonal changes. Cloud-watching over the Kanchenjunga was always a fascinating pastime whether from Ilam, Sikkim or Darjeeling’s Tiger Hill or even Sandakphu. To the Sikkimese the Kanchenjunga has always been a sacred mountain, and on its feet are precious stones, salt, holy sciptures, healing plants and cereals. It is a thousand year belief and tradition that the Himalayas, the abode of the Gods, should not be sullied by the feet of mortals.

Oh Kanchenjunga, you have taught us Gorkhalis and Nepalis to keep a stiff upper-lip in the face of adversity created by humans in this world and to light a candle, rather than to curse the darkness. To adapt, share and assimilate, rather than go under when the going gets tough in foreign shores. The Himalayas have taught us to be resilient and to bear pain without complaining, to search for solutions and to keep our ideals high, and not to forget our rich culture, tradition and religious beliefs.

After a brisk drive through pine-forested areas and blue mountains, I was rewarded by a vision of the Kanchenjunga Massif in all its majesty. At Ghoom, which is the highest point along the Hill Cart road, we went to the 19th century Buddhist monastery, about 8km from Darjeeling. In the massive, pompous pagoda-like building with a yellow rooftop, was a shrine of the Maitree Buddha, with butter lamps and Buddhist scarves in gaudy scarlet, white and gold.

It’s was a feast for the eyes. Tibetan art in exile. You go through the rooms of the museum which has precious Buddhist literature, traditional Himalayan ritual masks and a numismatic collection in the centre of the room, with coins and currency from Tibet that were in circulation till 1959. A small friendly lama-apprentice posed for a photograph of the tourists. And another lama with jet-black hair, suddenly came up, behind a mask of a Tibetan demon with ferocious-looking teeth, and springs in front of us to get photographed for posterity.

A blue coloured Darjeeling Himalayan train built in 1881 by Sharp, Steward & Co, Glasgow, chugged along on its way to Kurseong (Khar-sang), another hill station along the route from Darjeeling to Siliguri in the plains of India. There were young Gorkhali boys from Ghoom, having a jolly time, jumping in and out of the running toy-train, with the conductor shouting at them and doing likewise, and trying to nab one of them. But the Ghoom boys were far better and faster than the ageing, panting train-conductor, whose tongue almost hanged out of his red face. It was a jolly tamasha indeed. A spectacle for the passengers amidst the breath-taking scenery in tea-country.

I thought about my friend Harka, who used to live in Ghoom, and who was one of those boys during my school-days. The last I heard of him was when he and his dear wife invited yours truly and a student friend named Tekendra Karki, now a physician in Katmandu, to have excellent Ilam tea with Soaltee Oberoi sandwiches. Tek and I were doing our BSc then at Tri Chandra college in Katmandu.

Along the side of the mini railway track, reminiscent of the Schwabian Eisenbahn from Biberach , were groups of vendors of Tibetan origin selling used clothes, trinkets, belts, bags and most other accessoirs that you find being sold along the Laden La road, leading to Chowrasta in Darjeeling.

A short drive to the Batasia loop, where the blue train makes a couple of loops during its descent to Darjeeling, and suddenly you see the clouds above the silvery massif, rising languidly in the morning.

The families of the British officers used to retreat to the hills of Darjeeling, Simla, Naini Tal to escape from the scorching heat of the India summer and carried out their social lives and sport under the shadow of the Himalayas. The Chogyal of Sikkim gave the hill-station Darjeeling to the British as a gesture of Friendship, for the Sikkimese fought with the British troops against the Nepalese in the Anglo-Nepalese Wat (1814-15). The British government thanked the Chogyal of Sikkim and rewarded him with a handsome annual British pension.Didin't he become a vassal of Great Britian after this act?

I went with a school-friend to Dow Hill via Kurseong, past the TB sanatorium, in a World War II vintage jeep driven by a Gorkha named Norden Lama, who had blood-shot eyes and a whiff of raksi. There’s no promillen control (alcohol-on-wheels) in Darjeeling, and in the cold winter and rainy monsoon months it isn’t unusual to find jeep and truck-drivers stopping to take a swig of raksi, one for the road, to keep themselves warm. I must admit, I felt relieved when we reached our destination in one piece.

Driving along the left track of the autobahn at 150 km per hour is safe compared to all the curves that one has to negotiate along the Darjeeling trail on misty days. We were rewarded with excellent ethnic Rai-cuisine comprising dal-bhat-shikar cooked with coriander, cumin, salt, chillies, garlic, ginger and love. My school friend who’s a Chettri, a high caste Hindu, known for the ritual purity and pollution thinking, had married a Rai lady, much to the chagrin of his parents, but unlike Amber Gurung’s sad song “Ma amber huh, timi dharti,” they were extremely happy and had come together after the principle: where there’s a will, there’s a way. Or “miya bibi raaji, to kya kareyga kaji.”

As is the custom among Gorkhalis, we ritually washed our hands, sat down cross-legged, put a little food symbolically for the Gods and Goddesses, and relished our meal without talking. Talking during meals is bad manners in the Land of the Gorkhas, Nepal and the diaspora where the Gorkhalis and Nepalese live.Gorkhaland is a dream of people who cam from Nepal through migration to the British tea gardens, roads and toy-train workshops in Tindharia, and since the roads have gained importance after the British left and in the aftermath of the Indo-Chinese conflict in 1962, there was a need for the roads to be repaired by the Indian government and what better workers to hire in the foothills of the Himalayas than the sturdy, willing helpers of Nepalese origin who have lived in the area since generations.

Just as the government of Nepal under King Mahendra and Birendra carried out resettlement programms for the hill people who were eternally foraging for work in the plains (Terai) and India, the Bengal government did the same through its bureaucratic rules of transferring the Nepalese of Darjeeling district who had worked in the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway to the plains at Katihar and other places. It was a difficult transfer for the Gorkhalis and they not only had to battle with the beastly and scorching sun of the the Indian plains but also had to learn to communicate in Hindi, Bihari, Bengali and English with the arrogant Bengalis. On the other hand, the Bengali babus started coming in teeming numbers to the hills of Darjeeling fleeing from the plains of Calcutta, and delighted at the prospects of living in the hills of Darjeeling, Kurseong and Kalimpong with perks and enjoying the fresh air and Nature, especially Kanchanjunga. The mountain took a new meaning for the Bengalis and Satyajit Ray was inspired to produce and direct a film with the title Kanchenjunga. It became „Amar Kanchanjunga“ for the Bengalis.

 

मेडिकल एथ्नोलोग्य रा अपपलिएद एथ्नोठेराप्य (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़)

Applied Ethnotherapy in Munich, Germany 2008(Satis Shroff)

Blurb:Satis Shroff introduces you to the world of Ethnomedical therapies that are used by Practitioners of Traditional Medicine, and the seminar to go with these therapies in Munich, Germany. The Ethnomed therapy sessions are a regular affair organised by the Universities of Heidelberg and Munich.Traditional Medicine should go hand in hand with Modern Medicine. The Health Insurance organisations and medical school authorities have yet to recognize this form of alternative, traditional medicine,which is based on Nature and so-called supernatural phenomenons.

Die Ethnomedizin wird auch in diesem Jahr wieder in München ein Forum haben. Dass die Ethnomedizin/Ethnotherapien in Heilungs- und Gesundheitsprozesse von Menschen verstärkt in die sogenannten klassischen Behandlungsmethoden integriert werden und Eingang finden müssen wissen wir längst.
Die Chancen, die sich für das gesamte Gesundheitssystem ergeben können, wenn die seelische, psychische und auch spirituellen Ebenen von Menschen im Heilungs- und Gesundheitsprozess integriert werden sind unübersehbar.
Trotzdem haben die ethnotherapeutischen Methoden, Behandlungsformen und Rituale nicht den Stellenwert, der ihnen und ihrer Bedeutung entsprechen würde. It would be necessary to work towards this end and to make the concerned authorities change their attitude towards this end.

Dass der Schwerpunkt in diesem Jahr auf den angewandten Ethnotherapien liegt, ist sehr spannend und bietet wieder einmal die Chance, die Potentiale der Ethnotherapien zu erkennen. Ich wünsche allen Teilnehmerinnen und Teilnehmer der Fortbildung Ethnotherapien viel Spaß und viele gute und interessante Begegnungen, Erkenntnisse und Erlebnisse und den OrganisatorInnen viel Erfolg für das Seminar.
Lydia Dietrich
Stadträtin München

Rabia Schirrmann und Pragya Sabine Erlei (Körpertherapeutinnen, Tibetan Pulsing Yoga, D.) vermitteln das Tibetan Pulsing Yoga, eine Bewusstseins- und Heilarbeit, die Körper, Emotionen und Gedanken miteinander in Einklang bringt. Diese Methode hat ihre Wurzeln in den tantrischen Klöstern Tibets als auch in den taoistischen Klöstern Chinas.

INTENSIV-PRAXIS-SEMINAR 9.-12. OKTOBER 2008
FORTBILDUNG  ETHNOTHERAPIEN
Wissen – Erkennen – Heilen
in der Universität München und im Eibenwald Paterzell
9.-12. Oktober 2008 Times
ETHNOMED Institut für Ethnomedizin e.V.

ETHNOTHERAPIEN – HEILVERFAHREN DIESER WELT
Seit Jahrtausenden sind das Verstehen der Sprache der Natur und die Kommunikation mit der „anderen Welt“ das Geheimnis alten Heilwissens. Lassen Sie uns in drei Tagen die Grenzen des „normalen“ Erlebens überschreiten und neue Dimensionen heilerischen Schaffens ergründen.

Erleben Sie in dieser praxisnahen Fortbildung intensiv das Wirken von Heilern aus Peru, Mexiko, Kasachstan und unserer eigenen Kultur. Wir laden Sie ein, die vorgestellten Methoden selbst zu beobachten, zu erfragen und zu üben. Diese reichen von handfesten chiropraktischen  Anwendungen der Mochica, einer Prä-Inka-Kultur, über archaische Heilrituale bis hin zum Aufspüren der spirituellen Wurzeln einer jeden Krankheit.

Mitten im Naturschutzgebiet des Paterzeller Eibenwaldes erfahren Sie das Orakeln und „Raunen“ der Runen, hören das Wispern der Pflanzengeister und erforschen die Botschaften aus Ihren eigenen inneren Tiefen. T

Die Eibe war in der germanischen und keltischen Kultur ein heiliger und mächtiger Baum, im alten Ägypten wurde sie mit dem Jenseits verbunden und war ein Begleiter ins Totenreich. In der modernen Medizin erhofft man sich, aus der Eibe Wirkstoffe für die Krebstherapie zu gewinnen. Die Eibe erneuert sich immer wieder selbst. Daher steht sie im Volksglauben für ewiges Leben, für Tod und Wiedergeburt. Für Magier, Druiden, Ärzte früherer Zeiten, Seher und Heiler war sie Helfer und Begleiter. 

PROGRAMM

DONNERSTAG 9.10.2008
19.00 Uhr bis ca.21.00 Uhr
Abendvorträge der Referenten und Heiler in der Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, Pettenkoferstr. 11

FREITAG 10.10.2008 BIS SONNTAG 12.10.2008
GenevaIntensiv-Praxis-Fortbildung im Paterzeller Eibenwald
Ende: Sonntag ca. 17.30 Uhr

INTENSIV-PRAXIS-FORTBILDUNG 2008Times
Referenten (alphabetisch)

Maria-Elisabeth, Medium, Deutschland
Jede Krankheit basiert auf Ursachen, die im Feinstofflichen zu suchen sind oder spirituelle Auslöser haben. Fast alle Heiltraditionen ursprünglicher Völker kennen Trancezustände um Krankheitsursachen zu kennen. Der Heiler oder Schamane stellt dabei eine besondere  Verbindung zum Kranken her und kann damit intuitiv den Auslöser oder  den Anlass der Erkrankung finden und Impulse zur Heilung geben. Noch einen Schritt weiter geht der schamanische Röntgenblick. Dabei geht das Medium in einem veränderten Bewusstseinszustand mit einem speziell geschulten Blick durch alle Ebenen des Körpers und sieht
dabei den Zustand der Organe und Körperregionen. Es zeigt sich dabei auch die ganz konkrete physische Beschaffenheit. Eine feinere Wahrnehmung ist bereits bei vielen Menschen vorhanden und kann geschult und geübt werden. In der Fortbildung führt Maria-Elisabeth in das Thema und ihre Arbeitsweise ein. Persönliche Fragen sind  möglich. Ziel der Übungen ist die Erweiterung der Wahrnehmungsfähigkeit und die Hinführung an die medialen Fähigkeiten Teilnehmer. Einzigartig ist dabei die praktische Selbsterfahrung  
als auch die hellsichtige mediale Begleitung bei den Übungen.
 
Spirituelle Wahrheiten werden hier lebendig und können direkt selbst  erfahren und im Gespräch nachvollzogen werden. Maria-Elisabeth  praktiziert ihre Arbeit als Medium seit vielen Jahren, erläutert und  demonstriert ihre Techniken in der praktischen Anwendung und bringt dabei die Teilnehmer an die eigenen intuitiven heilerischen Fähigkeiten.

Hardy Hoffmann, Runen- und Meditationsexperte, Deutschland
Die Druiden wirkten in früheren Zeiten mit den Heilströmen der Runen, durch die sie zu innerer Kraft kamen, Reinigungen vornahmen oder auf Krankheiten einwirkten, mental und physisch. Runen sind universelle Kraftsymbole der Nordmeervölker. In unserer Heimat wurden Runen seit uralten Zeiten eingesetzt, um das Wissen um die Kräfte der Natur zu erlangen und sie leicht im Alltag zu nutzen. Mit Abschluss in der Transzendentalen Meditation T.M. und Studienreisen nach Indien, SO-Asien und Australien spezialisierte sich Hardy Hoffmann auf die Techniken der Natur-Religionen der alten Nordmeervölker Europas. Er ist heute führende Größe im Bereich der Runen-Magie und vermittelt ihre Fertigkeit in Verbindung mit Schulung der Intuition und dem Erkennen der Vorsehung. Mit diesen Fertigkeiten üben wir das Aufspüren von Energiefeldern, das Aufnehmen von energetischen Strömen und die praktische Anwendung der Erdkraftfelder. So werden Sie in diesen Tagen Ihre persönliche Rune finden und die Kräfte der Natur und ihrer Wesenheiten in und um sich spüren, sowie viel Wissenswertes über die Kräfte der Natur entdecken. Dieses uralte Wissen soll hier zu neuem Leben erweckt werden.

Kokopelli, Traditioneller Tänzer der Azteken & Anthropologe, Mexiko
Jorge A. Kokopelli Guadarrama, Sohn von Nopaltzin, wurde früh von seiner Familie getrennt um die aztekischen Traditionen zu lernen. An der National School of Anthropology and History studierte er
Anthropologie. Aus persönlicher Überzeugung setzt er sich dafür ein, die Wurzeln seiner Kultur zu vermitteln, damit die Welt einen Teil dieser wunderbaren Tradition kennen lernt. Die Azteken, auch Mexicas genannt, waren eines der bedeutendsten Völker im präkolumbianischen Mexiko. Kokopelli zeigt in diesen Tagen die bis heute lebendigen Rituale seines Volkes. Es werden Mythologien weitergegeben über das indigene, spirituelle Erbe der Azteken sowie Visionen des Volkes über die Zukunft in unserer modernen Welt. 
Rituale zur Reinigung des Energiekörpers oder der Aurareinigung nehmen einen besonderen Stellenwert ein. Mit aztekischen Rhythmen und dem Klang der Medizintrommel werden Reisen in andere Bewusstseinszustände unternommen, um den Energiekörper zu reinigen und die täglichen Blockaden zu lösen. Mit einem speziellen Ritual –Gebet zur Erde -  ruft man nach aztekischer Vorstellung Energie aus  
dem Kosmos, die Krankheiten heilt, Gebete oder Danksagungen übermittelt oder Antworten auf wichtige Fragen gibt. Es ist ein lebendiges Gebet an die Erde, uns zur universellen Größe des Seins zu  erheben. Eigene Trommeln können mitgebracht werden.

Laura Pacheco, Heilerin, Peru
Laura Pacheco hatte in jungen Jahren einen schlimmen Verkehrsunfall mit Knochenbrüchen, Lähmungserscheinungen und Nervenausfällen. Verletzungen im Gehirn bedrohten ihr Leben, die Schulmedizin war machtlos. Nach langer Suche fand sie einen erfahrenen alten Heiler der Mochica, einer prä-inka-Kultur Perus. Er behandelte sie, und Laura Pacheca genas in kurzer Zeit vollkommen und konnte Sport und Studium wieder aufnehmen. Sie bat den Heiler inständig, ihr dieses Wissen zu vermitteln, doch er weigerte sich zunächst, die alte und bisher geheime Tradition seiner Vorfahren weiterzugeben. Schließlich
gab er Lauras drängenden Bitten nach, und es folgten viele Jahre des intensiven Lernens und Praktizierens. Der Lehrer sprach nicht über sein Wissen, er schulte Laura durch Fühlen, Beobachten und Anwenden.  Ihr Meister starb 2006 und hinterließ nur Laura sein einzigartiges Erbe. Laura Pacheco nimmt die große Verantwortung zur Heilung der Menschen in der Welt wahr und möchte diese alte, sehr effektive Heilmethode gerne an engagierte und interessierte Menschen weitergeben.

Saira Serikbajewa, Heilerin, Kasachstan und  Maria Gavrilenko, Professorin für Sprachen, Kasachstan
Saira Serikbajewa steht seit früher Kindheit mit der traditionellen Medizin ihres Volkes in Verbindung und arbeitet seit 20 Jahren als Schamanin. Die Kasachen sind von je her ein Volk der Nomaden, das seit Urzeiten eine Vielfalt von Heilverfahren aus der Natur entwickelt hat und durch die medizinische Erfahrung anderer Völker Zentralasiens, Chinas, Indiens und des arabischen Orients ergänzte. Die Therapie, die Saira und Maria demonstrieren werden, ist die Wachstherapie. Diese Therapie kann jeder anwenden, verstehen können sie jedoch nur die "Feuer-, Wasser-, Luft- und Erdmagier",diejenigen, denen sich durch ihr langjähriges Praktizieren die Sprache  der Natur offenbart hat. Der Therapie liegen die Eigenschaften des Bienenwachses zugrunde. Durch diese Therapie kann man Menschen, Tieren, Pflanzen und sogar Autos oder Häusern helfen. indem man bei der Behandlung  die Kraft des Feuers und des Wassers anspricht und in die Therapie mit  einbezieht. Jegliches Problem kann gelöst, Betrug aus Licht gebracht werden, Magie, Hexerei und böser Blick verlieren ihre Macht. kann eingeleitet werden., Hilfe vermittelt, das Leben zu meistern, den Weg zu öffnen, frei zu machen,  manchmal sogar auch das Leben retten. Die Wachstherapie kann niemandem schaden, sie kann nur helfen. Die Biene - die Mutter vom  Wachs, findet in der Blume nur den Nektar, die Spinne jedoch nur das Gift. Das ist die gute Eigenschaft der Biene - das Böse zu übergehen, das Gute vom Bösen trennen zu können, die Wahrheit von der Unwahrheit zu unterscheiden. Diese alte Heilweise, von uns tiefgründig studiert und  vervollkommnet, hilft uns, den Patienten zu reinigen und zu heilen: auf der physischen, emotionalen, mentalen und geistigen Ebene.

Dr. Wolf Dieter Storl, Ethnobotaniker, Schamanenforscher, Deutschland
Die indigenen Wurzeln der europäischen Heilpflanzenkunde. Die indigenen Völker nördlich der Alpen, die  Germanen, Slawen und vor allem die Kelten, prägen Aspekte der Volksmedizin  bis zum heutigen Tag. Nicht nur wurde im ländlichen Raum das Wissen um die endemischen Kräuter - darunter auch die Archäophyten, die mit den ersten Bauern kamen - überliefert, sondern auch verschiedene Sammel-  aund  Ausgrabrituale, sowie Rituale der Zubereitung und der Einnahme. Träger dieser „kleinen“Tradition waren vor allem die Frauen. Dieses indigene Heilsystem war in einem archaischen Weltbild eingebettet, das sich erheblich von der kulturellen Matrix  der „großen“ Tradition der offiziellen Kloster-,  Apotheker- und  Ärztemedizin, unterschied. In diesem Seminar wollen wir etwas über diese Heilkunde erfahren, indem wir, während einer Exkursion in freier Natur, endemische Pflanzen im ethnomedizinischen Kontext vorstellen.

INTENSIV-PRAXIS-FORTBILDUNG 2008

Orte: 
9.10.2008: Vortragsabend in der Universität München, Pettenkoferstr. 11
10.-12.10.08: Intensiv-Praxis-Fortbildung, Seminarhaus Eibenwald, nahe München (Anfahrtsbeschreibung und Unterkunftsmöglichkeiten werden mit der Anmeldebestätigung verschickt)
Zeiten:
Do. 9.10.08: 19-21 Uhr 
Fr. 10.10.08: 9-19 Uhr 
Sa. 11.10.08: 9-19 Uhr
So. 12.10.08: 9-17.30 Uhr

Hinweis: Traditionelle Heiler und Referenten anderer Kulturen denken oft nicht in unseren westlichen Strukturen. Wir bitten deshalb verständnisvoll und flexibel mit sich verändernden Programminhalten und Zeitplänen umzugehen. Unerwartetes und Überraschendes ist erfahrungsgemäß im Bereich der Ethnomedizin unausweichlich.

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