The Loss of Intercultural Competence (Satis Shroff)

The Inheritance of Loss and Intercultural Competence (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

‘My characters are purely fictional,’ says Kiran Desai. In her book (The Inheritance of Loss) she has tried to do exactly that, namely to capture her own knowledge about what it means to travel between East and West, and to examine the lives of migrants who are forced to hypocrisy, angst of being nabbed, and have biographies that have gaps, and whose lives are constructed with lies, where trust and faith in someone is impossible, as in the case of Sai and Gyan.

Migration is a sword with sharp blades on both sides. The feeling of loss when one leaves one’s matribhumi is just as intensive and dreadful as having to leave a foreign home, due to deportation, when one doesn’t have the green-card or Aufenthaltserlaubnis. Everyone copes with such situations differently. Some don’t have coping solutions and it becomes a traumatic experience for the rest of one’s life. Some pull up their socks, keep a stiff upper-lip and begin elsewhere.

The problem of illegal migration hasn’t been solved in the USA, Britain, France, Germany and other European countries. It is an open secret that the illegal migrants are used as cheap labourers according to the hire-and-fire principle, for these people belong to the underclass. In the USA it’s chic to have Hispanics as baby-sitters, just as Eastern Bloc women are used by German families to do the household chores. Nepalis work under miserable conditions in India as darwans, chowkidars, cheap security personnel and the Indians have the same arrogance as the British colonialists. The judge, Lola and Noni are stereotypes, but such people do exist. It’s not all fantasy. I’m sure the Gurkhas looking after photo-model Claudia Schiffer and singer Seal’s house and guarding the palace of the Sultan of Brunei are well paid and contented, in comparison to other people in Nepal and the Indian sub-continent.

What does a person feel and think when he or she goes from a rich western country to the East? And what happens when a poor Indian comes to the USA (land of plenty) or Germany (Schlaraffenland)? Is there always a feeling of loss? I’ve been living thirty years in Germany and I have met and seen and worked with migrants with biographies from Irak, Iran, Turkey, Nepal, India, Pakistan, Vietnam, Kosovo, Albania, Croatia and East Bloc countries. The worst part of it is that the Germans ignored the fact that it had already become, what they call ‘ein Einwanderungsland.’ They thought they’d invited only guest workers after World War II, with limited stay-permits, not realising that they’d encouraged human beings with families and emotional ties, hopes and desires of a better future in the new Heimat with for their children and their grand-children.

Kiran Desai flashes back and forth, between Kalimpong and New York, and she uses typical clichés and Indian stereotypes that have also been promoted by Bollywood. She’s just as cynical and hilarious with her descriptions of fellow Indians in the diaspora, as she is when she describes the Gorkhalis in Darjeeling. Her portrait of the Nepalis in Darjeeling is rather biased, but what can one expect from a thirty-six year old Indian woman who has been pampered in India, England and the USA? Her knowledge of Kalimpong and Darjeeling sounds theoretical and her characters don’t speak Nepali. She lets them speak Hindi, because she herself didn’t bother to learn Nepali during her stay in Kalimpong. The depiction of a Gorkhali world might be true, as far as poverty is concerned, but she has no idea of the rich Nepali literature (Indra Bahadur Rai, Shiva Kumar Rai, Banira Giri to name a few), and folks music in the diaspora.

Gyan’s role was overdone, especially when Sai demands that he should feel ashamed of his and his family’s poverty and so-called low descent. What is Gyan? Is he a Chettri, Bahun, Rai Tamang, or even a Newar? Describing a country, landscape is one thing, but creeping into the skins of the characters is another. The Gorkha characters remain shallow, like caricatures in Bollywood films, and she overdoes it with the dialogue between Sai and Gyan.

For someone like me, who also went to school in Darjeeling, Kiran Desai’s book was a pleasant journey into the past, where I still have fond memories of the Darjeeling Nepalis, their struggle for recognition and dignity among the peoples of the vast Indian subcontinent. I’m glad that peace prevails in the Darjeeling district, although I wish Subash Ghising had negotiated more funds from the central Indian government, and a university in Darjeeling. Gangtok (Sikkim) also does not have a university. The recognition of Nepali was a positive factor, but a university each for Darjeeling, Kalimpong and Kurseong would have given more Nepalis (pardon, Gorkhalis) the opportunity for higher education and better jobs, if not in the country, then abroad. To eat dal-bhat-tarkari at home and acquire MAs and PhDs within one’s familiar confines would have immensely helped the Gorkhali men and women, even more than the recognition of Nepali. We can regard it as a small step towards progress.

The description of Gyan’s visit to Kathmandu was extremely superficial. Kathmandu is a world, a cosmos in itself, with its exquisite temples and pagodas and stupas and the culturally rich Newaris families from Lalitpur, Bhadgaon and Kathmandu.

Kiran is, and remains, a supercilious brown-memsahib, like the made-over English characters of Varindra Tarzie Vittachi’s fiercely satirical book ‘The Brown Sahibs’ in her attitude towards Gorkhalis and the downtrodden of her own country. I can imagine that the Nepali author D.B. Gurung is piqued about Desai’s portrayal of the Nepalis in Kalimpong as ‘crook, dupe, cheat and lesser humans’ and his own emotional rejoinder regarding the Bengalis as ‘the hungry jackals from the plains of Calcutta.’ Since D.B. Gurung is known for his poetic vein, perhaps he can treat the long standing problems between Indians and Nepalis, or as Desai puts it, Bengis and Neps, in his lyrical verses. But please, less of the vitriol and more of tolerance, because even a poet and novelist can make or break human relations. I, for my part, am for living together, despite our differences, for variety is the spice of life in these days of globanisation. Vive la difference.
The story is served like a MacDonald’s Big Mac for the modern reader, who has not much time, and there are multi-media distractions craving for his or her attention. As small morsels of information, like in a sit-com. I found the story-pace well timed and interesting, and she has a broad palette of problems that migrants face when they leave their homes, and when they return home. You can feel with Bijhu when he embraces his Papa in the end. A foreign-returned son, stripped of all his belongings. It was a terrific metaphor. I’m glad that there are women like Kiran Desai and Monica Ali (Brick Lane) who’ve travelled and experienced what it is like to be in the diaspora and try to capture the emotional and historical patterns in their lives as migrants.

When you read the last page of the Desai’s book you feel a bit dissatisfied because you wish that the unequal love affair between Gyan and Sai will go on and take a positive turn. There are so many Nepali-Indian couples who live happy conjugal lives with their families. I know at least three cases of Nepali women who’re married to Bengalis. The Nepali women speak perfect Bengali, but their husbands don’t speak Nepali, even though they live in Gorkhaland. They are proud that they can speak English instead. Nepali (Gorkhali or Khas Kura) is such a colourful and melodious language and we ought to listen to Sir Ralph Turner’s when he says: “Do not let your lovely language become the pale reflexion of a sanskritised Hindi.”

Dinesh Kafle calls Desai ‘schizophrenic.’ Well, when you talk with an Indian he always praises the achievements of India in terms of the second Silicon Valley (Bangalore), the Agni and Prithvi missiles, the increasing nuclear arsenal, the expanding armed forces etcetera. But, Gott sei dank, there are Indians, who like Gandhi, are humble, religious, practice humility, are poor, deprived, castless, untouchables and, nevertheless, human and full of empathy, clean in their souls and hearts, and regard this world as merely a maya, an illusion, an earthly spectacle
to be seen and felt---without being attached. D. B. Gurung is wrong when he assumes that Desai seems “unable to acclimatise herself to either the western milieu or her own home.” But where is her home? She’s a rootless, creative jet-set gypsy, who calls India, England and USA her home. The gypsies (Sintis and Romas) were originally from India (Rajasthan), weren’t they?
Even V.S.Naipaul (Half a Life, The Mimic Men), J. M. Croatzee (Youth), Isabel Allende (The Stories of Eva Luna) and Prafulla Mohanti (Through Brown Eyes) haven’t gone so far in their description of a race or nation the way Desai has in her book. What is missing in her writing is the intercultural competence. Instead of taking the trouble to learn Nepali and acquiring background knowledge about the tradition, religion, norms and values, culture and living style of the Gorkhalis in Darjeeling and the Nepalese in Nepal, and comparing it with her own Indian culture, and trying to seek what is common between the two cultures and moving towards peace, tolerance, reconciliation---she just remains adamant , like her protagonist Sai.

She does not make an ethnic reflection, but goes on and on, with a jaundiced view, till the bitter end. The dialogue between Neps and Bengis, between Neps and other Indians (Beharis and Marwaris and others from the plains) or between the British and Indians cannot be described as successful intercultural dialogues. The dialogues are carried out the way it should not, because there’s always a fear that one is different in terms of social and ethnic status, even between her two main protagonists: Sai and Gyan. There is no attempt to reveal the facts behind an alien in a new cultural environment, no accepting of the problems of identity and no engagement for equality and against discrimination.

If you’re looking for frustrations-tolerance, empathy and solidarity with the Gorkhalis in the book, it’s just not there. The characters necessary for intercultural interaction are joy in interaction with foreign cultures (not arrogance and egoism), consciousness of one’s own culture, stress tolerance, tolerance of ambiguity, and bucketfuls of empathy. Had she shown empathy towards the Nepalis from Darjeeling and Kalimpong and made a happy-end love story between Gyan and Sai, the Nepalese would have greeted her with khadas and marigold malas. The way it is, she has only stirred a hornet’s nest. Kiran just doesn’t have empathy for Neps, despite the Booker Prize. Great women are judged by the way they treat the underprivileged and downtrodden. With 36 years, it’s time for meditation and self-searching in Rishikesh, like the Beatles, I suppose.

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About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer & poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction). He writes regularly for http://www.americanchronicle.com/ and its twenty-one affiliated newspapers in the USA and on http://www.satisshroff.blogspot/, in addition to http://www.blog.ch/. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures, and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

EINE REISE NACH GORKHALAND (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

Die Fahrt von Kathmandu nach Kakarbhita in Ost-Nepal war ein eigenartiges Erlebnis. Die Sicherheitsvorkehrungen waren streng. Ein Nepali Polizist verteilte Karten auf denen die Reisenden ihren Namen, Adresse und Bestimmungsort angeben mußten. Das Gepäck wurde identifiziert und zur gründlichen Untersuchung geöffnet.

Mugling: In Kathmandu starten Busse nach Birganj vom zentralen Busbahnhof aus. Es gibt auch Nachbusse. Von Birganj fahren Busse nach Kathmandu über Mugling (272km). Außerdem kann man die alte Strasse hinder Hitauda über Daman benutzen, ist 100 km kürzer aber sehr kurvenreich. In Mugling hatten wir um 22 Uhr einen Aufenthalt um eine kurze dal-bhat-tarkari Sitzung abzuhalten. Man bekommt einen Löffel nur auf verlangen, da die meisten mit den rechten Hand essen. Die Stadt machte den Eindruck eines Grenzortes im Wilden Westen. Als Toilette dienten jede Winkel und dunkle Gassen. Das ununterbrochene Plärren der penetranten indischen Filmmusik im Nachtbus sorgte dafür, da viele Reisenden wach blieben, während einige wenige davon auch eingeschläfert wurden. Nepali Musik ist ja so weich, dezent und unaufdringlich. Der Busfahrer und sein Angestellter diskutieren und gestikulieren. Letztere schien der Sündenbock zu sein und wurde regelrecht angefahren.

Tribhuvan Rajpath: Die Tribhuvan Rajpath erschien als eine Berg und Talsilhouette, ab und zu zeigten ein oder zwei kleine Lichter die Existenz von Nepali Höfen in der Gebirgswildnis an. Die Rajpath ist 200km lang und verbindet Kathmandu mit Raxaul an der indischen Grenze. Sie wurde mit indischer Hilfe erbaut und 1956 eröffnet.Wir erreichen Itari um 6 Uhr 30 und halten bei einem Graben, gefüllt mit stehenden grünlichen Wasser, an dem acht Enten herumstanden, schweigend und in Gesellschaft eines Wegweisers: Kathmandu via Mugling 519 km. Itari war am Expandieren, was von halbfertigen Neubauten angezeigt wurde.

Ein Sadhu schlenderte heran um Geld zu erbetteln. Es gab Strassenhändler mit nepalesischen Gebäck. Heruntergekommene Hütten waren in Teehäuser verwandelt worden, geschmückt mit Coca Colareklame. Eine elegante Nepali Frau in einem Bakhu-kleid aus dem Norden war dabei sich zu waschen.

Im Bus gab es fünf Thakali Schulkinder, die auf dem Weg nach Kalimpong waren, zu Dr. Graham's Home. Scharen indischen Touristen tranken Tee. Das ist das vernünftigste um den Kathmandu Quickstep (Durchfall) zu vermeiden.

Hitauda: Schon um 2 Uhr 30 erreichten wir Hitauda. Das steile serpentinenreiche Abenteuer namens Tribhuvan Rajpath war überstanden. Vor vierzig Jahren wurden Autos von gewaltigen Trägerkolonnen auf dem Rücken aus Indien nach Kathmandu gebracht. Man könnte die Geräusche von anderen Bussen, die ankamen oder abfuhren vernehmen. Straßenhändler schrien sich die Kehle heiß und verkauften heißen Tee, hartgekochte Eier, Papad, Orangen und gerösteten Mais.

Leibesvisitationen: Es gab eine Kontrollenstelle und Leibevisitationen. Ich erinnere mich, dass in Mai 1985 reifen die Nepali Congress Partei und die Nepal Communist Party zu einer Satyagraha-Bewegung (wie einst in britische Indien) auf und viele Mitglieder dieser Parteien wurden damals verhaftet. Die Situation eskalierte am 20. Juni, als Bombenanschläge in Kathmandu und anderen Städten Nepals acht Tote und 22 Verletzte forderten. Zu den Anschlägen bekannten sich Organisationen wie: Janvadi Morcha (Volksforum) und Samyukta Mukti Bahini (NepalsNaxalite Gruppe. In einen schäbigen Hütte mit zwei Türen fühlte der Gendarm die Schlüssel in meiner Tasche und Fragte mich was das sei.

"Meine Schlüssel" antwortete ich auf Nepali, woraufhin er mich aus der Schlange winkte. In der Nähe wartete eine ältere tibetische Frau ebenfalls darauf abgetastet zu werden.
Kakarbhita: Kakarbhita war eine kleine Grenzstadt, schäbig, armselig und mit einer Menge kleiner Restaurants, die Linsensuppe, Reis und Curryhuhn anboten. Sie hat 3000 Einwohner, eine Polizeiwache, kein Krankenhaus, nicht einmal eine Apotheke, einige Drogerien und unzählige Stroh oder Bambushütten.

Siliguri: Siliguri ist ein Eisenbahnnetz und das Tor zu den Darjeeling Bergen. Beim Sukunawald sah man die Plantagen in der Nähe der Straße und Gorkhali Pflücker, die "drei-Blätter-und-eine-Knospe" um 11 Uhr morgens sammelten, die Mahanadibrücke und dann, in Richtung Hochland, Tindharia, wo es eine Werkstatt für die berühmte Darjeeling-Himalayan-Eisenbahn gibt, ein niedlicher 'Spielzeug', der malerische kleine Gurkha Städte passiert, wie Ghayabari, Kurseong, Sepoydhura, Tung, Ghoom und schließlich Darjeeling selbst.

"Der ganze Weg bis dahin war noch vor zwei Jahrzehnten dicht bewaldet, aber jetzt werden die Berge nach jedem heftigen Monsun ein Stück weiter abgetragen", sagte Mr.Dixit, ein Ingenieur im Ruhestand den ich in Kurseong traf. Der Andrang in die Berge sei die letzte Zeit sehr groß gewesen. In der Nähe von Ghoom zog sich eine hässliche Narbe durch die Landschaft, die von einem Erdrutsch herrschte. Straßenarbeiter waren damit beschäftigt sie mit Steinen und Zement wieder zu befestigen.

Tiger Hill: In Darjeeling hatte ich bei einem Reisebüro in der Nähe des Capitolkinos den Tag vorher eine Karte reserviert nur um dann herauszufinden, dass es mehr als ein Dutzend Jeeps und Landrovers vom Zeiten Weltkrieg Richtung Tiger Hill um 4 Uhr morgens gab. Der Gurkha Angestellte sagte, "Es ist besser ein bisschen früher zu kommen. Die ersten Kunden bekommen die besten Plätze." So ging ich um 3:30 dorthin.

Der Gurkha und seine Fahrzeugflotte war nirgends zu sehen. Ein Einheimischer mit mongolischen Zügen und einem Bart wie Djengisch Khan erschien um 4:15 und sagte, dass wir zu einer anderen Stelle gehen müssten, wo der Jeep geparkt wäre. Indische Standard Zeit, dachte ich. In einem solchen Urlaub muss man cool bleiben. Ein Indischer Mitreisender mit einer Deutschen Frau meinte: "Wenn ihr so spät kommt, ist es kein Wunder, dass ihr Gurkhas kein Fortschritt macht." Der taktlose dunkle Reisender, der das sagte war ein Flachländer.
"Wie zum Teufel können wir Fortschritt machen, wenn ganze Darjeeling Bezirk zum Sperrgebiet erklärt wird, und wenn alle Teeplantagen den Bengalis von Kalkutta gehören, und wenn die indische Regierung Geld nur in Sikkim investiert, und wenn unsere Gorkhalisprache bis neulich nicht anerkannt wurde?" erwiderte der Gorkhafahrer.

Das war ein schlagfertiger, verärgerter Gorkha, der keinen Spaß verstand. Das ist was ich an den Gurkhas von Darjeeling bewundere. Sogar ein Jeepfahrer spricht ausreichend Englisch, Hindi und Gorkhali (Nepali).

Die Gorkhas von Darjeeling haben seit Oktober 1988 ihre Waffen nach 28 Monaten andauernden Kämpfen mit der indischen Regierung niedergelegt. Der Gorkhaland Aufstand kostete 200 Leben und brachte eine Ergänzung (Amendment) zum Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council Erlaß.

Schließlich wurden neun Leute in den Jeep gepackt und wir fuhren in Richtung Tiger Hill. Es gab ein großes Tor mit den traditionellen tibetischen Schnitzereien--zwei Tigern--durch welches die Fahrzeuge den Berg hinauffuhren. Manche Jeeps hatten Schwierigkeiten und keuchten wie Asthmatiker.

Der Jeep hielt 300m unterhalb des Gipfels und wir gingen zu Fuß zum Gipfel. Ein Sherpa mit Moon-Boots lief mit einem großen Stein den Hang hinauf um sein Jeep zu bremsen, der gerade begann rückwärts die Straße hinunter zu rollen. Die Bremsen schienen nicht so gut zu funktionieren, bei dieser Steigung jedenfalls.

Kanchenjunga Massif: Dann konnte man sehen wie sich die Spitze des 8598m Kenchanjunga Massif plötzlich Rot färbte, die ersten Sonnenstrahlen. Nach kurzer Zeit wurde sie Orange und nahm allmählich eine Gelbe Färbung an. Man konnte die Vögel des Himalaya in den Büschen und Bäumen zwitschern hören und zugleich das Klicken der Touristenkameras.
Nach einer kurzen Fahrt durch Pinienwälder und blaue Berge wurden wir durch eine Aussicht auf das Kanchenjunga in seiner ganzen Majestät belohnt.

In Ghoom, das ist der höchste Ort auf der Old Hill Cart Road, besuchten wir das buddhistische Kloster aus dem 19.Jahrhundert (circa 8km von Darjeeling). Im massiven, pompösen Pagoda ähnlichen Gebäude befanden sich ein Altar des Maitree Buddha, Butterlämpchen und tibetanische Khadatücher in leuchtendem Rot, Weiß und Gelb. Es war ein Fest für den Augen. Tibetische Kunst im Exil. Eintritt 0.50 Paise. Wir warfen einen Blick in das Museum mit wertvoller Buddhistischer Literatur, traditionellen rituellen Masken aus dem Himalayaraum und einer numismatischen Sammlung in der Mitte des Raumes, mit Münzen und Banknoten aus dem Tibet, die bis 1959 im Umlauf waren.

Ein kleiner, freundlicher Lamanoviz posierte vor den Touristen, und ein anderer Lama mit schwarzem Haar sprang hinter einer Dämonenmaske hervor um für die Nachwelt festgehalten zu werden.

Eine blaue Darjeeling Himalayan Dampflok gebaut 1881 von Sharp & Co Glasgow, ratterte bergab auf ihrem weg nach Kurseong, einer weiteren Bergstation. Einige Jungen aus Ghoom vergnügten sich, indem sie bei fahrendem Zug hinaus und wieder hinein sprangen. Der hilflose Schaffner schrie sie an, tat es ihnen gleich und versuchte einen zu erwischen. Die Ghoom-Jungs waren frech und flink. Es war ein herrliches Spektakel wie aus einem slap-stick Filmstreife.
Entlang der mini Schienen, die einen an die Schwäbische Eisenbahn denken ließen, waren scharen von Verkäufern von tibetischer Herkunft die Altkleider, Halsketten, Gürtel, Taschen und viele andere Gegenstände verkauften, wie sie üblicherweise an der Laden La Straße in Darjeeling angeboten werden.

Eine kurze Fahrt zum Batasia loop, wo die Eisenbahn bei der abfahrt nach Darjeeling, ein paar Schlaufen fährt, erwies sich als interessant. An diesem dunstigen Morgen sah man die Wolken langsam aufsteigen von den berühmten Teegärten in den Tälern.

Bei den Gorkhas: Am nächsten Tag fuhr ich mit einem Gorkha Freund, Susil Basnet, nach Dow Hill über Kurseong an den Tbc Sanatorium vorbei, in einem Jeep noch aus dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, der von einem Gorkha namens Norden Lama, mit Alkoholfahne gefahren wurde. Es gibt keine Promillen-Kontrolle in Darjeeling oder Indien. In den kalten und regnerischen Monsunmonaten ist es nicht unüblichen zu beobachten wie Jeep und Lastwagenfahrer anhalten um einen Schluck Raksi (Reisschnaps) zu trinken um sich warm zu halten. Ich muss zugeben ich war erleichtert als wir unser Ziel erreichten. Wir wurden mit einer vorzüglichen Rai-Mahlzeit bestehend aus Dal-Bhat-Shikar (Linsen-Reis-Ziegenfleisch) belohnt.

Nepalis bzw. Gorkhas sprechen normalerweise nicht beim Essen. Aber moderne Nepalis (Gorkhas) neigen dazu, die neue fremdländische (westliche) Angewohnheiten anzueignen, was von der ältere Generation nicht so gerne gesehen wird. Es gehört sich nicht. Mein Gorkha Freund sagte, er hatte sowohl Gefallen gefunden an den letzten Harold Robbins, Alstair Maclean und John Grisham Romanen, als auch Bhanu Bhakta Acharyas "Grasmäher Verse", Babulal Pradhan's Kurzgeschichten, Shiva Kumar Rai's "Dak Bungalow", Laxmi Prasad Devkota’s "Muna Madan" und Guru Prasad Mainali's Kurzgeschichten. Die in Indien Lebenden Gorkhas zitieren Urdu shahari Verse, Gedichte und Dialoge aus Indischen Kinos und Videofilmen.

In Kurseong traf ich Mr. Snehalata Roy, ein liebenswürdiger alter bengalischen Herr, der etwas vom intellectuellen Flair eines Nirad C. Chaudhuri hatte. Er hatte graues Haar, war korpulent und fochte einen immerwährenden Kampf gegen Rheumatismus, Arthritis und Tuberkulose, denn er war Kettenraucher. Er war ein vielgereister Versicherungsangestellte aus Kalkutta und hat sich schließlich in Kurseong niedergelassen. Mr. Roy sprach Gorkhali mit einem starken Ballygunj-Akzent aus Bengal. Er spöttete: "Die Gorkhas erschienen immerhin in den Schlagzeilen und erreichten es die Aufmerksamkeit in Delhi auf sich zu ziehen." Er zeigte mir sein Bibliothek und wir tranken Tee und plauderten.

TV und Video-Sucht: Fernsehen ist geradewegs zu einer Sucht geworden, was ein Besuch bei einer in der Stadt lebenden Gorkha-Familie deutlich sichtbar wurde. Video und Fernsehen scheinen Gespräche oder Spiele im Kreis der Familie ersetzt zu haben auch in den kleinsten Ecken des Landes. Die ganze noch-intakte Grossfamilie, die aus drei Generationen bestand, war im Bann der Mattscheibe. "Dallas", Cricket-Matches und politische "Sketch-up" am Sonntagmorgen. Zwischen den schlüpfrigen Intrigen JRs und einer Tasse Darjeelingtee sprach ich mit Mr. Chettri, einem pensionierten Inspecteur der Darjeeling-Himalaya Eisenbahn. Er meinte: "Die Tage der Wildschwein- und Fasanenjagd im Sukuna-Dschungel (Terai) sind vorbei." Er fuhr fort, die Patronen wären in Indien so teuer, dass er sein altes Winschester-Gewehr verkauft habe. Video, Fernsehen und lange Spaziergänge interessierten ihn nun am meisten. Erstere seien sein neuen Spielzeug.

Die klaren blauen Berge um uns, aus denen Tälern Wolken, die überbleibsel des Monsuns, emporkletterten, waren überwältigend.

Unmengen von Photographen aus Darjeeling, bewaffnet mit Polaroiden oder andere Kameras, versuchten schnell zum Zuge zu kommen. Einer näherte sich einem älteren einheimischen Gorkha und fragte, warum er denn die Kappe nicht von seinem Teleskope nehme und der erwiderte mit großem Ernst: "Schauen Sie Sir, ich bin nicht wie die anderen. Wenn die Aussicht schlecht ist und es wirklich nichts zu sehen gibt, mag ich den Leuten kein Geld abnehmen um sie dann den Dunst betrachten zu lassen. Ein Mann von Charakter und Ehrgefühl, wollte man glauben. Über 90 % der Touristen auf Tiger Hill waren Inder aus dem Flachland.

Tenzing Norgay’s Bergsteigerinstitut: Nach einem kurzen Frühstück strebte ich Richtung Chowrasta zu. Dorthin geht man zum Ponyreiten, um die Auslagen in den Schaufenstern zu betrachten oder um den Mall entlang zu spazieren bis zum Regierungsgebäude (Governor's Palast) und wieder zurück. Es ist der selbe Ort wo englische Damen und Herrn promenieren und ihren 5 O' Clock Tee in Keventer's oder Planters Club zu trinken. Danach ging ich zum Tenzing Norgay's Institute für Himalaya Touren, das sich in Birch Hill befindet, welches von den Indern heute Jawahar Parbat genannt wird. Der Eintrittsgebühr betrug eine Rupee. Es gab einiges zu sehen: Hochgebirgszelte, Bergsteigerausrüstung, Andenken, Glückwünschkarten und eine Fotoausstellung von Bezwingern und Alpinisten des Everest, welche an den verschiedenen Expeditionen und natürlich jener mit Reinhold Messner teilgenommen hatten.

Eine Plauderei mit einem Gorkha bediensteten des Himalayan Mountaineering Institut (HMI) erwies sich als interessant und führte zum Kauf eines Heftchens über "grundlegende, fortschrittliche und abenteuerliche" Kletterkurse. Seltsamerweise waren diese Kurse nicht für Ausländer gedacht. Vielleicht deshalb, weil die Inder seit ihrem Krieg mit China 1962 im Himalaya die Regionen Darjeeling, Sikkim und Bhutan zum Sperrgebiet erklärt haben.
Im Zoologischen Garten gab es gähnende sibirische Tiger zu sehen, Schwarzbären, Lamas, die bei der kleinsten Provokationen zu spucken anfingen, Pandas und exotische Vögel. Auch gab es im Gymkhana Club ein ausgestopftes Lama: Es fand gerade eine Ausstellung statt--mit der Aufschrift: "Bitte haben sie Geduld. Ein Cousin dieses Lamas wird sich bald einstellen". Das Naturgeschichte Museum zeigte ausgestopfte bengalische Tiger, Krokodile, den Wilden asiatischen Büffel und Reptilien.

Vom Hotel, wo ich mich eingerichtet hatte, hatte man einen überblick auf die Dächer und die Hinterhöfe von Darjeeling. Die meisten Häuser waren heruntergekommen und die Stadt konnte eine Schönheitsoperation gut gebrauchen. Es macht Mühe zu glauben, dass diese Stadt die Perle im Jewel der Britischen Besitzungen gewesen sein sollte. An allen Ecken gab es Momo- und Thukpaläden mit schmuddeligen Vorhängen vor dem Eingang und Marktschreien und Kleinhändler aus der Gangesebene, die in den Straßen der Bergstation ein bisschen zum Leben suchten. Es scheint als wachse Darjeeling, wie Kathmandu, ohne Plan. Die Häuser schießen in die Höhe, wie Pilze nach einem Monsunregen. Die Bevölkerung hat sich ebenfalls vergrößert und natürlich haben die Preise angezogen. Die Einwanderung von Leuten aus der Gangesebene, auf der Suche nach Wohnraum und Arbeit in der Bergen vergrößert das Elend noch weiter.

In Darjeeling gingen wir ins Simla-Restaurant. Kein Ort für Touristen, sondern für die Gorkhas. Gorkhas sind trinkfest und sie trinken gewöhnlich Raksi oder Chang, aber auch Rum oder Scotch. Die Rechnung war beachtlich aber mir wurde nicht erlaubt auch nur eine einzige Runde zu bezahlen. "Du bist ein Gast und Gäste von Gorkhas zahlen nichts," war die Antwort. Ich bekam dennoch eine Gelegenheit zur Gegenleistung am nächsten Tag bei Lobos, wo ich Kuchen und anderes Gebäck bestellte. Wie überall in der Welt, wo die Gorkhas zusammenkommen, gab es ausgedehnte Trinkgelage.

Am nächsten Tag wurde ich von einer Gorkhafamilie zum Mittagessen ins "Glens" eingeladen. "Als wir noch Schulkinder waren, waren wir verrückt nach einem Essen und Date bei Glenary's," sagte Mrs.Rai, die eine der teueren, von ausländischen Nonnen geleiteten Klosterschulen besucht hatte.

Ein Gelübde: "Während der 60iger Jahre hatten die Fentones, eine Musikgruppe aus Shillong und die "Diamonds" aus Darjeeling großen Erfolg mit ihren Beatlesstücken wie "Yesterday", "Can't Buy Me Love", und "Pretender" und "Satisfaction" von den Rolling Stones. Glenary ist nicht mehr was es einmal war. Es hat seinen Glanz, seine Eleganz und auch seine Gäste und Ambiente verloren", meinte Mrs.Rai, eine hübschen, schlanke Frau, während wir irgendein unbeschreibliches chinesisches Gericht mit unseren Essstäbchen zu uns nahmen.

Mrs.Rai hatte ein 'Bhakal' (ein Gelübde) abgelegt mit dem Versprechen an eine Gottheit ihre Gedenkstätte aufzusuchen, sollte ihr Wünsch in Erfüllung gehen. Ich konnte mir vorstellen, dass sie die Erfüllung einen ganzen Reihe von Wünsche nötig hatte. Wir gingen zum Mahakal-hügel. Den Weg säumten tibetische und indische Bettler. Im Tempelgelände flatterten Hunderten von orange-roten, gelben und weißen Gebetsfahnen fröhlich im Wind. Und in etwas, das eine Höhle ähnelte, befindet sich der Lama mit Abbildungen von Buddha, Avtars, Boddhisattvas, der verstorbene Panchen Lama, Dalai Lama und dem König von Nepal Birendra Shaha Deva, der als eine Inkarnation des Hindugottes Vishnu betrachtet wird. König Birendra hat in Darjeelings St. Joseph die schulische Ausbildung absolviert.

Kleine Fortschritte: In Darjeeling trifft man überall auf Plakate mit Willkommensgrüßen: Welcome to Gorkhaland. Und Mr. Dhurba Mohan Rai meinte: "Der Grund warum wir keine Fortschritte unter der indischen Regierung gemacht haben, besteht darin, dass wir untereinander so zerstritten sind. Überall gibt es Gorkhas:in der Kongress Partei, im CPI (Marxist), GNLF (Gorkha National Liberation Front), GVC(Gorkha Volunteer Force) und so weiter. Wir sind zu stark verstreut. Jetzt ist es das erste mal, dass sich eine größere Mehrheit in der Front der nationalen Befreiung der Gorkhas unter Subhas Ghising zusammengeschlossen hat. Vereint sind wir stark. Getrennt können wir uns gegenüber den anderen politischen Parteien von West Bengalen nicht behaupten."

Nach einer kurzen fahrt vom Haltestand der Taxis in Darjeeling zum North Point, bestieg ich Indiens älteste Kabinenseilbahn, die von Österreichern gebaut worden war und welche zum Singla Bazaar führt, gelegen im Tal des Little Rangit Flusses. Überall neben und unter einem könnte man die Teebusche (Thea sinensis) der Takdahplantage sehen. Man sah Gorkha-männer und Gorkhafrauen in ihren traditionellen Kleidern beim Wiegen und Rollen der Teeblätter, die sie nach der Herbst-Lese zum trocknen ausgebreitet hatten.

Es waren die Engländer gewesen, die die Nepalesen zur Einwanderung in den östlichen Himalaya ermutigt hatten, um in den neuangelegten Teeplantagen von Darjeeling und Assam zu arbeiten. Allein zwischen 1983 und 1986 beschäftigten die Plantagen 84,000 Menschen. Allerdings ging die Darjeeling Teeproduktion während der Gorkhalandkrise um 65% zurück.
In der Kabine der Seilbahn traf ich auf einen australishen Entwicklungshelfer aus Ost-Nepal, der gerade Ferien machte und stolz auf sein gebrochenes Nepali war; und eine ortsansässige Didi (große Schwester), welche einen Teeladen in Singamari betrieb, war ebenfalls auf dem Weg nach Takdah. Direkt der Seilbahnbergstation gegenüber befindet sich die britische Schule St. Joseph, an der, unter anderen, die Königlichen Familie von Nepal ihre Cambridge Schulabschlussprüfungen abgelegt hat. Die Prüfungsarbeiten werden nach England ausgeschickt, dort korrigiert und die Zeugnisse werden ebenfalls in England ausgestellt. In den nahegelegenen Frazerhalle gibt es Zusammenkünfte, die von europäischen und amerikanischen Priestern (Jesuiten) und Nonnen organisiert werden, wo Jugendliche der indischen, nepali, bhutanesischen und sikkimisischen Elite Walzer, Tango und Mambo tanzen lernen.

In Singamari, auf dem Weg nach Lebong, wo sich eine der höchstgelegenen Pferderennbahnen der Welt befindet, konnte man sehen, wie erfahrene Sherpas am Tenzingfelsen Unterricht gaben--ein Felsen, der eine ziemliche Herausforderung für Möchte-gern-Kletterer und Alpinisten darzustellen schien.
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About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer & poet based in Freiburg. He writes regularly for www.Americanchronicle.com and its twenty-one affiliated newspapers in the USA. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Manchester. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

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Reader's feedback:

Satis Shroff's article remains the finest ever written on Darjeeling. It brought me memories of the young people of Darjeeling,Kalimpong and Kurseong who always remained smart even in the worst crisis. My heartiest congratulations to him. Having stayed and worked in Bhutan for a number of years, I am aware of the politics in North Bengal and the exploitationby the Marwaris and Bengalis of the simple hill people of this area. In the eighties I was surprised to meet a Member of Parliament from Darjeeling who was a journalist and never belonged to Darjeeling or North Bengal. In fact he was from Punjab and stayed in Delhi.
Regards
Dr. Amitabh Mitra

Gorkhalis performing the maruni dance(Art by Mahadeo, Foto:Satis Shroff)

DRINKING TEA IN DARJEELING (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

The 126 year old cobalt blue coloured narrow-gauge Darjeeling Himalayan Railway train chugged and snorted its way from Kurseong to Darjeeling via Ghoom along the serpentine route, against the silvery backdrop of the 8598m Kenchenjunga Range, past the tea gardens, shanty tea-shops and tin-roofed huts. And painted across white-washed hillside walls you could still read the words:"Jai Gorkha! Jai Gorkhaland! Jai Hind!"

Hind is an anachronistic, pre-partition name for India, namely Hindustan: the land of the Hindus. After independence India became a secular state, because it didn’t have much of a choice due to the Muslims, Jains, Sikhs and other religious communities who all started demanding their own rights under the constitution. And the 750,000 Gorkhas in the 70 odd tea-gardens of Darjeeling District (north Bengal) also made it clear that they didn't have autonomous ambitions like: the Sikhs and their fight for Khalistan, and the Nagas with their Nagaland claims. The Gorkhas, who are ethnic Nepalese, only wanted a Gorkhaland within India's framework and the recognition of Nepali, pardon me, Gorkhali, as one of the languages of the secular Indian Constitution.

After a 28-month fight which began in the spring of 1986, the GNLF (Gorkha National Liberation Front) submitted their arms, and pledged to join India's mainstream.
Darjeeling (2123m), like in the hey-days of the British Raj, has remained a cool moun­tain resort for rich Indians and a few foreigners with its fresh air, British fashioned public schools, churches, Planter's Club, Gymkhaha and the blue-domed Governor's summer residence. The English schools bear names like: Victoria, Dow Hill, St.Jo­seph's, Goethals, St.Helen's, St.Paul's...reminiscent of a nostalgic era of colonial British establishment. My parents had sent me to the Kindergarten at St. Helen’s, near Kurseong and I have pleasant memories of that convent school. The morning prayers, breakfast with porridge and toast-marmalade and the sumptuous Indian cuisine at lunch, because we were Hindus and didn’t prefer to eat at the English refectory, where they served beef.

Darjeeling is a dying Queen of the Hills, ignored and neglected after the British left the Raj. Its streets have become mean and violent, and you see the economic decline on the faces of the Nepalis living in the small towns and the sprawling tea gardens. The obsolete infrastructure is corroding. It never received the much-needed financial shot-in-the-arm (like Sikkim did from the Central Government) from the ego-centric, troubled and arrogant West Bengal government.
"The British sahibs have gone. And now we have Indian brown sahibs who try to be more English than the English", said a Gorkha waiter at the Glenary’s near Chowrasta.

Today, a visitor to this restricted area in the foothills of the Eastern Himalayas will be witness to a sad, depressing scenario. The houses look dirty, rusty, poor, dilapidated and neglected. And the tea garden worker has a hard time trying to make ends meet. The wages are low. Even the mono-culture tea-production in Darjeeling went from 25,503 hectares in 1935 to 19,739 hectares in 1983. The Gorkhaland conflict reduced tea harvests by about 65%.The breakdown of the Soviet Union market has caused a total slump in tea-export. The price for Darjeeling tea was never so low, due to the heavy reliance on the Soviet consumers.

In the past Darjeeling has been neglected by the Central government in Delhi. And Sikkim received top priority. The administrative offices are all occupied by the Bengalis. The Newar community in the Darjeeling district has been pushed out by the clever Behari businessmen and shrewd Marwari money-lenders from the plains of India. The Gorkhalis attend the schools and colleges, but the only university of the district still lies in Siliguri in the plains, and they have to compete with the Bengalis, Beharis and the rest of 1000 million Indians for seats in the different faculties. And for jobs.

In the jungle of Indian bureaucracy, where corruption, nepotism and communal feeling is rampant, the common, honest Gorkha hillman cuts badly and gets a bad deal. No wonder the Gorkhas were enraged. Their very existence was being endangered. Their demands were apparently justified, for they only wanted to stay inside the Indian Union on better terms.
"The longstanding friction between the Nepalis and the Bengalis was always there", said my school-friend Sushil Basnet, a burly Gorkha hillman with a public school background, over a cup of excellent Darjeeling tea at his home.

"But when the Meghalaya State Government threw out some 7000 Nepalis from As­sam, the matter really exploded and took the present form of the Gorkha National Liberation Front headed by Subhas Ghising as its president".

He only stops to catch his breath, because he’s wheezing with asthma, and says, "The evicted Nepalis were mostly from Darjeeling and some were from Nepal. When this happened, the age-old treaty between British India and Nepal, which was ratified later in 1950 between Independent India and the Kingdom of Nepal, was violated. As a result, it placed the Nepalis residing in India at an insecure position with dual nationality or without any nationality."
He explained further, "Actually the Clause 7 of the Indo-Nepal Treaty states that the citizens of both countries can do anything under the sun, but have political rights, like asking for a separate state.

"In fact a Gorkha can be labelled as a Nepal-ko-raity (Nepalese subject)and thrown out of the country, and you can't do anything: like the Nepalis of Assam.

How's that for calling oneself Indian all these years?" he says with bitterness. Sushil Basnet was born in Darjeeling and so was his father and grandfather.

His tirade went on: "It was in protest to this Clause 7 that the GNLF dished out an 11-point programme, and it was supported by all sections of the people of Darjeeling. This irritated the Communists (CPM)and so violence and killing broke out on both sides. Like the police shooting down people, women and children included, and midnight arrests. At least 200 people died.
"What we really wanted was the creation of a Gorkhaland district and the recognition of Gorkhali (Nepali) as one of India's national languages and better job opportunities. But the Bengali politician Jyoti Basu and Rajiv Gandhi made a hash of it" says an angry Sushil Basnet.
Gorkha is a fortress in Nepal belonging to the House of Gorkhas,from where the Gorkha King Prithvi Narayan Shah led his troops to conquer the whole of Nepal.In 1810 Nepal's domain extended from the Tista river to the Sutlej, that is from present day Sikkim to Kashmir.The word 'Gorkha' is derived from the Sanskrit work 'go' which means a 'cow' and 'rakh' which means 'protector,' and the Gorkhas are the 'protectors of the cows', that is, they are Hindus primarily. The Indian Army uses the term 'Gork­ha`which is correct, and the British Army uses the term 'Gurkha'. The English also say 'Nepaul' when they mean 'Nepal'.

The Gorkhali population of Darjeeling is made up of: Tamangs, Rais, Newars, Thapas, Poudels, Gurungs, Topdens, Lepchas and Sherpas. In 1800 the British encouraged the migration of the Nepalese to the eastern Himalayas to work in the newly opened tea gardens in Darjeeling (West Bengal) and Assam (Meghalaya).

At Glenary’s I met Riddhima Pradhan, who said: "I can assure you, it was more than a storm in a tea-cup." She was a 26 year old college student from Darjeeling, referring to the Gorkhaland crisis. She went on to say, "The town was crawling with Sikh soldiers armed to the teeth and there were Gorkha civilians getting arrested, and night-raids that made us pretty uneasy. I was scared to go out in the streets even during the day."

Akin to the British Raj, the Central Government sent Sikh soldiers to Darjeeling to fight down the Gorkha demonstrators. The British, it might be noted, deployed Gorkha troops in the 1857 Indian Sepoy Mutiny and the Jalainwalla massacre. In April 1919 troops under the command of the British General Dyer fired on civillians killing 379 people and injuring 1000 in Amristar (Punjab).

Pitching one ethnic group against the other seems to work even today, after the age old divide-and-rule tradition so well practiced by the British in its colonies.

Reynold Gurung, a 52 year old Gurkha soldier on leave says: "My father was a British Gurkha who fought against the Japanese in World War II in Imphal and Burma. He died in action in the jungles of Burma. We'd settled down in Burma. Later, we were driven away by the Burmese nationalists from Rangoon and came over to Darjeeling. I'll be damned if the Indians can drive me away from these hills", he says.

"In 1961 our school soccer team defeated the 2/8 Gurkha Rifles," he says with a boyish twinkle in his Mongolian eyes. "Yessir, that was a terrific match in Kurseong: School-team Beats the Gurkhas!" A year later, the 2/8 Gurkha battallion, which was then stationed in Lebong, was wiped out in the Himalayan war against China in a decisive battle at Nathu La (Sikkim). It was India's Himalayan blunder. After that Nehru and Menon were dubbed "the guilty men of '62," said Reynold Gurung, whom I chanced to meet near the Rink cinema. He lost an elder brother in the war. He took me to his home and told me the story of his family. He invited me for a cup of tea in his house, which was a one-storied, with lots of windows and a lovely garden full of marigolds, because it was the Nepali festival season of Dasain.

A Gurkha-hat that hung on the wall of his spartan sitting-room, a few regimental swords, a khukri in silver and a Naga spear were all that remind him of his dead Gurkha father and the Burma war. Huge well-polished artillery shells serve as vases for mari­gold flowers. He supported his mother with his small Indian Gorkha payroll, and said he was stationed in Punjab with the elite Black Cat battallion.

Soldering still seems to be the best profession for a Gorkha in the hills of Darjeeling.
"You can at the most be a low-paid teacher or a clerk here, says Adip Rumba, "but you can't climb higher. There's always a Bengali blocking the carrier ladder." The poly­technic school in Kurseong produces only junior engineers (overseers). The senior engineering schools are located in the plains of India, and financially too expensive for Gorkha pockets. Even the medical college is located in Siliguri and thus accessible only to the Bengalis.

At high-school age, a lot of young males tired of learning boring subjects like integral calculus and the Moghul Dynasty took off till recently for Dharan's British Gurkha Recruiting Depot or enlisted at the local Indian Gorkha office in Kurseong or Darjee­ling.

Take Kunjo Moktan for instance who joined the British Gurkhas and "saw the world beyond the mountains" namely London, Gibraltar, Hong Kong and Brunei. Or Ganju Tamang who joined the Indian Army and landed in Sri Lanka with India's Peace-keeping Force. Keshab Namgyal, a 1961 Congo blue-helmet veteran, who was disgusted by the war in Katanga, said he gave up soldiering, and worked for the Indian Railway as a clerk, and looked forward to his railway pension.

There are quite a few Nepalis from Darjeeling who have gone to Nepal seeking better jobs after the Darjeeling district was declared a 'restricted area'. Jobs were scarce in Darjeeling after 1962. A sizeable number of Gorkha civilians car drivers with experience in the heights of Darjeeling, Sikkim and Bhutan were hired for their driving skills in the difficult mountain areas of Ladakh, Bomdila and Tripura in the wake of the Himalayan conflict with China.

Lain Singh Bangdel, a talented artist went to Nepal and became the president of the Royal Nepal Academy. Likewise, Amber Gurung ,a singer and composer, has carved himself a niche in the Nepali world of music in Kathmandu. Banira Giri is internationally known for her poetry and lives in Kathmandu. The air-hostesses for the expanding Royal Nepal Airlines were mostly girls from Darjeeling and Kalim­pong. Tourism was booming in Katmandu, and English-speaking smart Gorkha-guides and hotels personnel were in demand. Not in India, but in Nepal.
Tenzing Norgay, a Sherpa from Darjeeling and the first Nepali to climb Mt. Everest with Edmund Hillary, was an exception who stayed on in Darjeeling and was made the Field Director of the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute located in Birch Hill, now dubbed Jawahar Parbat. The principal of the institute was naturally an Indian from the plains. I can still hear the refrain of Dharmaraj Thapa's song praising Tenzing's feat and his glory:

Tenzingga timi, sansara bhari.
Amara huney chau (refrain).

However, the plight of the Sherpas, Lepchas and Tamangs of Darjeeling hasn't im­proved since then. You see them carrying heavy loads for Indian tourists from the plains and foreigners from abroad with their namlo-ropes for almost a song.

"The Indians take almost a sadistic delight in putting down the prices," says Maila Tamang, a porter at Darjeeling's Chowrasta.

"Pairo Ayo!" is a dreadful cry that is often heard in the Darjeeling hills when a landslide occurs. The Gorkhas have mixed feelings about the landslides in the monsoon period because of the endless suffering caused by the disastrous and torrential rain. The mon­soon is good for the tea, but bad for the humans living in the hillsides, for they live in the angst of being swept away in a landslide. The forests in the Darjeeling area are denuded and the ecological balance of the hills is threatened caused also by the monocultu­re: tea. Thickly wooded forests are a rarity. The flora and fauna have dwindled.

"Here's to the Pagla Jhora, the Mad Torrent!" is a toast that you hear frequently in Darjeeling. The local contractors rejoice secretly when a major landslide sweeps away the railway tracks and blocks the only road leading to Darjeeling. Gorkha contractors rush to file tenders at the junior engineer's office bureau of the Public Works De­partment. The tenders go to the chief engineer, who is inevitably a Bengali gent who takes the cream of the bribe.

"It's a game called: oiling-up-the-Bengi-babu", says a Gurkha contractor who chooses to remain anonymous. Corruption is as common as tuberculosis in the government offices and at the border check-posts at Kakarbhita and Manebhanjyang. The Bengali policemen take bribes from both sides: Nepal and India.

A home-coming Johnny Gurkha from Hong Kong was telling his woes to a sari-clad Nepalese woman about the corrupt Indian customs officers at Kakarbhita, for his pro­blem was getting his worldly belongings across the border to Darjeeling where he lived. Since the Gorkha bride has a high affinity for gold from Hong Kong (in the old days it was Lhasa), it's a big headache for a Gorkha to get his gold through the Calcutta customs. The Bengali customs officers do their best to confiscate the luxurious (by Indian decree and standards) and jewellery brought into the country by the thrifty and spartanic living Gurkhas, and probably hand them to their own Bengali wives in Calcutta. It is a never-ending tale of corruption and injustice.

"It is this harassment at the Indian customs that made me build a house in Katmandu than in Darjeeling, and now my family is all the more happier", says Wangdi Lama, a Hong Kong retired Gurkha-major.

Due to the early exposure to the British, the Nepalese of the Eastern Himalayas (Darjee­ling area) tend to be smart, extroverted, street-wise, intellectually awakened, and generally well-informed about current world affairs. The level and percentage of education is also much higher than in eastern Nepal.

Most Nepalese in the Darjeeling area have a school or college background. Even a simple jeep-driver or policeman speaks a smattering of English, in addition to Hindi, Bengali and Gurkhali (Nepali).

The influence of Hollywood and Bollywood's masala films shown at Darjeeling's Rink and Capitol cinemas and make-shift, mushrooming video-parlours is evident in the streets of Darjeeling. A Gorkha is well-dressed, his shoes are polished, his trousers well-ironed and he has a certain smartness about him, despite the fact that he may be living from hand to mouth. The Nepalis take delight in joking about themselves and you hear often: bahira rumaley, bhitra gundruk umaley. It's his positive attitude towards life and his indomitable cheerfulness that distinguishes him from the rest of the ethnic groups in the sprawling Indian subcontinent.

"A Gorkha never begs. We are too proud of ourselves and of our self-respect," says Kiran Singh Rana who runs a photo-shop in the Laden La Road in Darjeeling. He seems to hate haggling with what he calls "deshi" customers from the plains. We're having a chat in his shop and a Bengali babu (civil servant) wants him to reduce the price of a picture of 'sunrise from Sandakphu' done in black and white print and hand coloured. The Bengali speaks in the typical tactless and arrogant Indian manner. Kiran tells him in no uncertain terms to "take it or leave it" in no uncertain terms.

"I have my own local customers and don't have to rely on these seasonal hagglers", he says. He and his brother have opened a lodge below the Chowrasta at the Danth Koti, and seem to be doing well in comparison to others. The strange thing was that when I visited Kiran in his shop a decade ago, he was also having a jolly row with three customers from Calcutta. Another friend of mine, a Gurung, runs a travel agency and takes French tourists to Sandakphu and the Kanchenjunga base camp during the tourist season.

"Survival isn't much of a problem for a Nepali", says Sushil Basnet, who has a pot-belly and looks like the Italo-German actor Mario Adorf. He ex­plains: "Once a year during the Maghay Sangrati festival, we eat sweet-potatoes and other boiled stems and roots in memory of our ancestors, who lived on such roots and stems from the forest".

Maghay Sangrati marks the turning point between the winter and summer months, and Nepalis bathe in the tributaries of river such as the Narayani and Bagmati and chant religious hymns.
"The beggars in Darjeeling or Katmandu are never Nepalis or Gurkhas. They're mostly Bhutias or Indians from the plains," says Ajit Subba, another Gorkha teacher.

In my childhood, I remember seeing a lean old Limbu Gorkha lady wearing a glove in one hand, and brandishing a sickle with the other, busy cutting stinging-nettles for lunch in a wayside bush. Sisnu-ko-jhol (nettle-soup) is a Nepalese delicatesse. Nettle-soup, which is called Brennesselsuppe is also used in Germany and other Alpine republics. Hunger makes one creative. And the Nepalis are creative. Gundruk-ko-jhol is another frugal but delicious speciality, which is dehydrated salad served as a soup with rice. Sikuti-machha (dried fish) is another fine dish.

Unlike in Nepal, where it is forbidden to carry out missionary activity, the Gorkhalis in the Darjeeling hills have been proselytised into Christendom by the British Jesuit priests in the major hill towns like: Kurseong, Kalimpong and Darjeeling, where they opened dispensaries, 'English Medium' schools, chapels, grottos and churches. The British missionaries have left but even today it isn't common to find Gorkhas with names like: Lawrence Gurung, Benjamin Rai and Nelson Mukhia. Darjeeling also has its own Gorkha bishop.

The Nepalis in the hilly tracts of Darjeeling have certainly arranged themselves with Bengalis, Beharis, Marwaris, Buddhists, Muslims and Christians. Inter-caste and inter-ethnic love-marriages are also not uncommon. Though not without problems. Raj Basnet, who has married his college girl-friend Geeta from the Rai tribe has problems with his pollution-conscious high caste parents with their orthodox attitudes. He left his father's house and eloped with his Rai-girl and lived like an outcaste in Thimpu (Bhutan). "But my wife and I are happy, so what-the-heck!" he says with a shrug of his shoulders and an air of optimism. "It's not my problem. It's their 's". He now lives in Darjeeling and recalls nostalgically the many traditional Bhutanese gates and bridges he built during his tenure as an engineering and contractor in the Himalayan Kingdom.

It is understandable that Subhas Ghising is rather sulky and disappointed with Nepal because of ist neutrality during the Gorkhaland-crisis, and hence wishes to have nothing to do with the Himalayan Kingdom. But in view of the fact that the Gorkhas of Darjee­ling wanted to be officially recognized as an autonomous district within the Indian Union, especially West Bengal, the reluctancy on the part of Katmandu to respond to Ghishing and his GNLF`s gestures, was diplomatically perhaps the best solution.

The Gorkhaland struggle cost 200 lives and brought a new amendment to the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council Act. The Gorkhas have their Gorkhaland and the Indo-Nepalese relationship and cooperation flourishes, without any evident changes whatsoever in the 1950 Treaty between India and Nepal. And Nepali has been recognised officially in the Indian Constitution.

It's all quiet in the Gorkhaland front, despite the poverty and discontent.
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Reader's feedback:
Satis Shroff's article remains the finest ever written on Darjeeling. It brought me memories of the young people of Darjeeling,Kalimpong and Kurseong who always remained smart even in the worst crisis. My heartiest congratulations to him. Having stayed and worked in Bhutan for a number of years, I am aware of the politics in North Bengal and the exploitation by the Marwaris and Bengalis of the simple hill people of this area. In the eighties I was surprised to meet a Member of Parliament from Darjeeling who was a journalist and never belonged to Darjeeling or North Bengal. In fact he was from Punjab and stayed in Delhi.
Regards
Dr. Amitabh Mitra
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(Sketch © 2007 Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

THE AGONY OF WAR (Satis Shroff)

Once upon a time there was a seventeen year old boy
Who lived in the Polish city of Danzig.
He was ordered to join the Waffen-SS,
Hitler’s elite division.
Oh, what an honour for a seventeen year old,
Almost a privilege to join the Waffen-SS.
The boy said, “Wir wurden von früh bis spät
Geschliffen und sollten
Zur Sau gemacht werden.”
A Russian grenade shrapnel brought his role
In the war to an abrupt end.
That was on April 20, 1945.
In the same evening,
He was brought to Meissen,
Where he came to know about his Vaterland’s defeat.
The war was lost long ago.
He realised how an ordinary soldier
Became helpless after being used as a tool in the war,
Following orders that didn’t demand heroism
In the brutal reality of war.
It was a streak of luck,
And his inability to ride a bicycle,
That saved his skin
At the Russian-held village of Niederlausitz.
His comrades rode the bicycle,
And he was obliged to give them fire-support
With a maschine-gun.
His seven comrades and the officer
Were slain by the Russians.
The only survivor was a boy
Of seventeen.
He abandoned his light maschine-gun,
And left the house of the bicycle-seller,
Through the backyard garden
With its creaky gate.
What were the chances in the days of the Third Reich
For a 17 year old boy named Günter Grass
To understand the world?
The BBC was a feindliche radio,
And Goebbels’ propaganda maschinery
Was in full swing.
There was no time to reflect in those days.
Fürcht und Elend im Dritten Reich,
Wrote Bertold Brecht later.
Why did he wait till he was almost eighty?
Why did he torment his soul all these years?
Why didn’t he tell the bitter truth,
About his tragi-comical role in the war
With the Waffen-SS?
He was a Hitlerjunge,
A young Nazi.
Faithful till the end.
A boy who was seduced by the Waffen-SS.
His excuse:
„Ich habe mich verführen lassen.“
The reality of the war brought
Endless death and suffering.
He felt the fear in his bones,
His eyes were opened at last.
Günter Grass is a figure,
You think you know well.
Yet he’s aloof
And you hardly know him,
This literary titan.
He breathes literature
And political engagement.
In his new book:
Beim Häuten der Zwiebeln
He confides he has lived from page to page,
And from book to book.
Is he a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?
Doctor Faustus and Mephistopheles,
In the same breast?
Grass belongs to us,
For he has spent the time with us.
It was his personal weakness
Not to tell earlier.
He’s a playwright, director and actor
Of his own creativeness,
And tells his own tale.
His characters Oskar and Mahlke weren’t holy Joes.
It was his way of indirectly showing
What went inside him.
Ach, his true confession took time.
It was like peeling an onion with tears,
One layer after the other.
Better late than never.

On this Spot a Lotus Bloomed and Became the Heart of the World

On This Spot a Lotus Bloomed and Became the Heart of the World (Satis Shroff)

Nepalese men and women work in the fields. They use the traditional bullocks and buffaloes that are seen in the villages of Southeast Asia.

They dig the fields manually. The women work beside the men, with babies strapped to their backs. Long wooden hoes are being used to dig and break the soil, whole families pitching in to do the job. And far out in the distance, the all-seeing-eyes of the compassionate Swayambhu observes the land from the towers on which his eyes are painted.

As you start for the temple, you're first greeted by two Tibetan lions, set in stone, amid wonderful wooded surroundings. Behind the lions you see three colossal statues of the Buddha, serene and daubed in flaming red and gold. All around you there are naked trees in poses of suspended animation.

The ground crackles as you step on the fallen brown and russet leaves. Shrill bird cries ring through the air. It is roosting time, you say to yourself. The trees are silhouetted against the evening sky and the shadows are lengthening. Your eyes discern the prayers carved in the granite slabs as you ascend the seemingly endless stairs.

A bearded tourist and a bevy of girls giggle nearby, talking in French and eating peanuts. They pass some peanuts to the swarm of monkeys who are a regular feature of Swayambhu. The Rhesus monkeys are creeping, jumping, fooling and fighting with each other.

"How happy they are", remarks a tourist with a laugh, as the monkeys climb the spire of the stupa. The overhanging eaves of the stupa, gilded with gold, are loosely chained together. The wind blowing from across the silvery Himalayas makes them rustle. You are dumbfounded by the majestic temple.

Three lamas go by: "Om mane padme hum" stirs in the air.

You take a cue from them and go about spinning the 211 copper prayer wheels that girdle the dome. Then you peer at the all-seeing-eyes painted on the four sides of the stupa and look where they look: at the myriad pale yellow, white, blue and crimson lights of the Kathmandu Valley below. You feel that you have indeed reached the top of the world.

It is chilly, and an icy gust of wind blows your hair. The clatter of the prayer-wheels is constant. The stony stairs are set at an extremely steep angle, but there are railings to help you up or down. A Tibetan, probably a Khampa from Eastern Tibet, mumbles his prayers as he comes down from the temple. He is wrapped in heavy mauve woollens. A shaggy Tibetan Apso, a tiny dog, like a Pekingese, with bells round his collar jingles past.

You go on. A few paces up, a monkey stealthily passes by as though he were a big-game hunter. You are again confronted by meditating Buddhas: the Dhyanibuddha Akshobya who rides an elephant and a lion, Ratnasambhava who rides a horse, Amitabha who rides the peacock and Amoghasiddhi who rides the heavenly bird garuda.

The going is hard but the ascent is redeemed because of the breathtaking beauty of the place. More Rhesus monkeys dart around you. One of them takes a joy ride along the railings like a kid, skids off and vanishes. You can't help laughing. You abruptly come across two statues of horses: short and stubby. You're weary but you press on and come across small elephant statues, with live monkeys playing pranks on their backs. The monkeys give you a quizzical stare. These are all part of the Buddhist pantheon. Now you begin to understand why the tourists call this temple complex also "the monkey temple". The monkeys are protected by law(as is the yeti)and have freedom there since over 2000 years. They live on the offerings brought by the Hindus and Buddhists, and peanuts and popcorn offered by the tourists.
Your climb is over.

The sky is dark, blue, and is fast changing into Prussian blue, and Venus has already appeared, but you have eyes only for the gigantic white dome and stupa of the Self-Existent One. The stupa is of great sanctity for all Hindus and Buddhists. It is hemispherical and you are struck by its enormous size. The earliest inscription on Swayambhunath dates back to the year 1129, but the stupa is thought to be much older.

You make your way to a Buddhist monk and he tells you a legend about Swayambhu...
"Once upon a time the Nepal Valley was a great lake. It was on this spot, where you now stand that a lotus bloomed and became the heart of the world".

ENDS
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About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer and poet based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes regularly for The American Chronicle (www.Amchron.com). He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Writers’ Bureau(Manchester). He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize, runs the Freiburger Writers Workshop and is a lecturer in Basle (Switzerland).

Soaring Above the Abode of the Gods (Satis Shroff)

A Flight to the Himalayas (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

"Will the passengers please fasten their seat belts," said a soft voice over the intercom. And I slid one end of the belt into the heavy metallic slot, sat back, and peered through the window of the Royal Nepal jet.

The runway was clear and there was an Airbus 310, three Russian-made helicopters and a Dornier-aircraft near the control tower of Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport. Some people waved from the tower. It was one of those early-morning mountain flights that are run 'provided-the-weather-is-good' as they say in tourist-brochures.

My seat was right near the port wing and I could get a fairly good view of the engines coming noisily to life. The jet taxied lazily down the southern end of the runway, swerved around and sped towards the north gathering momentum till I could finally feel a hollow in my stomach. We were airborne.

It was a steep climb and the blue mountain front was looming close. You could even spot the trees growing on the mountainside. But in a moment we left it behind. I was thrilled at the picturesque panorama of Kathmandu Valley with its pretty brown terracotta houses and prominent pagodas, which receded beneath as the jet banked almost languidly in an easterly direction.

The first mountain that caught my eyes, was the conical snowbound Langtang Peak, which was gleaming in the early morning sunlight. By the time Dorje Lakpa loomed on my window, the aircraft had attained its ceiling height of 30,000 feet. Dorje Lakhpa in Tibetan means "thunderbolt hand". Nearby was another splendid peak, the 19,550 ft. Choba Bamare, reigning in splendid isolation. Choba Bamare rose in the distance and seemed to fizzle out towards the east.

I sat tight in my seat, oblivious of the 50-odd passengers in the aircraft's cabin, lost in a world of snowy fantasy, and marvelling at the thought that we were less than fourteen miles away from those Himalayan giants, and feeling snug inside the pressurised cabin. Over the monotonous whirr of the Yeti's engines, the captains voice boomed through the intercom: "Attention ladies and gentlemen, the big peak to your left is Gauri Shanker."

The 23,442 feet Gauri Shanker, which is part of the Rowaling Himal Chain, was bathed in a ghostly mantle of snow and dominated the scene. This was indeed the Mount Olympus of the Orient, I said to myself. Gauri Shanker, the legendary abode of the Hindu God Shiva and his consort Parvati.

The Melungstse massif appeared to be blanketed with snow and looked smooth and even: like a tent covered with snow, except that a depression existed between Melungtse and its sister peak Chobutse.

Chugmago, Pigferago and Numbur impressed me with their virgin and silvery summits--looking placid and serene.

My thoughts drifted to the ageless Himalayas and their eternal silence. But my Himalayan reverie came to a momentary stop, when a tall and petite air-hostess came offering orange juice at a cruising height of 30,000 feet. It was a toast to the Himalayas.

From the 26,750 ft. Cho Oyo onwards, the Khumbu Range began to show their undisputed supremacy, since this range boasted of the mightiest of the mighty among mountains. As the jet flew past the 25,990 ft. Gyachungkang Peak, I was pleasantly surprised to find the steward come over to my window, point out small dotted structures against a rugged mountainside and say, "There's Namche Bazaar." I was amazed. Namche of the mountaineer's delight, and the home of the Sherpas. Namche, the village that has become a byword in mountaineering and trekking circles throughout the world--lay below us.

The jet lost height gracefully to give the passengers a closer view, and the snows looked hauntingly beautiful from the port side windows. The warm sunlight filtered through smack on my face. Its warmth was reassuring.

The 23,443 ft. Pumori Peak seemed to be soaring in the distance, and that was when I began to ogle at the familiar 25,850 ft. Nuptse peak. Then suddenly, like a revelation, I spotted the giant amongst them all: the grey, imposing triangular massif that was Mount Everest to the outside world, Sagarmatha to the Nepalese and Chomolungma--"the Goddess Mother of the Earth" to the Tibetans. There were flecks of snow to be seen along the ridge of the highest peak in the world. A trail of vapour was emanating from its limestone summit.

Far below the magnificent Ama Dablam peak struck me as trying to reach for the sky. But I had eyes only for the mysterious, grey and foreboding Everest massif. I recalled Mallory's words: "There was no complication for the eye. The highest of the world's mountains had to make but a single gesture of magnificence to be lord of all, vast in unchallenged and isolated supremacy.
The peaks Lhotse, Chamlang and Makalu continued to fascinate me. I felt thrilled to my marrow as the knowledge that we were flying over the highest mountains in the world sank into my head. I noticed that the Himalayas occurred as narrow ranges, prominently longitudinal and that the highest Himalayan chains below us were not massive elevations but narrow ridges.
Towards the north, as far as the eye could see, was the barren Tibetan Plateau: rightly dubbed the Roof of the World. I was astonished to note that beyond the Everest massif's central chain there were no Himalayan ranges. It was the limit--the last frontier. The bleak Tibetan Plateau seemed to blend with the horizon towards the north.

I could not help feeling nostalgic as the jet turned for the homeward flight. I peered at the blue Mahabharat Mountains below and the Siwalik Hills a little further south--and the extensive, fertile Terai, which blended with the azure sky. While the major 'snows' were still visible on the starboard , it was fascinating to see the hanging-valleys, aretes, cwms and magnificent glaciers directly beneath the port windows. It reminded me of a trip I had made to the Swiss alpine town of Grindelwald, where the tongue of the glacier licks almost the town. Occasionally, as the jetliner sped by, the mountain-tarns would catch the sun's rays on their crystalline surface, thereby imparting blinding flashes of reflected light.

It must have snowed the previous night, since the neighbouring hills, which were normally beyond the zone of perpetual snow, were also covered in varying degrees with fluffy blankets of virgin snow. One couldn't help being overwhelmed by the ecstatic and exotic beauty of these high snowbound wilderness areas that we were over-flying.

Continental music began to seep into the pressurised cabin and the lithe and beautifully swarthy air-hostess came down the aisle gracefully handing the passengers miniature khurkis (curved Gurkha knives) as souvenirs, with the usual compliment of sweets.

I could feel the captain easing off the throttles and saw the spoilers on the top surface of the port wind rising up slowly, in a row inducing a drag and causing the jet to slow as it touched town at Kathmandu's Tribhuvan Airport.

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About the Author: Satis Shroff is a writer & poet based in Freiburg who also writes regularly in The American Chronicle (http://www.amchron.com/) and runs a Swiss blog (http://www.blog.ch/). He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Science in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and Writers’ Bureau(Manchester). He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
Writing experience: Satis Shroff has written two language books on the Nepali language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). He has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems in http://www.nepalforum.com/ (I dream, Oleron, an Unforgettable Isle, A Flight to the Himalayas, Which Witch in Germany?, Fatal Decision, Santa Fe, Nirmala, Between Terror and Ecstasy, The Broken Poet, Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, A Gurkha Mother, Kathmandu is Nepal, My Nepal, Quo vadis?). Articles, book-reviews and poems in, http://www.isj.com/, http://www.inso.org/. See also http://www.google/ & http://www.yahoo/ under search: satis shroff.

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Dear Satis,

We share a common love of the Nepalese people and a desire to let the world know about their hearts and souls. I used to lead treks to the Everest Base Camp and working with a group of Sherpas helped found the first hut system in Nepal in 1990. Present during the worst storm in memory, I was appalled by world press coverage of the foreigners who died with no mention of the many Sherpas who also perished. I returned home to write their story. Wanting to give an intimate look into their culture, I dramatized their lives in fiction--the first book to do so in the US.

Linda LeBlanc, Author of Beyond theSummit, www.beyondthesummit-novel.com

The Charms of Spoken English

The Charms of Spoken English (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

Whether you hear Radio Nepal, the BBC, CNN or the Voice of America, there’s no such thing as ‘correct spoken English.’ There is no standard as such, even though the Queen’s English is regarded as a measuring yard. As George Bernard Shaw said, ‘No two British subjects speak exactly alike.’ Whether you have a Cambridge, Oxford, Cockney, provincial or colonial dialect is immaterial. You don’t have to be shamed of it. A Rato Bangala1 or St. Xavier’s slant is just as good as a Texan drawl.

Being understood is the point. You try to express, not impress. You speak presentably. There are naturally circles wherein your choice of words should stamp you as a ‘cultivated person as distinguished from an ignorant one’. That is where either one puts one’s best foot forward and throws in all the rules of rhetoric and the performing arts and makes a show of it, or perhaps makes a fool out of oneself. But that’s another matter.

It all depends upon whether you’re from Ireland, Scotland, Wales, the British Commonwealth or some other Anglo-American area. Or even Kathmandu or Timbuktu.

Take two German friends of mine, Monica and Yogi Rudolph, who visited Nepal sometime ago. Monica’s an English teacher who now works in a bookstore, whereas Yogi is a trained-geologist. When they came in contact with Nepalese people in the countryside during their Jomsom trek or even in Kathmandu, Moni put on her best English accent, with the result that the people didn’t understand her at all. Yogi, however, with no English background, spoke Ginglish (German-English) with the verb always at the end of the sentence, in a slow soft-spoken manner and always managed to get his message across.

And that’s the point. You have to adapt yourself every time to the person you’re speaking with, not only in your choice of words and expressions, but also pronunciations. With an academician you could afford to adopt an elaborate style, letting your fantasy run, dashing out warmed-up idiomatic and current expressions and bombastic words with a bit of Latin and French thrown in. But when you’re talking to a simple, honest-to-God farmer or Sherpa along the trail, you have to switch into a simple, restricted language, without jargon. Yet there are people who go through life without having understood this simple rule.

A foreign student from India at our local Freiburger Goethe Institute once asked an American girl: ‘Vat is the medium auf instrukshun in yer kuntry?’ The baffled American student’s eyebrows shot up like a pair of boomerangs and her mouth opened. She hadn’t understood a word. One must admit that it does take quite sometime before you can train your ears to a new accent or a new dialect. The Indian student had asked: ‘What-is-the-medium-of-instruction-in-your-country?’ It must have sounded like a sack of potatoes being unloaded on a wooden floor. What he meant was, ‘In which language do you teach in the USA?’ Some features of English as spoken in the Indian subcontinent are: ‘Arre baba, he-be-God or Vat-are-you-doing? Most travellers to the subcontinent are confronted with the question: ‘Where-you-come-from? Or ‘Which kuntry you are from?’

India has over 50 million jobless people, in comparison to Germany which has 4.5 million, and the frustration in applying for government jobs goes thus: ‘Indian gormenta, no gooda gormenta. Apply, apply , no reply. British gormenta, gooda gormenta. Morning apply, evening reply’.

When I listened to Elvis Presley singing ‘You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,’ which is a case of double negation, my aunt, Mrs. Dong, who was a teacher with King Edward’s Own Gurkha Rifles stationed in Hong Kong, would say, “Eh pagla! Don’t listen to such American songs. You’ll spoil your English.’’

In Germany for instance, the people in Baden have a totally different accent and dialect than those coming from Bavaria or even from Schwabenland. As a foreigner you tend to understand the conversation only in snatches. The Badener pronounces the word ‘sympathy’ as though it were ‘symbady’. Which incidentally reminds me of some of my Newari college friends in Kathmandu who have problems with the word ‘that’, which is pronounced ‘dat’, (der = there, hot =what, iz = is). Newari is a language with monosyllables and is spoken in the Kathmandu valley.

It makes the language colourful though. Patience and goodwill helps. Or as the Germans say: one has to speak with one’s hands and feet. And gesticulate a lot.

Just as English is taught in Nepalese schools by teachers, who have no real contact with England or America or the Anglo-American way of life, there are also teachers in Germany who teach their pupils German-English, with the result that a lot of students have inhibitions about speaking a foreign language, scared that one might make slips. As though to err wasn’t human at all. One must admit that the chances that a German teacher may go to England or the USA, to widen his or her English-horizon, is bigger than that of a teacher in the foothills of the Himalayas in Nepal. As a result, one learns only idioms and expressions that are passed along the grapevine. Expressions that are obsolete in a culture that has remained conserved and isolated. That’s also why Microsoft has different standards of English depending on the country: Australian, Belizean, British, Indian, Irish, Jamaican, Canadian, Caribbean, New Zealand, Philippine, South African, Trinidadian and US American English.

The Banaten Swabians or the Aussiedler, as Russians of German origin are called, also speak a conserved form of quaint German when they come to Germany. The German language has also moved the times, especially after the fall of the Third Reich. The younger ones adapt themselves fast as they visit the kindergardens and schools. The older generations have a tough time integrating themselves in modern western Germany. The German languages is studded with English, Italian and French expressions. With a hand-held translator you can get funny sentences, for instance: if you try to translate ‘Give me a ring,’ your palm-top might translate in to ‘Geben Sie mir einen ring,’ which certainly doesn’t mean ‘Give me a call.’ During my student days at the Freiburger university I read a message on the university wall which made me chuckle with delight after I’d understood what it meant: how up du high-knee. It means something close to: ‘Get lost!’ Most Germans who don’t know much English want to become strange things. It’s not the post-war complex.

It’s just that many English words sound familiar to them and they use them in the German sense of the word. There’s a famous case of a blonde German Fräulein who goes to a butcher’s shop and says, ‘Can I become a steak?’ The word ‘become’ means ‘to get.’ When a German says, ‘My daughter Gabi goes to the Gymnasium’, it doesn’t mean that she does gymnastics in a hall. I must admit that I’m a great admirer of P. G. Wodehouse and Richard Gordon and in my schools days I’d laughed a lot when I read their books. Then I chanced to get copies of their works in German. The books were well translated but I couldn’t laugh at all. The jokes and the pointe were all lost in translation.

It is remarkable to note that many English words have come to stay in the Nepalese conversation, if not Nepalese literature. Words like: habituated, hobby, compulsory, cinema, TV, entrance-exam, syllabus, boring, restricted, Hollywood, Bollywood etc. The list increases with the passage of time. And time and again people protest in a lot of countries regarding the infiltration of English words in their respective languages. The French have protested now and again and so have the German and demanded the weeding out of foreign words from their lovely languages. But globalisation makes it impossible to isolate languages, for we all communicate with foreign words, and feel proud of it, nicht wahr? It is just as charming for a German to order a cup of Ilam tea in a restaurant in Namche Bazaar in the local lingo, as for a Nepalese to order a cup of Cappucino in Italian. Es lebe die Vielsprachigkeit.

At one time I was with some people from London and Liverpool at a cocktail party and I said I was originally from Nepal. It was amusing to hear, “Oh, Nepaul?’’ The blonde woman had been raised on Kipling, I presumed, with all those nautch-girls, snake-charmers, sepoys and wallahs.
Names are always distorted by foreigners. And so are most words. During my visit to Ilam in eastern Nepal in 1995, a bus driver used English words with a nonchalance that was really disarming. Words like ‘birik’(brakes), ‘esteering’ (steering-wheel), ‘turuck’ (truck), and his companion who cleaned the car was a ‘kilinder’. On the other hand my German grandma, who watches spy-thrillers in TV, is fond of James Bond whom she calls ‘Rogger Mooray’, because the last letter is always pronounced in the German language, and not silent.

Have you heard a Frenchman speak English? I used to know a young man named Pascal originally from Paris but I’d met him in Neufchateau, and he had the habit of beginning his sentences with: ‘I preferrr...’ in that funny, elaborated French way. When I heard that, I thought the Nepalese school-kids who do the School Leaving Certificate exams were much better off with their knowledge of English as a second language. It’s just that the Nepalese pronounce the words with a Nepalese flair.

Spoken English does have its charming side. You can made it a game to find out the origin of the speaker, for despite the much cultivated attempt to speak a foreign language, you can at most times discern the rough geographical origin of the person talking. And that makes it all the more amusing. Vive la difference!

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About the Author: Satis Shroff writes regularly for http://www.americanchronicle.com/ and its affiliated 21 newspapers in the USA, besides writing on http://www.blogspot.com/. He has written over a period of three decades, what the Germans would call a “Landesumschau,” for his readers with impressions from Freiburg, Venice, Rottweil, Prague, Paris, London, Frankfurt, Basel and Grindelwald.

Satis Shroff has worked with The Rising Nepal (Gorkhapatra Sansthan), where he wrote a weekly Science Spot and editorials and commentaries on Nepal’s development, health, wildlife, politics and culture. He also wrote weekly commentaries for Radio Nepal. He has studied Zoology & Geology in Kathmandu, Medicine & Social Science in Freiburg, and Creative Writing under Prof. Bruce Dobler (Pittsburgh University) and Writers Bureau (Manchester). He sees his future as a writer and poet. He was awarded the German Academic Prize.

Satis Shroff’s bicultural perspective makes his prose and poems rich, full of awe, and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his prose and poetry. Satis Shroff writes in German & English.
Please read his poems & prose on http://www.google/ & http://www.yahoo.com/ search under: satis shroff.

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1 Rato Bangala and St. Xaviers: Two English schools in Patan and Jawlakhel (Kathmandu Valley)