BLACK FOREST CHRONICLES (Satis Shroff)

2009-11-30T02:13:00.000-08:00

(c)bea, artist,freiburg-kappel

ROTER HERBST, SCARLET AUTUMN (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel)

Graphic elements break through
In her works of art,
Structured images that show
Tranquil and dynamic elements,
Limits and chances,
In her art.

A rhapsody of yellow, orange
Schalet hues suggest peace,
Yet her painting Feuertanz
In dynamic rouge,
Glows and you feel the warmth.

Another painting in white,
A silent, serene canvas.
'I choose my titles
After the last colours
Have been added,' she says.

She uses ochre, sand and acryls.
Her images are retouched,
One painting over the other,
Creating a mysterious veil
That doesn't seem to lift.
The observer cum connoisseur
Is obliged to change the angle
Of view.
New positions,
New perspectives.
She uses her spatula,
Smears black pastels,
Making her work
Secretive and mysterious.

Outside the sun is at ten O' clock,
Throwning your shadows on the exhibits,
Akin to the highly expressive figures
Of Alberto Giacometti.
There's arresting artistry
In Bea's paintings and drawings
Graphic elements,
Writings,
revealed subtly beneath colours.
Roman numbers,
Ciphers making you curious,
Beckoning you
To find the meanings
Behing the paintings.

A dialogue takes place
Between the observer
And the artist.
In Hong meet Rome,
You experience the kinetic energy
As well as the peace.

It's autumn in Freiburg,
The Black Forest is laden
With brown, green, yellow red leaves
Tossed carelessly
By the the wind.

In Rote Herbst you hear
The expressive rustling movement
Of the leaves.
In the distance looms Kaiserstuhl
With its vineyards,
The blue Vosges ranges of France,
Beyond the Rhine.

In Bea's paintings you discern
The whirling of the leaves,
Caused by the Höllentäler,
The wind from the Vale of Hell.
A storm is swirling colours:
Pink, red
Surrounded by white,
Like snow in a whiteout.

You witness the dynamics
Of colour compositions.
Bea is a lively artist,
With expressive eyes,
That strike you,
The moment you meet her.
A person with a healthy sense
Of humour.
At times she paints
Like a child,
With a certain ernestness.

Her paintings have undergone
A series of mutations,
Like in Nature,
Where metamorphosis
Of shapes and forms
Take place.
She beckons you
To 'be a sign,'
For it's her motto.
It sounds much better in German:
Zeichen setzen,
Give impulses,
Set you own impulse.

In Herbst,
Autumn in German,
She makes controlled use of the spatula,
Which brings depth.
The seasonal changes,
Her travels,
Reflections of her inner life,
The themes are innumerable.
Bea Hoffmüller-Hildenbrand,
An artist in her graphic cosmos.

Deutsche Lieder aus dem Dreisamtal (Satis Shroff)

Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass ich alte Deutsche Lieder und Broadway-Songs mit den einheimischen Deutschen des Männergesangsverein (Männerchor) in Freiburg-Kappel singen würde.

In den vergangenen Jahren wurde ich öfters von Alois aus Zähringen gefragt, ob ich nicht auch singen möchte. Aber ich hatte gezögert, weil ich zu beschäftigt mit meinen Vorträgen und Kinder gewesen war. Inzwischen ist der alte Alois an einer Herz-Attacke gestorben und ich vermisse sein freundliches Gesicht, wie er mich jedes Mal, wenn ich ihn in Zähringen traf mit einem Lächeln begrüßte.

Hier in Kappel singe ich nun als zweiter Tenor und es ist wirklich spannend. 20 Euro für die Mitgliedschaft und weitere 100 Euro für den blauen Rock, und Sie sind Teil des Chores, bereit für das Singen bei eigenen Konzerten und als Gastchor bei Festen in den verschiedenen Teilen des Dreisamtals. Ich konnte es nicht glauben. Tatsächlich probten wir deutsche und englische Lieder in Hochdorf mit den Damen dort und sangen mit den anderen Chören aus dem Dreisamtal in Buchenbach mit 600 deutschen Zuhörern und Applaudierern.

Das Dreisamtal besteht aus Kirchzarten, Oberried, Buchenbach und Stegen. Man hat einen herrlichen Ausblick auf das Dreisamtal, wenn man aus Buchenbach in Richtung Höllental über Himmelreich geht. Die angrenzenden Täler sind sehr romantisch mit grünen Wiesen, rauschenden Bächen und malerischen Schwarzwald Bauernhöfen, eine Mühle, die noch in Betrieb ist und die Ruinen der Burg Wiesneck. Da ist dann noch der Hansmeyerhof, ein Bauernhof Museum in der Nähe von Wagensteig. Unweit entfernt liegt Stegen, auf der sonnigen Seite des Dreisamtal. Das Schloss von Weiler wurde im Jahre 1663 erbaut und ist einen Besuch wert, ebenso wie die Schlangen-Kapelle in Wittental. Die barocken Kirche von Eschbach ist einer der schönsten in der Freiburger Gegend. Es gibt viele Schwarzwälder Bauernhöfe, die darauf warten von Ihnen entdeckt zu werden. Vom Lindenberg haben Sie einen ausgezeichneten Blick auf das Dreisamtal.

Die Chor-Mitglieder trugen ihre traditionellen Kostüme. Was für ein wunderbares Gefühl. Man spührte wie das Adrenalin in den Blutkreislauf strömte als mit den Anderen gesungen wurde. "Ein Chor ist nichts für Individualisten. Man muss einen harmonischen Klang haben ", das war immer die Mahnung des jungen Dirigenten Felix Rosskopf, wenn wir probten.

Es war das erste Mal seit dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, dass alle Dreisamtal Chöre kamen und zusammen sangen. Während des Krieges waren die Deutschen angehalten, Kriegs- und Vaterlandslieder zu singen. Buchenbach scheint ein Problem zu haben, das mittlerweile in den meisten Männer-gesangsvereinen in Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz deutlich wird. Die ältere Generation bricht wegen des Alters und aus Mangel an Mobilität weg und die jüngere "Love-Parade" Generation kümmert sich nicht um die Pflege der alten Tradition des Vaterland.

Die Sänger von Buchenbach sangen: Sing mit mir, Oh Shenandoah, Mit Musik geht alles besser. Die Sängerinnen und Sänger von St. Peter aus den hohen Schwarzwald sangen: Freude am Leben, welches mehr gesprochen als gesungen war. O du schöner Rosengarten, das war eine Liebeserklärung und ein anderes lyrisches Lied, welches Rot sind die Rosen hiess. Liebe ist immer ein beliebtes Thema.

Die Sängerinnen und Sänger aus Ebnet traten als gemischter Chor auf. "weil viele Männer verstorben sind oder den Verein verlassen haben.", so Klaus.

Die Ebneter Sänger sangen: Capri Fisher, Ich brech die Herzen der stolzesten Frauen, ein lady-killer song in deutscher Sprache und ein Walzer für dich und mich.

Der Männerchor aus Kirchzarten sang: Die Sonne erwacht, ein traditionelles deutsches Lied, Hymne, O Iris komponiert von Wolfgang Mozart.

Ich sah eine Menge von Sängern, die eine fliehende Stirn, leuchtend unter den Lichtern der Bühne, hatten. Die meisten von ihnen trugen eine Brille und alle waren für diesen Anlass gekleidet. Die Damen tragen lange, fließende Abendkleider oder kamen in den traditionellen Dirndeln des Schwarzwaldes, und die Männer in Trachten oder tadellosen Anzügen.

Kirchzarten liegt auf dem Weg zum Hirschsprung, Hinterzarten und Titisee, einem Gletschersee. In Kirchzarten können Nordic Walking machen, Golf spielen, entspannen im Kneipp-Zentrum mit Wassertherapie und man kann Französisch Boule spielen wie Peter Mayle (A Year in Provence).

Die Sängerinnen und Sänger aus Zarten sangen: Heimat, deine Sterne, Strangers in the Night, Are You Lonesome Tonight (deutsche Version).

Wir, von Kappel, sangen: "Ein Freund, ein guter Freund und La Le Lu ein Wiegenlied für Jung und Alt aus einem alten deutschen Film mit Heinz Rühmann in der Hauptrolle.

Die Sänger aus Oberried sangen am besten. Oberried ist für die höchsten Gipfel des Schwarzwaldes bekannt: Feldberg und Schauinsland. Es gibt ein Heimatmuseum genannt Schniederlihof, einen Steinbruch auf einem Hügel, das in ein Museum umgewandelt wurde, und natürlich die Unterhaltungpark Steinwasen. Die Vegetation in diesem Teil ist sub-alpine. Im Sommer kann man jede Menge Bergsteigen, Spaziergänge genießen und Picknicks auf den saftigen grünen Wiesen. Im Winter ist Oberriede ein Skiparadies. Hier ist ebenso Deutschlands erster Bergnatur Friedhof.

Zu einer anderen Gelegenheit wurden wir von den Hochdorfern als Gastsänger eingeladen. Das Thema war Filmmusik und wir sangen Lieder aus: Adiemus, Jungle Book, den Blauen Engel, Truxa, Gasparone, Lena's song, Gabriella's Song, Fünf Millionen suchen einen Erben, Frauen sind keine Engel (Frauen sind keine Engel), True Love, mein Heart Will auf (Titanic) Go, Nur nicht aus Liebe weinen, In mir klingt ein Lied, Für ein Nachtvoller Seligkeit (Kora Terry), Moon River (aus Breakfast at Tiffany's), Midnight Blues und Conquest of Paradise. Ein großer Bildschirm in der Nähe der Bühne wurde benutzt, um Szenen aus den Filmen zu zeigen. Auch wir Sänger wurden digital aufgenommen. Das deutsche Publikum zeigte sich sehr empfänglich und Felix Rosskopf gab sein Bestes. Der Applaus in der Hochdorfer Halle war donnernden. Die Standing Ovations am Ende haben uns sehr gefreut. Das war ein tolles Gefühl, als wir alle Die Eroberung des Paradieses mit Begeisterung sangen. Der Text ist eigentlich albern und künstlich, aber die Wirkung auf das Publikum ist großartig. Man konnte fühlen, wie der Funke vom Dirigenten über die Sänger zum Publikum übersprang. Das Singen dieser Lieder war eine fantastisches Wellness-Erlebnis und extrem in seiner therapeutischen Wirkung. Das tut im Herzen gut. Nachdem das Singen beendet ist, ist es üblich zusammen zu sitzen und etwas deutsches Bier oder Wein vor Ort zu Trinken. Man spricht über das Konzert, reißt Witze oder diskutiert über private Angelegenheiten , wenn man Lust hat.

Wenn man sich so einem Verein verpflichtet hat, lernt man alles über sein Dorf und dessen Leute kennen.

Man sagt, wenn drei Deutsche zusammen kommen gründen sie einen Verein. Und so war es, als vor 75 Jahren ein Gesangverein versuchte die alten Lieder zu retten. In Buchenbach gründeten sie den Verein Edelweiss und ein Motto ist: "Wir amüsieren uns zu Tode." Ein Gesangverein ist ein Ort, wo man unterhalten wird, in dem Sie über Ihre Probleme mit Ihrem Gesang Kameraden sprechen und sich gegenseitig helfen. So war es seit Generationen, und diese Tradition wurde fortgesetzt. Zum Beispiel, wenn mein Freund Klaus Sütterle einen Teil seines alten Haus renovieren will, fragt er nur jemand aus dem Verein in einem der sozialen Trinkgelage nach Hilfe und schon ist bereits alles im Gange, ganz ohne Bürokratie. Es ist eine Politik des Gebens und Nehmens, wie in den alten Tagen.

Viele suchen nach einem Grund im Leben. Durch die Texte der Lieder und der Prozess des zusammen Singens im Chor hilft in der Gemeinde und dieses Handeln wiederum führt zu Begegnungen und Austausch von Ideen und Spaß am Leben.

Die Texte tragen dazu bei, die Werte, die in dieser technischen Welt verloren gehen zu erhalten, wenn Arbeit entfällt, Plätze wegrationalisiert werden und die Angst vor dem Verlust des Arbeitsplatzes steigt. Das hängt über dem Kopf wie das Schwert des Damokles. In einem Gesangverein ist es üblich seine Sorgen und sein Glück zu teilen, mit einander zu reden und sich einzuladen. Es gibt sicherlich eine Menge Vorzüge und Vorteile Mitglied in einem Verein oder Club zu sein.

Ich persönlich denke, es gibt nichts Besseres für die Seele, als laut zu singen, ein Gedicht laut zu rezitieren, weil wir alle mit einer Stimme ausgestattet sind, mit der wir eine Melodie erzeugen können. Wenn du mit anderen zusammen singst beginnst du zu realisieren, wie gut man singt, so verbessern Sie dann Ihre Stimme, Atmung und sozialen Fähigkeiten. In einem Chor können Sie Alltagsstress loswerden, kreativ sein und sich einen positiven Stress machen, anstatt einer negativen Stressbelastung zu erliegen.

Man hat immer ein Gefühl der Hochstimmung, wenn der letzte Akkord erklingt. Ah, das Singen bereitet soviel Freude. Statt deprimierender, frustrierender Gedanken, haben Sie positive Bilder und Gefühle, und entwickeln die Kraft in Ihrer Stimme mit Elan und wachsen mit dem Lied. Sie machen Musik mit Ihren Stimmen. Man sieht nur lächelnde Gesichter und so lächelt man zurück. Dieses Gefühl ist ansteckend. Man knüpft Kontakte zu Anderen vor und hinter der Bühne. Wenn Sie allein und traurig sind, singen und jubeln Sie sich froh. Ihr Gesang erheitert auch andere und Sie sind sozial integriert, bevor Sie es realisieren. Plötzlich singen Sie bei Konzerten alte, deutsche und neue, englische Lieder die bei Jung und Alt bekannt sind.

Singen hilft Hemmungen und soziale Barrieren abzubauen und führt zu einer Gemeinsamkeit unter den Menschen. Es gibt ein Miteinander, statt Vorurteile und Egoismus. Sie tun etwas für die Anderen und erwarten deshalb nicht, dass jemand etwas für sie tut. Sie teilen ihre Freude. Durch die Lieder bringen wir unsere Gefühle des Glücks und der Freude, der Trauer und des Leids zum Ausdruck. Wir erfreuen uns und finden Trost in den Texten der Lieder und lassen uns mitreissen von der überragenden Wirkung sakraler Musik. Durch das Singen werden Hormone wie Endorphine und Epinephrine (Adrenalin) freigesetzt. Das ist gut für den Kreislauf und fördert die Gesundheit.

Unter den Sängern haben wir Sprichwort.

Wo man singt da lass Dich nieder, böse Menschen kennen keine Lieder.

Das ist genau das was ich gemacht habe. Ein wunderbarer Ort auf dieser Erde, dieser Schwarzwald.

Herzlich Willkommen im Schwarzwald! Welcome to the Black Forest!

(The original article in English was published in The American Chronicle, a syndicate of 21 newspapers in the USA. Translation by my friend: Klaus Sütterle, Männergesangsverein Freiburg-Kappel). If you want to read more articles & poems by the author please yahoo or google for: satis shroff).
About the Author: 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 Academy for Medical Professions (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Center for Key Qualifications, where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing at the ZfS Uni Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

2009-07-03T04:27:00.000-07:00

Schwarzwaldlyrik (Black Forest Poems):

AUTUMN LEAVES IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Autumn leaves dancing in the sky,
Gleaming as the sunlight
Caresses them.

Out in the distance,
The blue Schwarzwald,
With its melange
Of conifer and decidious trees,
Bursting out in autumnal rhapsody.

Guarded by the tall pine trees,
Like sentinels,
Overlooking an amphitheatre.

Its spurs and hidden valleys,

Inhabited by Allemanic denizens,
So long as time can tell.

To the south
The four languidly moving white blades
Of modern windmills,
With their blinking lights
Overlooking Rosskopf.

And far to the East,
The fairy-tale towns
Of Buchenbach and St. Peter.

Is this not Heaven on Earth?
The lush green grass in the meadows,
Has long been cut,
The hay already stacked in the barn.
I gather Löwenzahn for our rabbits,
Tasty salad for humans,
A delight for hares and rabbits.

Frau Frutiker greets me warmly,
Offers Schwarzwälder specialities.
She plays the flute,
Her husband Clemens
The trumpet
At the Buchenbacher Musikverein.

Autumn in Kappel,
A personification
Of serenity and tranquillity.

* * *

The Symphony of the Morning (Satis Shroff)

I discern the recurring chirps
And whistles
Of the birds in the vast foliage
Of an oak tree,
A German Eiche.

Whistles, chirps, hoots
And melodious symphony,
Like the incessant waves
Slashing on the shores of the Atlantic.

A single bird gives the tact,
A strong monotonous chirp.
The others follow suit,
Not in unison
But still in harmony.

You notice so many melodies
When you eavesdrop,
In the quiet comfort of your bed.
The natural symphony of the morning:
Adagio, crescendo,
It’s all there
For your fine ears.

* * *

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.

I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its aries early.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat.
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * +

THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff)

On a hill in Kappel
You feel free and elated.
The stream that bubbles below,
Like an incessant lyric,
A monk’s chant in a monastery.

The cherry tree hangs
With bloom on its sagging boughs.
Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour,
In this Black Forest idyll.

The blue Schwarzwald range,
Makes poetry out of the dying sun
Around the house,
Like an arena in the Himalayas.
The tulips in bright colours are everywhere,
The lovely lilies are swaying,
So are the gladiolas.

As I walk along a mountain stream,
I smell hyacinths.
The marigolds are in full blossom,
And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me,
For marigolds and Tagetes grow
When it’s Dasain and Tihar,
Festival time,
Far in the Himalayas.
From the Himalayas to the Black Forest,
What a long journey.

The evening wind whispers gently
From the Vale of Hell,
Der Höllentäler,
As we fondly call it.
The birds are coming home to roost.

I discern the attentuated tone
Of my little daughter Elena
Playing on her violin.
My feet take me home
With tardy steps.
I feel at peace
With myself

* * *
FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

I sit on my chaiselonge,
Serving Darjeeling to my friends,
Strengthened with masala,
And Sahne.
There’s Murat from Turkey,
Rosella from Italy,

Stefan and Barbara from Rheinfelden,
Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg.

Rosella has brought North Italian flair
And cakes that I relish,
From Milano.
Pannetone with Mascapone,
Champagne and Tiramisu.

A kiss to the right,
A kiss to the left,
Settles down and says:
‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satish?’
Hubby Samuel has expanded
His aerospace factory.

My friend Murat,
The personification of Miteinander,
Hands me a new novel,
With his signature,
Written despite the protests
Of his family,
Keeping late hours,
To finish his Opus magnum,
A story about his Allevite folk.

A pleasure and honour,
But I’m afraid,
I can’t read it:
It’s Turkish to me.

Barbara and my poet friend Stefan
Have been to the Zermat
And have tales to tell,
Not only of Wilhelm
And his crossbow,
But about the beauty
Of Switzerland.

Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady,
Glows like the sun:
An infectious smile
Over her tanned face.
No botox, only dentures,
And tells of her adventures in Italy,
Latin-lover inbegriffen,
And of her Sudanese seduction.
An elderly lady,
A friend with style
And aesthetic intelligence.

Ain’t it wonderful
To have dear friends?
Home abroad,
Abroad home.
Shanti!
Shanti!
Peace which passeth understanding.

Glossary:
Chaiselonge: long French sofa
Inbegriffen: included
Miteinander: together, togetherness
Shanti: peace
Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms
Bahn: train
Mumbai: Bombay
Bueb: small male child
Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari
Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany

*****

BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff)

Music has left its cultural confines.
You hear the strings of a sitar
Mingling with big band sounds.
Percussions from Africa
Accompanying ragas from Nepal.

A never-ending performance of musicians
From all over the world.
Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach,
Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn.
A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums
At the Zeltmusik festival.

Tabla and tanpura
Involved in a musical dialogue,
With trumpet and saxaphone,
Argentinian tango and Carribian salsa,
Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly
With classical Bharta Natyam dancers,
Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied
By a Tibetan monastery orchestra,
Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes
And masked drummers.

As I walk past the Café Bueb, the Metzgerei,
The St. Blasius church bells begin to chime.
I see Annette’s tiny garden with red, yellow and white tulips,
‘Hallochen!’ she says with a broad, blonde smile,
Her slender cat stretches itself,
Emits a miao and goes by.
I walk on and admire Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree,
Her pensioned husband nods back at me.
And in the distance,
A view of the Black Forest,
With whispering wind-rotors,
And the trees in the vicinity,
Full of birds
Coming home to roost.

* * *
WINTER BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season of melancholy,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine.
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Whereever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: 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. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

2009-06-28T02:14:00.000-07:00

http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff.

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.

Review by Satis Shroff, Germany: Getting Along in Life in Tricky Kathmandu

Bhatt, Krishna: City Women and the Ghost Writer, Olympia Publishers, London 2008, 191 pages, EUR 7,99 (ISBN 9781905513444)

Krishna Bhatt, the author, a person who was ‘educated to get a graduate degree in Biology and Chemistry,’came to Kathmandu in 1996 and has seen profound political changes. In this book he seeks to find an ‘explanation for what is happening.’ Life, it seems, to him, is tricky, while political violence has been shocking him episodically. That’s the gist of it: twenty-one short episodes that are revealed to the reader by an author, who’s trademark is honesty, clarity and simplicity---without delving too deep into the subject for the sake of straight narration. What emerges is a melange of tales about life, religion, Nepalese and Indian society packed with humour. A delightful read, a work of fiction and you can jump right into the stories anywhere you like.

Additionally, Bhatt has published ‘Humour and Last Laugh’ in October 2004, a collection of satirical articles published in newspapers in Kathmandu, which is available only in Kathmandu’s bookstores. The author emphasises that he has always written in English and adds, “Reading led me to writing.” He found his London publisher through the internet. Lol!

Did you know that people who are married wear an ‘air of sacrificial glory’ about them in Nepal? The other themes are keeping mistresses in Kathmandu, sending children abroad for education, the woes of psychotherapists in Nepal (no clients). I’ll leave it to you to find out why. Nepal is rich in glaciers and the water ought to be harnessed to produce drinking water and electricity, but in Kathmandu, as in many parts of the republic, there’s a terribly scarcity of water among the poor and wanton wastage among the Gharania---upper class dwellers of Kathmandu. The Kathmanduites fight not only against water scarcity but also a losing battle against ants and roaches. The author explains the many uses of the common condom, especially a sterilised male who uses his vasectomy for the purpose of seduction. However, his tale about the death of his father in “The Harsh Priest and Mourning” remains a poignant and excellent piece of writing, and I could feel with him. It not only describes the Hindu traditions on death and dying but also the emotions experienced by the author.

Like the Oxford educated Pico Ayer who has the ability to describe every ‘shimmy’ that he comes by when he travels, Bhatt too says that Thamel District is all ‘discotheques and massage parlours’ in the story ‘A Meeting of Cultures,’ in which the author meets two former East Germans and one of them thinks ‘people in Germany are lazy.’ Did she mean the Ossies or the Wessies? If that doesn’t get you, I’m sure the many uses of English and vernacular newspapers will certainly do. What’s even amusing is a ritual marriage ceremony of frogs to appease the rain gods. It might be mentioned that in Kathmandu Indra is the God of Rain, the God of the firmament and the personified atmosphere. In the Vedas he stands in the first Rank among the Gods. When you come to think of it, we Hindus are eternally trying to appease the Gods with our daily rituals, special pujas and homs around the sacred Agni (Ignis). Agni is one of the chief deities of the Vedas, and a great number of Sanskrit hymns are addressed to him.

Bhatt uses life and the people around him, and in the media, as his characters and his attitude towards his characters is of a reconciling nature. The characters work sometimes flat for he doesn’t develop them, but the stories he tells are about people you and I could possibly know, and seem very familiar.
Most of the stories are short and quick, good reads in this epoch of computers, laptops,DVDs, SMS, MMS, which is convenient for people with not much time at their disposal. Other themes are: writing, the muse, fellow writers (without naming names, except in the case of V.S. Naipaul), east meet west, abortion, art and pornography, colleagues and former HMG administrators. His opinions are always honest and entertaining in intent, and his tales have more narration than dialogues. Krishna Bhatt is a welcome scribe in the ranks of Kunda Dixit, Samrat Upadhya, Manjushri Thapa and is another new voice from the Himalayas who will make his presence felt in the world of fiction writing. His ‘Irreconcilable Death’ is thought-provoking, a writer who wants to change morality and fails to reconcile with death, like many writers before him. Writers may come and go, but Bhatt wants to leave his impression in his own way and time. Time will certainly tell.
I wish him well.

Review German version by:Satis Shroff Rezension:
Grünfelder, Alice (Hrsg.), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 S., EUR 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder hat Sinologie und Germanistik studiert, lebte zwei Jahre in China und arbeitet gegenwärtig als freie Lektorin und Literaturvermittlerin in Berlin. Dieses Buch ist vergleichbar mit einem Strauss zusammengestellter Blumen aus dem Himalaya, die die Herausgeberin gepflückt hat. Es handelt von den Menschen und deren Problemen im 450 km langen Himalaya Gebirge. Das Buch orientiert sich, an englischen Übersetzungen von der Literatur aus dem Himalaya.

Nepal ist literarisch gut vertreten mit dem Anthropologen Dor Bahadur Bista, dem Bergsteiger Tenzing Norgay, die in Kathmandu lebenden Journalisten Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, dem Fremdenführer Shankar Lamichane, dem Dichter Pallav Ranjan und dem Entwicklungsspezialisten Harka Gurung. Manche Geschichten sind nicht neu für Nepal-Kenner, aber das Buch ist für Leser, die in Deutschland, Österreich, Südtirol und die Schweiz leben, bestimmt. Außer sieben Nepali Autoren gibt es Geschichten von sieben indischen, drei tibetischen, zwei chinesischen und zwei bhutanesischen Autoren.

Die Themen des Buches sind: Die Vorteile und Nachteile der Verwestlichung in Nepal, da Nepal erst 1950 für den Fremden sozusagen geöffnet wurde. Kanak Dixit erzählt dies deutlich in „Welchen Himalaya hätten Sie gern?“. In einer anderen liebenswerten Gesichte erzählt er über die Reise von einem Nepali Frosch namens Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, ein umweltbewußter Bergsteiger, erzählt über das empfindliche Erbe—die Himalaya und deren spirituelle Bedeutung. Die „Himalaya-Ballade“ von der chinesischen Autorin Ma Yuan, „Die ewigen Berge“ von dem Han-Chinesen Jin Zhiguo, und der indischer Bergsteiger H. P. S. Ahluwalia in „Höher als Everest“, schließlich Swami Pranavanadas in seinem „Pilgerreise zum Kailash und der See Manasovar“ haben alle die Berge aus verschiedenen Sichten thematisiert. Tenzing Norgay, der erste Nepali, der auf dem Gipfel von Mt. Everest mit dem Neuseeländer Edmund Hillary bestiegen war, erzählt, dass er „ein glücklicher Mensch“ sei. Der Nepali Journalist Deepak Thapa beschreibt den berühmten Sherpa Bergsteiger Ang Rita als einen sozialen Aufsteiger.

Während wir in einer Geschichte von Kunzang Choden (Auf den Spuren des Migoi) erfahren, dass die Bhutanesen, als ein buddhistisches Volk, nicht einmal einen Tier Leid zufügen können, erzählt uns Kanak Dixit von 100 000 Lhotshampas (nepalstämmige Einwohner), die von der bhutanesischen Regierung vertrieben worden sind und jetzt in Flüchtlingslagern in Jhapa leben.

James Hilton hat das Wort Shangri-La für eine Geschichte, in Umlauf gebracht die sich in Tibet abspielte. Genauso ist mit dem Ausdruck „Das Dach der Welt“ die tibetische Plateau gemeint und nicht Nepal oder Bhutan. Die bewegende Geschichte, die der Kunsthändler Shanker Lamechane erzählt, handelt von einem gelähmten Jungen. Sein Karma wird in Dialogform zwischen ein Nepali Reiseleiter und einem überschwenglichen Tourist erzählt. Das hilflose Kind bringt uns dazu, über die Freude in Alltag nachzudenken, was wir meistens nicht tun können, weil wir mit dem Alltag so beschäftigt sind. Während Harka Gurung „Fakten und Fiktionen über den Schneemensch“ zusammenstellt, schildert uns Kunzang Choden, eine Psychologin aus Bhutan, über „Yaks, Yakhirten und der Yeti“. Wir erfahren von einem alten Yakhirt namens Mimi Khandola, wie das freundliche Wesen Migoi, gennant Yeti, von einem Rudel Wildhunden erlegt wurde. In „Nicht einmal ein Leichnam zum Einäschern“ lernen wir von dem tragischen Schicksal eines Mädchens namens Pem Doikar, die von einem Migoi entführt wurde.

Diese Anthologie versucht nicht die Himalaya Literatur als ganzes zu repräsentieren, aber betont bestimmte Themen, die im Alltagsleben der Bergbewohner auftauchen. Die Welt, die die Dichter und Schriftsteller aus dem Himalaya beschreiben und kreieren, ist ganz anders im Vergleich zur westlichen Literatur über die Himalaya Bewohner. Es ist wahr, dass der Trekking-Tourismus, moderne Technologie, die Entwicklungshilfeindustrie, die NGOs, Aids und Globalisation die Himalayas erreicht haben, aber die Gebiete die vom Tourismus unberührt sind, sind immer noch ursprünglich, gebunden an Traditionen, Kultur und Religion.

Auf der Frankfurter Buchmesse gibt es kaum Bücher die von Schriftstellern und Dichtern aus dem Himalaya stammen. Es sind immer die reisenden Touristen, Geologen, Geographen, Biologen, Bergsteiger und Ethnologen, die über Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh und seine Leute, Religion, Kultur und Umwelt schreiben. Die Bewohner des Himalaya sind immer Statisten im eigenen Land gewesen in den Szenarios, die im Himalaya inszeniert worden sind, und die in New York, Paris, München and Sydney veröffentlicht werden. Sie werden durch westliche Augen beschrieben.

Dennoch gab es Generationen von denkenden und schreibenden Nepalis, Inder, Bhutanesen und Tibeter, die Hunderte von Schriftstücken, Zeitschriften und Bücher geschrieben und veröffentlicht haben, in ihren eigenen Sprachen. Allein in Patans Madan Puraskar Bibliothek, die Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, beschreibt als „der Tempel der Nepali Sprache,“ gibt es 15,000 Nepali Bücher und 3500 verschiedene Zeitschriften wovon die westliche Welt noch nie gehört oder gelesen hat.

Der englische Professor Michael Hutt machte einen Anfang. Er übersetzte zeitgenössische Nepali Prosa und Gedichte in „Himalayan Voices“ und „Modern Nepali Literature“. Die erste Fremdsprache wird weiterhin Englisch bleiben, weil die East India Company dort zuerst ankam.

Dieses Buch von Alice Grünfelder erzeugt Sympathie und Verständnis für die nepali, indische, bhutanesische, tibetische, chinesische Psyche, Kultur, Religion. Es beschreibt die Lebensbedingungen und menschlichen Probleme in den dörflichen und städtischen Himalayagebieten und ist eine willkommene Ergänzung zu der langsam wachsenden Sammlung von literarische Übersetzungen aus dem Himalaya, die von den einheimischen Autoren geschrieben worden sind. Ich wünsche Frau Grünfelder Erfolg in Ihre Aufgabe als Vermittlerin zwischen den literarischen Welten von Asien und Europa.

© Review: Satis Shroff, Freiburg

Book-review English Version by: satisshroff, freiburg
:
Grünfelder, Alice (Editor), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 pages, EURO 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder has studied Sinology and German literature, lived two years in China and works in the publishing branch in Berlin. This book is comparable to a bouquet of the choicest Himalayan flowers picked by the editor and deals with the trials and tribulations of a cross-section of the people in the 450 km long Abode of the Snows--Himalayas. The book orients, as expected, on the English translations of Himalayan literature. The chances of having Nepali literature translated into foreign languages depends upon the Nepalis themselves, because foreigners mostly loath to learn Nepali. If a translation is published in English the success of the book is used as a yardstick to decide whether it is going to be profitable to bring it out in European or in other languages.

Nepal is conspicuous with contributions by the anthropologist Dor Bahadur Bista, the climber Tenzing Norgay, the Kathmandu-based journalists Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, the tourist-guide Shankar Lamichane, the poet Pallav Ranjan and the development-specialist Harka Gurung. For regular readers of Himal Asia, The Rising Nepal and GEO some of these stories are perhaps not new but this book is aimed at the German speaking readers in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. In addition to the seven Nepali authors, there are also stories by seven Indian, three Tibetan, two Chinese authors and two Bhutanese authors.

Some of the themes that have been dealt with in this collection are: the pros and cons of westernisation as told by Kanak Dixit in “Which Himalaya would you like?” and an endearing story of a journey through Nepal as a Nepali frog named Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, the ecology-conscious climber writes about the spiritual meaning of our fragile heritage—the Himalayas. “The Himalayan Ballads” by the Chinese author Ma Yuan, “The Eternal Mountains” by the Han-Chinese Jin Zhiguo, the Indian climber H. P. S. Ahluwalia in “Higher than Everest” und Swami Pranavanadas in his Pilgrim journey to Kailash and the Manasovar Lake” have presented the mountains from different perspectives. Tenzing Norgay, the first Nepali who reached the top of Mount Everest with Edmund Hillary, says that he was a happy person.

The Nepali journalist Deepak Thapa portrays the famous Sherpa climber Ang Rita as a social “Upwardly Mobile” person. Whereas in Kunzang Choden’s story (In the Tracks of the Migoi) we learn that the Bhutanese, as a Buddhist folk, are not capable of harming even a small animal, in another story Kanak Dixit tells us about the 100 000 Lhotshampas (Bhutanese citizens of Nepali origin) who were thrown out by the Bhutanese government and live in refugee-camps in Jhapa. The curio art-trader Shanker Lamichane’s “The Half Closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Setting Sun” is a poignant tale of a paralysed boy’s karma, related as a dialogue between a Nepali guide and a tourist. The helpless child makes us think in his mute way about the joys in everyday life that we don’t see and feel, because the world is too much with us. Whereas Harka Gurung has gathered facts and fiction“ and tells us about the different aspects of the Snowman, another author who is a psychologist from Bhutan, tells us about yaks, yak-keepers and the Yeti and we come to know through an old yak-keeper named Mimi Khandola, how the friendly creature called the Migoi, alias Yeti, gets chased and killed by a group of wild-dogs. In “Not Even a Corpse to Cremate” we learn about the traumatic shock and tragic fate of a girl named Pem Doikar, who was kidnapped by a Migoi.

This anthology does not profess to represent Himalayan literature as a whole, but lays emphasis on the people and myths centred around the Himalayas. For instance, the Nepali world that the poets and writers describe and create is a different one, compared to the western one. It is true that trekking-tourism, modern technology, the aid-industry, NGOs, aids and globalisation have reached Nepal, Bhutan, India, but the areas not frequented by the trekking and climbing tourists still remain rural, tradition-bound and untouched by modernity.

There are hardly any books written by writers from the Himalayas at the Frankfurter Book Fair. It's always the travelling tourist, geologist, geographer, biologist, climber and ethnologist who writes about Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh and its people, culture, religion, environment, flora and fauna. The Himalayan people have always been statists in the visit-the-Himalaya-scenarios published in New York, Paris, Munich and Sydney and they are described through western eyes.

But there have been generations of thinking and writing Nepalis, Indians, Bhutanese and Tibetans who have written and published hundreds of books and magazines in their own languages. In Patan's Madan Puraskar Library alone, which Mr. Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, describes as the "Temple of Nepali language", there are 15,000 Nepali books and 3500 different magazines and periodicals about which the western world hasn't heard or read. A start was made by Michael Hutt of the School of Oriental Studies London, in his English translation of contemporary Nepali prose and verse in Himalayan Voices and Modern Nepali Literature. It took him eight years to write his book and he took the trouble to meet most of the Nepali authors in Nepal and Darjeeling. The readers in the western world will know more about Himalayan literature as more and more original literary works are translated from Nepali, Tibetan, Hindi, Bhutanese, Lepcha, Bengali into English, German, French and other languages of the EU. The first foreign language, however, will remain English because the East India Company got there first.

This book compiled by Alice Grünfelder creates sympathy and understanding for the Nepali, Indian, Bhutanese, Tibetan, Chinese psyche, culture, religion, living conditions and human problems in the urban and rural Himalayan environment, and is a welcome addition to the slowly growing translated collection of Himalayan literature penned by writers living in the Himalayas. I wish her well in her function as a mediator between the literary worlds of Asia and Europe.

Reviewed by: Satis Shroff, Freiburg
About the Reviewer:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: 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. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). 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).

‘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).

“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 UK.

2009-05-09T04:09:00.000-07:00

Black Forest Mural on a house wall © satisshroff 2009

Robins in my garden ©Art by satisshroff 2009

Schwarzwaldlyrik (Black Forest Poems):

AUTUMN LEAVES IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Autumn leaves dancing in the sky,
Gleaming as the sunlight
Caresses them.

Out in the distance,
The blue Schwarzwald,
With its melange
Of conifer and deciduous trees,
Bursting out in autumnal rhapsody.

Guarded by the tall pine trees,
Like sentinels,
Overlooking an amphitheatre.

Its spurs and hidden valleys,

Inhabited by Allemanic denizens,
So long as time can tell.

To the south
The four languidly moving white blades
Of modern windmills,
With their blinking lights
Overlooking Rosskopf.

And far to the East,
The fairy-tale towns
Of Buchenbach and St. Peter.

Is this not Heaven on Earth?
The lush green grass in the meadows,
Has long been cut,
The hay already stacked in the barn.
I gather Löwenzahn for our rabbits,
Tasty salad for humans,
A delight for hares and rabbits.

Frau Frutiker greets me warmly,
Offers Schwarzwälder specialities.
She plays the flute,
Her husband Clemens
The trumpet
At the Buchenbacher Musikverein.

Autumn in Kappel,
A personification
Of serenity and tranquillity.

* * *

The Symphony of the Morning (Satis Shroff)

I discern the recurring chirps
And whistles
Of the birds in the vast foliage
Of an oak tree,
A German Eiche.

Whistles, chirps, hoots
And melodious symphony,
Like the incessant waves
Slashing on the shores of the Atlantic.

A single bird gives the tact,
A strong monotonous chirp.
The others follow suit,
Not in unison
But still in harmony.

You notice so many melodies
When you eavesdrop,
In the quiet comfort of your bed.
The natural symphony of the morning:
Adagio, crescendo,
It’s all there
For your fine ears.

* * *
Glossary:
Eiche: oak

* * *

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.

I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its aries early.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat.
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff)

On a hill in Kappel
You feel free and elated.
The stream that bubbles below,
Like an incessant lyric,
A monk’s chant in a monastery.

The cherry tree hangs
With bloom on its sagging boughs.
Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour,
In this Black Forest idyll.

The blue Schwarzwald range,
Makes poetry out of the dying sun
Around the house,
Like an arena in the Himalayas.
The tulips in bright colours are everywhere,
The lovely lilies are swaying,
So are the gladiolas.

As I walk along a mountain stream,
I smell hyacinths.
The marigolds are in full blossom,
And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me,
For marigolds and Tagetes grow
When it’s Dasain and Tihar,
Festival time,
Far in the Himalayas.
From the Himalayas to the Black Forest,
Such a long journey.

The evening wind whispers gently
From the Vale of Hell,
Der Höllentäler,
As we fondly call it.
The birds are coming home to roost.

I discern the attentuated tone
Of my little daughter Elena
Playing on her violin.
My feet take me home
With tardy steps.
I feel at peace
With myself

* * *

FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

I sit on my chaiselonge,
Serving Darjeeling to my friends,
Strengthened with masala,
And Sahne.
There’s Murat from Turkey,
Rosella from Italy,

Stefan and Barbara from Rheinfelden,
Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg.

Rosella has brought North Italian flair
And cakes that I relish,
From Milano.
Pannetone with Mascapone,
Champagne and Tiramisu.

A kiss to the right,
A kiss to the left,
Settles down and says:
‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satish?’
Hubby Samuel has expanded
His aerospace factory.

My friend Murat,
The personification of Miteinander,
Hands me a new novel,
With his signature,
Written despite the protests
Of his family,
Keeping late hours,
To finish his Opus magnum,
A story about his Allevite folk.

A pleasure and honour,
But I’m afraid,
I can’t read it:
It’s Turkish to me.

Barbara and my poet friend Stefan
Have been to the Zermat
And have tales to tell,
Not only of Wilhelm
And his crossbow,
But about the beauty
Of Switzerland.

Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady,
Glows like the sun:
An infectious smile
Over her tanned face.
No botox, only dentures,
And tells of her adventures in Italy,
Latin-lover inbegriffen,
And of her Sudanese seduction.
An elderly lady,
A friend with style
And aesthetic intelligence.

Ain’t it wonderful
To have dear friends?
Home abroad,
Abroad home.
Shanti!
Shanti!
Peace which passeth understanding.

Glossary:
Chaiselonge: long French sofa
Inbegriffen: included
Miteinander: together, togetherness
Shanti: peace
Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms
Bahn: train
Mumbai: Bombay
Bueb: small male child
Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari
Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany

*****

BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff)

Music has left its cultural confines.
You hear the strings of a sitar
Mingling with big band sounds.
Percussions from Africa
Accompanying ragas from Nepal.

A never-ending performance of musicians
From all over the world.
Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach,
Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn.
A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums
At the Zeltmusik festival.

Tabla and tanpura
Involved in a musical dialogue,
With trumpet and saxaphone,
Argentinean tango and Caribbean salsa,
Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly
With classical Bharta Natyam dancers,
Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied
By a Tibetan monastery orchestra,
Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes
And masked drummers.

As I walk past the Café Bueb, the Metzgerei,
The St. Blasius church bells begin to chime.
I see Annette’s tiny garden
With red, yellow and white tulips,
‘Hallochen!’ she says
With a broad, blonde smile,
Her slender cat stretches itself,
Emits a miao and goes by.
I walk on and admire
Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree,
Her pensioned husband nods back at me.

And in the distance,
A view of the Black Forest,
With whispering wind-rotors,
And the trees in the vicinity,
Teeming and shaking
With chirping, whistling, jostling birds
Come home to roost.

* * *

WINTER BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season of melancholy,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine.
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.

I’d danced
At the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

The dancing 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 comrades,
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,
Failing sensory organs,
Sans eyes,
Sans friends.
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.

* * *

Wine (Satis Shroff)

He who drinks sings,
He who drinks sinks,
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?
Or is it the wine
That spilt your life?

* * *

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

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

Follow your own words,
Your own heart.
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,
Trembling at the whiteness
That surrounded him,
Frightened by the icy wind
Which seemed to tear him apart.

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.
A vast silence ensued.

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 stubborn 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
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.
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.
I heard distant cries,
But I heard only you.
I had to bear with you.
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 shoot 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,
Poverty, shame,
Hidden by coy smiles,
The have-nots
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 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.

* * *

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,
We don’t prefer
To exchange niceties,
Personal secrets
Or somatic secretes
With.

* * *

THE HIMALAYAN WIND (Satis Shroff)

It is night,
The sky,
This inverted bowl,
Is prussian blue.

The winds are blowing
Across the swaying mustard fields.
This prussian darkness weighs me down,
It licks and chews,
On my desires concealed.

I’m hungry for ambrosia,
My stomach groans.
My heart yearns.

I enter a cave near the lake,
Stalagtites
And stalagmites.
A cave of loss.

Phewa the lake nearby,
Frequented by the Himalayas,
To mirror themselves
At dawn and dusk.
A reward for pilgrims
From afar.

* * *
The Whisper of the Glaciers (Satis Shroff)

The mountains loom above
The deeds of humans,
Blind chopping of trees.

The ascent of sacred peaks,
Whether singular
Or with a team,
With sauerstoff,
Or without.

Have you heard the whisper of the glaciers
Or the crash of the moraines,
As their long tongues
Bring to light
Remains of climbers
And adventurers,
Crushed in icy graves?

The tongues of the moraines
Lick the frozen, distorted torsos
Of heroes, sons and husbands
In search of glory and fame,
Who haven’t lived to tell their tales,
At cocktail parties,
And power-point palavers
In Manhatten, Santiago, Osaka,
Potsam or Prague.

* *
On Poetry (Satis Shroff)

A long time ago,
An established bard motivated me,
A poet from the American mainstream.
Words of praise that soothed
And amused me.
He compared my lyrical fragments
With works of poets
Of whom I’d never heard.

A protest poem about a drunk landlady
Reminded of W. H. Auden.
A ballad about a Gurkha mother
He said: ‘the best of Auden
And E.E. Cummings in tone here.’

Namaste,
Auf wiedersehen.
Auf wiedersehen,
Namaste.
I greet the godliness in you.
We shall see again.

‘There is such a surprise and delight.
A triumphant moment (here).
A small miracle of revelation.”

* * *

Zeitgeistlyrik:
GROWTH AND STASIS (Satis Shroff)

LOL!
Oh My God,
Das ist Toll,
Dear Frau Moll.

It comes from textese,
An English computer dialect
That causes teachers and language lovers
To sigh in anguish and despair.

Great feelings and words
Are compromised
Per SMS today.

Circumlocution has gone away.
Why beat around the bush?
Keep it precise,
Don’t waste words.
LOL!

When someone sends you
A message with ‘I love you,’
Don’t get worked up.
It can be an admirer
Or a pesky virus-ridden spam,
That sends love-you-mails
To your near
And dear ones,
And to all and sundry.

I agree,
That’s neither lol
Nor loll.
Lie lazily,
Hang out your tongue,
As we say in German:
Es ist nicht toll.

That’s language in metamorphosis:
Phases of growth,
Succeeded by stasis,
Dear Madame Moll,
LOL.

* * *

About the author: Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwigs University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: 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), in addition to Sprachkunde Nepali I & II (Horlemann Verlag, Bad Honnef), article on Nepalese symbols, Gurkhas and Achttausender. 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. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

2009-02-07T09:02:00.001-08:00

The Fifth Season in the Alps and the Black Forest (Satis Shroff)

The night of the torches began at Freiburg’s Swabian Gate (Schwabentor), and 13000 witches, knaves and other ghoulish figures marched to the Allemanic town’s cathedral located in the centre. Right below the olde historical Kaufhaus was a stage with 500 witches in motley clothes and ugly noses, warts and all, who performed their wild and frantic dances. The cacophony caused by the percussion and brass of the Guggen music rose in crescendo, as they staged their monster-concert.

40,000 visitors came to the 75th celebration of the Breisgauer Narrenzunft (BNZ) and 100 clubs (Zünfte) took part in the fasnet merry-making. The BNZ was established in 1934, yes the fateful year in Germany when the Nazizeitgeist raised its ugly head. Among the Narren (knaves) that the Nazis didn’t like was a Jewish Freiburger named Hans Pollock, a physician by profession and very active in the fasnet committee. Today, we would say that he was systematically mobbed and bossed from his working place, and was deported to Dachau. Luckily enough Hans fell ill and was sent back to Freiburg, where he died in 1939. There’s a small metal plate with his name in the cobbled street called Güntertalstrasse.

An ethnologist named Bertold Hamel published a thesis with the title ‘Helau and Heil Hitler.’ In 1984 there was an exhibition at the Albert Ludwig’s university library organised in part by the art historian Peter Kalchthaler. It was he who mentioned that the celebrations had their origin in the Christian faith, and that during the Third Reich the brown shirts turned an age-old belief and tradition into a folk tradition.

But things have changed for the better now. Even a Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Jew can become a member of the many traditional zünfte and cliques, and take part in the historical and traditional jovial events. I’m looking forward to the Rose Monday parade in which more than 5200 masked figures will be taking part.

From the ‘dirty’ Thursday till Ash Wednesday, the Black Forest and the Upper Rhein areas are under the command of witches and knaves after the town councils are stormed by them and freed, for the fifth season has already begun. The witches also come to the schools and kindergardens and ‘free’ the kids from their teachers and lessons, and make them have fun with music, bags of sweets, colourful streamers and sacks of confetti which are thrown on their blonde, brunette and black heads, amid laughter and screams. A wonderful time of the year, you are inclined to say, where people are ordered to have fun, drink a lot of beer, wine, schnaps to drive off the cold, long, depressing winter. I bumped into an amiable German from Pforzheim named Rudi, who raised his krug of beer and said: ‘Prost! My body needs it!’

Well it’s fasnet-time (fasching, carnival) in the alpine countries of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. The streets are full of wild men and women, witches, devils, knaves, masked figures galore in Durlach (Karlsruhe), Baden Baden-Oos, Offenburg, Gengenbach with its ‘Schalk wach uff’ cry, Hausach with its witches with hearts, the march at Haslach, the red devils on Dirty Thursday at Triberg. And Villingen, which is known for its motto: fasnet-meets-carnival.

In Donaueschingen, Hansel and Gretel are woken up from their Schwarzwälder beds by means of a fanfare at 6am on February 19, 2009. There’s a children’s procession at 2pm and the singing of fasnet songs. At 7pm you see people going around with long white sleeping-gowns and white caps with a pom-pom hanging at the end. You can see thousands of people taking to the cobbled streets: there’s music of all manners, costumes and stork wagons in which the wicked witches of Elzach entice beautiful girls from the streets, dump them in their rickety wagons, throw tons of confetti on them and finally set them free with a ‘narri, narrow!’ farewell greeting. The Schuttig procession is known for the cracks of the long whips on the streets, but if you tease and laugh at him, the Schuttig might clobber you with a swine’s bladder. It’s good for a laugh anyway because humour is useful.

And on March 2, 2009 there’s, of course, the famous Swiss Morgenstraich in Basle, an unforgettable experience after the German merry-making is long over and the witches have shed feigned tears, burnt effigies symbolising the banishment of winter.

Exactly at 4am the lights go out in Basle’s inner town buildings. An uncanny silence shrouds the city, and thousands of spectators listen and look around, holding hands lest they don’t lose themselves among the sea of humanity around them. Suddenly, 200 lanterns begin to shine and make their appearance with masked figures elegantly distributing colourful leaflets with the sujet or motto of the respective cliques, which are actually lyrics lampooning Swiss politicians, Sarkosy, Brown & Merkel included, their speeches, promises, collateral decisions that have backfired, scandals or whatever. I love the sound of the shrill piccollo flutes and drums of the Swiss cliques. When you come to think of it, you’re one of the 10,000 fasnacht revellers. There are witch costume balls everywhere in the evenings, where you eat salted pork, drink schnaps, but hopefully not one too much for the road, for fun is the order of the day.

Whereas the Breisgauer members of the Narrenzunft celebrated their 75th jubilee on February 1, 2009, in Switzerland’s small Klinen Valley the ‘Wild Maa’ reached land at 11am on January 20, 2009 and was greeted with firecrackers. On the bank of the Rhine were the bird Gryff and the ‘Leu’ waiting to greet the ‘Wild Maa,’ surrounded by hundreds spectators who’d come to see the spectacle. The three symbolic Swiss fasnet figures danced all the way to Small Basle for the big-shots of Basle. The highlight was the dance in the middle of the bridge across the Rhines near Käpplijoch, and a thunderous crowd, accompanied by blue coated drummers, wearing white wigs and quaint hats like the Tin Drummer.

In the middle of Thun, a town in Switzerland, the Merlinger group ‘Grönbachgusler,’ costumed as blood-suckers with vampire-like canines jutting out of the corners of their mouths, black and white striped clothes and big drums were to be admired. This was the day of the ghouls.

On February 24, 2009 the town of Breisach invites all fasnet-friends to this lovely town upon the Rhine, where the Brysacher Fasnet will be celebrated the whole day. And on Ash Wednesday, when everything’s over, the people of Freiburg wash their wallets at 10am in the clear, cold water of the Freiburger Bächele, a sort of canal that runs through this Schwarzwald town, as it is thought to be auspicious and will bring one happiness and financial benefits in the course of the year. What a pleasant thought, now that the WEF is over, isn’t it?

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: 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. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

2009-02-02T02:32:00.000-08:00

Lyrik:
Winter Blues (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *
Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Whereever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

2009-02-02T02:28:00.000-08:00

Lyrik Zeitschrift Berlin:
Gedichte Nepals

Wenn man an die Gedichte Nepals des 20. Jahrhunderts denkt, fallen einem Dichter wie: Lekhnath Paudyal, Bhanu Bhakta Acharya, Balkrishna Sama und Lakshmiprasad Devkota in den Sinn. Nepals vielfältige und anspruchsvolle Literatur ist reich an Gedichten, da fast jeder Schriftsteller auch Gedichte schreibt. Das Gedicht hat immer eine besondere Rolle gespielt, weil es als Mittel benutzt wurde, um sozialkritische und politische Fragen in einer Gesellschaft zu postulieren, in der Regierungen Medien zensierten. Zensusfreie Literatur gibt es in Nepal erst seit November 1990 mit der Umwandlung der absoluten Monarchie in eine konstitutionelle Hindu-Monarchie mit demokratischen Grundprinzipien.
Die Zeit wird uns zeigen, ob in Nepal eine tatsächliche Meinungsfreiheit unter der Maoisten geben wird, da Nepal eine republikanische Staat geworden ist.
Die nepalesische Literatur beschreibt auch die Situation in anderen Himalayastaaten. Die Hochburg der Nepali Literatur findet man in Kathmandu aber auch in Darjeeling, Kurseong, Kalimpong, Assam, Nagaland und Gangtok (Sikkim). Hier gibt es literarische Gesellschaften und jährliche Auszeichnungen für Nepali Schriftsteller und Dichter. Die bekanntesten Preise sind: Royal Nepal Akademie Preis, Tribhuvan Puraskar, Madan Puraskar, Sajha Preis, Nepali Literatur Gesellschaft Preis (Darjeeling), Nepali Akademie Preis (West Bengalen) und Nationale Literatur Akademie Preis (Delhi). Budathoki’s Best Nepalese On-line Writer Preis (International Nepali Literature Society, USA). / Satis Shroff, American Chronicle 14.11.
Satis Shroff has also written political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His anthology of poems has been published by www.Lulu.com:'Katmandu, Katmandu.'
His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe, and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. He carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.
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 (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, 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.
Boloji.com: Satis Shroff was Poet of the Week on February 18,2007 and again on June 22, 2008.
Poetry Hearings, Berlin Mitte
In Berlin gibt es ein englischsprachiges Lyrikfestival, die Poetry Hearings, von manchen mit einer Spur Übertreibung "das beste Lyrikfestival der Welt" genannt haben. Denn in der Stadt leben mehr englischsprachige Dichter als jemals zuvor. Vielleicht ist es zu früh, Berlin das Paris der Nullerjahre zu nennen, sagt der Veranstalter Alistair Noon. Aber die Stadt zieht Dichter, Künstler und Musiker an, ebenso aber ein Publikum für sie. Jetzt findet es wieder statt, Freitag 16. bin Sonntag 18.11. Außer in Berlin lebenden Autoren kommen inzwischen auch Dichter aus Europa und Übersee. Expatica
Poetry Hearings stellt Lyriker englischer Sprache vor, besonders solche aus Kontinentaleuropa. Quer zu allen Einteilungen versammelt das Festival Autoren, die in verschiedenen Traditionen stehen: Mainstream, Experimentelle, Formale, Freilaufende ("free-ranging"), Performance- und Prosagedichte. Lesenswerte, gute Arbeiten gibt es in allen diesen Formen; das Festival will ihnen ein Forum bieten.

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.
I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist black noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its early arias.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat:
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

SUMMER DELIGHTS IN THE SCHWARZWALD (Satis Shroff)

I sat in the garden
With Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure
On my lap,
And saw a small butterfly
With dark spots on its frail wings,
Violet patterns on its tail.
It was Aglais utricae
Flattering lightly
Between the marigolds
And chrysanthemums.

The Potentilla nepalensis
Was growing well
Under the shade of the rhododendrons.
The great pumpkin was spreading
Its leafy tentacles everywhere.
The tomatoes were fighting for light
Hiding beneath its gigantic green leaves.

A Papilio machaon with its swallow-tail
Came from nowehere.
The laughter of the children,
As they swung in the garden’s two swings
Were a delight to one’s soul.

Little Florentin’s fear of the bees,
Natasha’s morbid fear of spiders,
Elena’s garden gymnastics
And Julian’s delight in discovering
New insects, snails and snakes.

Holding hands
We strolled in our garden.
You watered the flowers and trees,
I removed long, brown snails,
A hobby-gardener of Nepalese descent,
In a lovely white house
With character in Freiburg-Kappel,
An Allemanic stronghold.

Once the subject of dispute
Between Austria and France,
Now a sleepy residential area
Of Freiburg im Breisgau.

* * *

EAST BLOC KID GOES WEST (Satis Shroff)

A pair of heavy scissors fly
In a dark Hauptschule classroom,
Thrown by an Aussiedler school-kid,
Near Freiburg’s Japanese Garden.

The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
You can be maimed for life,
Like Scarface,
If the sharp ends
Bury in your eyes,
Or mine.

Let there be light.
Vitaly, a boy from the former east Bloc
Comes to the West,
In search of ancestors and heritage.
What he gets is rejection but freedom.
Freedom to do as he pleases,
With pleasant negative sanctions.
‘Even in jail they have TV,’
He says with a laugh.

He grows up in a ghetto,
And his anger burns.
Anger at his ageing parents,
Who forced him to come to the West,
But who are themselves
Lost in this new world
Of democratic, liberal values,
Luxurious and electronic consumer delights,
Where everyone cares for himself
Or herself,
Where the old structures of the society
They clung to in the East Bloc days
Don’t exist anymore.

A brave new world,
A Schlaraffenland,
Where economy and commerce flourishes,
Where the individual’s view is important,
To himself,
To herself
And to others.

The East Bloc boy learns
To assert himself in the West,
Not with solid arguments and rhetoric
But with his two fists.
He fancies cars and their contents,
Breaks open the windows,
Takes all he wants.
Brushes with the police
At an early age.

English, Latin and French at school,
Irritate him,
He prefers to play the clown:
To dance on the table,
Make suggestive moves with his groin,
High on designer drugs,
High all the time.
Opens the classroom door,
Sees a girl from the seventh grade,
And yells at her:
‘Screw you after school.’

His behaviour brings laughter
But he turns off the girls he admires.
He grins and insults his peers.
Rejected by youngsters,
Admonished by grown-ups.
He watches the society.

Chic clothes, streamlined cars, plastic money,
But he forgets that there’s personal performance
Behind these worldly riches.
‘The rich German drives his BMW
With his head in the air.
What does he care?
What does he care?’
Thinks Vitaly.

A pair of scissors fly
In a dark classroom.
His pent-up emotions,
Let loose in a German Hauptschool,
Near the Japanese Garden.

His classmate from Croatia
Throws chairs at the another.
‘Aus Spass’ he says.
Just for fun.
He shouts at the Putzfrau,
Who cleans the classrooms:
‘Sie Geistesgestörte!’
You mad woman.
‚My French-cap is XXX’ he sings
And jerks his pelvis at her.

Is the school-system to blame?
Are western culture, tradition
Social, liberal values and norms to blame?
Are his parents
Who speak a conserved Deutsch to blame?
Is his Russian mother-tongue
And his great Russian soul to blame?

Nobody answers his questions,
Nobody cares,
Out in the West.
“Verdammt, I want to be heard!”
Screams Vitaly.
The people shake their heads,
Mutters, ‘Ein Spinner!’
And walk away.

A pair of sharp, long scissors
Fly in a dark classroom.
The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
----------------------------------------------

THE SEA SWELLS (Satis Shroff)

The sea shells on the sea shore
Suddenly the sea swells.
Ring the church and temple bells.
All is not well.
The sea has gone back.

Brown-burnt Tarzans and Janes
From different continents,
Wonder what’s going on.
A man from Sweden
Is immersed in his thriller under the palms.
A mother and daughter from Germany
Frolic on the white sunny beach.

Even the sea-gulls stop and listen
To the foreboding silence.

The sea swells,
Comes back
And brings an apocalyptic destruction:
Sweeping humans, huts and hotels,
Boats, billboards and debris.
Cries for help are stifled by the roaring waves.

The sea goes back.
Leaving behind lost souls,
Caught in suspended animation.
I close my eyes.
Everything dies.

Tsunami. Tsunami.
Om Shanti. Om shanti.
-----------------

DELETING LIVES IN THE CYBERWORLD (Satis Shroff)

The young man and his double-clicks
In a cyberworld
Of bits and bytes,
Full of elves, tough turtles, dementors,
Warriors, monsters, evil beings,
Who destroy hamlets, towns,
Civilisations,
At the command of a few clicks.

An unreal world
Where the fantasy stories
Are pre-programmed.
The elimination of farmers, slaves,
Knaves and enemy warriors,
But a click away.

You are the creator,
The maker and destroyer,
You are Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma.
Thumbs up or down,
Death to you,
Delete.
Yawn!
You’re short of amphetamines.
It’s a long way
To the apothecary.
More clicks,
More tiredness,
You’re falling asleep.
Drowsy bits and bytes,
You haven’t taken a bite.
Your inner man is growling,
But you have no time,
For bodily needs.
You’re hooked
To your bits and bytes.
Oh, it bites.
--------------------------------------
Groggy in the Afternoon (Satis Shroff)

Groggy from the Cyberworld at home,
Fritz goes to school.
He’s tired of school,
And is restless.
Retalin doesn’t seem to work today.
The lessons are irrelevant,
He sees not the classmates.
He sees the goblins, ghouls,
Zombies, Power Rangers,
Sword-fighting Ninjas ,
Scores of other figures
With terrifying grimaces.
Fritz also makes a grimace.
He is now a monster in his thoughts,
Has to strike the others
With his laser-sword.

The enemy surrounds him,
Laser-blades flash like lightning.
A gash and Fritz falls on the floor.
He’s wounded,
But rotates his prostrate torso
With his fast working legs,
Lashes out with his sword.
He’s almost killed them all.
He’s a hero who never gives up.

Suddenly he hears his teacher
Frau Hess’s voice:
’Fritz, steh auf!’
He becomes calm,
Gets up.
Gone are the warriors, Power Rangers,
And super heroes and mighty enemies.
Fritz recognises his classmates,
Hans, Joachim, Cassandra, Brunhild,
As they shake their heads.

Was it a dream?
Oh je! Frau Hess will certainly call Mom.
And tell it all.
‘Scheiss ADS!’ mutters Kevin.

Glossary:
ADS: Allgemeine Deficiency Syndrome

The Japanese Garden (Satis Shroff)

Nine Hauptschule kids in their teens,
Sit on benches in the Japanese Garden,
Near the placid, turquoise lake.

The homework is done sloppily.
Who cares?
The boys are bursting with hormones,
As they tease the only blonde from Siberia.

A fat guy named Heino likes the blonde,
But she doesn’t fancy him.
Annäherung, Vermeidung:
A conflict develops.

The teacher tells him in no uncertain terms:
“Lass Sie bitte in Ruhe!”
But Heino with the MP3 doesn’t care
And carries on:
Grasping her breasts,
Caressing her groin.
She puts up a fight to no avail.

Heino is stronger, impertinent,
And full of street rhetoric.
Meanwhile, the other teenies
Are climbing, kicking the Japanese pavilion,
Spitting, cursing shouting
At all and sundry in German.

The grey-haired gardener-in-charge comes,
Tells the boys to behave
And goes.
Boredom in the afternoon.
The boys don’t want to play soccer,
Handball or basketball.
Sitting around, criticising, irritating each other,
Is cool.

Creative workshops: music, songs,
Essays, own movies?
Nothing interests them.
Killing time together,
Cursing at each other,
Getting a kick provoking passersby,
This is the Hauptschule
In Germany today.

The clever kids go to the Gymnasium,
After the fourth class.
The trouble-makers,
Aggressive alpha-wolves
And clowns remain in the Hauptschule.
An ironical name for a school,
For Haupt means the ‘main’
Comprising the lower class of the society:
Kids of foreigners, ethnic Germans from the East Bloc,
Who hope to make it somehow,
As apprentices for hair salons, car repair garages,
Kebab shops, Italian restaurants, Balkan kitchens,
Roofers and masons.

The Japanese Garden, a present from Matsuyama
To the people of Freiburg,
With truncated shrubs and rounded trees.
A waterfall and quiet niches,
A place for contemplation and solitude.

For the Hauptschule kids,
A place to get together,
Be loud, grunt, fight with fists, shove, scratch,
Slap, spit, kick everywhere,
And play the gangsta.
“At night they throw empty alcohol bottles
Where ever they like,” says an elderly lady
From the neighbourhood.
Wonder how the kids are in Matsuyama?

* * *

WENN EIN KIND.../WHEN A CHILD... (Anon)

Wenn ein Kind kritisiert wird,
lernt es zu verurteilen.

Wenn ein Kind angefeindet wird,
lernt es zu kämpfen.

Wenn ein Kind verspottet wird,
lernt es schüchtern zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind beschämt wird,
lernt es sich schuldig zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind verstanden und toleriert wird,
lernt es geduldig zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind ermutigt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu vertrauen.

Wenn ein Kind gelobt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu schätzen.

Wenn ein Kind gerecht behandelt wird,
lernt es sich gerecht zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind geborgen lebt,
lernt es zu vertrauen.

Wenn ein Kind anerkannt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu mögen.

Wenn ein Kind in Freundschaft angenommen wird,
lernt es in der Welt Liebe zu finden.

(Text über dem Eingang einer tibetischen Schule)
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 Lure of the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)

Once upon a time,
Near the town of Kashgar,
I, a blue-eyed stranger in local clothes was captured
By the sturdy riders of Vali Khan.
On August 26, 1857
I, Adolph Schlagintweit,
a German traveller, an adventurer,
Was beheaded as a spy without a trial.

I was a German who set out on the footsteps
Of the illustrious Alexander von Humboldt.
With my two brothers Hermann and Robert,
From Southhampton on September 20,1854
To see India, the Himalayas and Higher Asia.
Sans invitation, I must admit.

A Persian traveller, a Muslim with a heart
Found my headless body.
He brought my remains all the way to India,
And handed it to a British colonial officer.

It was a fatal fascination,
But had I the chance,
I’d do it again.

******

What others have said about the author:
'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.
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).
'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)

“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.

Author Bio:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: 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. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

2008-06-13T01:37:00.000-07:00

Christa Drigalla: Helping the Nepalese to Help Themselves (Satis Shroff)

Christa Drigalla is an amiable German lady, a hospital managers who worked at the Diakonie hospital in Freiburg (South-west Germany), where she did Nursing Management. Sometime back, this author had the opportunity of going for a walk to the Emperor’s Chair (Kaiserstuhl), a volcanic wine-growing area in the vicinity of Freiburg, with Christa.
‘I’d love to trek to the Rara lake. I saw colour transparencies of Rara shown by a Freiburger professor in St. Georgen and was so fascinated’, said Christa. She has been to Annapurna, Chitwan and Langtang. ‘Springtime in the Himalayas is wonderful’, she said as she drank her Nepal tea and mentioned names like Kanchan Gompa, Laurebina-pass and Sundari and about 17 to 18 degrees centigrade temperatures in the month of November. But she said she liked to brave it all and wouldn’t miss trekking a bit.
At the beginning Christa worked as a nurse at the Shanti Seva Griha, a leprosy clinic run by the Dortmunderin Marianne Grosspietsch, which is located in Pashupati, near the river. She helps where she can, and is uncomplicated. The small 12-bed clinic, an outdoor Ambulanz (In German Ambulanz is not a car to transport injured patients, but a ward to cater to the needs of the outdoor patients. An ambulance in the English sense of the word is called a Rettungswagen). Shanti Seva also runs a school for the children of the leprosy patients. There’s a coffee-shop, a tailoring-service and a branch in Budanilkantha, which is open twice a week. The outdoor ward has over 2,300 registered patients.
The poor, ill, blind, lame and lepers come from the miserable, smoggy streets of Katmandu and the temple complex of Pashupatinath, Nepal’s biggest and holiest gold-roofed hinduistic temple. The sickly beggars are never too tired to beg for alms from pious people (Hindus from Nepal and India), who are allowed to worship in the sancrum sanctorum of the Shiva-temple.
The other curious visitors who are obliged to remain in the periphery of Pashupatinath are the camera-toting foreign tourists. Whether it’s coy and ashamed bathing Nepalese women in wet, sticky saris, burning Hindu corpses and the mourning relatives of the deceased, hungry lepers or agile Rhesus temple-monkeys, the dauntless tourists photograph everything for their transparency, video and DVD-shows back home. The Shanti Seva Griha takes care additionally of the white-haired, wrinkled widows, women and children from the neighbourhood. And the treatment is free. The Griha also has a rehabilitation-centre near the Royal Golf Club Nepal. It has a tailoring workshop where stigmatised Nepali lepers work in peace. Lepers are still heavily stigmatised in Nepal, like the people with plague in the Middle Ages in Europe. Today, it’s possible to cure the disease by using an antibiotic cocktail.
Christa said that she put up at a small lodge near the Clinic, and lived sometimes with Nepalese friends near the Ring-road. There’s a German nurse named Irma who hails from Achern and she has additionally a leading role at the Nursing Campus (Patan). Christa comes from a hamlet named Albringhausen, with a population of 229 in Lower Saxony, a flat state at an elevation of 14metres above sea-level.
‘It’s all farms, corn-fields, meadows and windmills. More and more farmers are giving up their farms and the farms are in poor conditions due to the bad EU agricultural politics. It’s East Friesian country with fishers, crabs, cows.’ She has a brother and a sister out there in Lower Saxony but she lives the mountains. If she’s not trekking in the Himalayas then she’s invariably wandering up and down the Swiss Alps or in the Black Forest Mountains.
‘I have it in my genes, this Wanderlust,’ she says almost apologetically. Christa Drigalla has been running the Interplast Germany’s hospital in Nepal for a long time. Interplast is a US- German undertaking which carries out plastic surgery on leprosy patients, which is extremely useful for the poor Nepali patients, who are ostracised and shunned by the Nepali society.
She talks at length about the corruption scandals in Kathmandu. ‘Everybody is pumping money into Nepal but where is it vanishing? The number of beggars in Katmandu, and Nepal in general, seem to multiplying. I don’t see any structure in Nepal. There are so many NGO projects, and there’s hardly any monitoring done.’ All the NGOs ought to be coordinated by the new government’s Social Ministry. Every big foreign country has, in addition to its official development volunteer programme, a bevy of NGO projects. Even local NGOs are cropping up like mushrooms after a monsoon shower. And all international organisations want to help the fifth poorest country in the world to get up on its feet.”
Where are the priorities? For instance, most of the foreign projects have programmes in the educational sector, but they don’t dare to intervene and help develop new, attractive vocational curricula. They just open or support existing schools, and let the Nepalis carry on with their own anachronistic teaching methods and curricula. Only the rich have access to modern education. What are Nepal boys and girls to do after they have done their School Leaving Certificate? Who is going to finance higher education? There are just not enough vocational outlets.
There’s no question about the need for NGOs but where does the money disappear? Isn’t it literally helping others to help themselves through the aid-industry? The money and effort just doesn’t seem to trickle down to the grassroots. Quo vadis development aid?
Christa Drigalla says, ‘‘A deep orthodox faith in religion is not good for these modern times. For now. It’s better to try and improve one’s present life(style) than to expect that it will be better in one’s next life. I often hear paralysing fatalistic opinions like ‘ke garnu? jindagi jestai chha (What shall I do? Life is like that). Or ‘ke garnu? upai chaina! (What shall I do? There’s no way). Modern educated Nepalis tend to say ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way’. Perhaps that is the value of education.’.
‘Practical steps are useful in pepping oneself up. When I was at Shanti Griha we constructed a shower for the staff and patients. She longs to see the friendly faces of Prabha the social worker, Hari the sanitater, Krishna the physiotherapist, Dr. Singh the team-physician and Marianne.
‘I’ve been expanding the plastic surgery hospital project run by Interplast at Salambutar, near Sankhu,’ says Christa Drigalla. This new hospital was opened officially in November 1997 and was dubbed Sushma Koirala Memorial Hospital (SKMH) after the daughter of the former Nepalese Prime Minister who burnt to death in her sari. The international medical team of the SKMH is busy with operative corrections of patients who have scars from burns, deformities from birth, or have lost a part of their hands or feet through leprosy-infection. This medical area has been the connecting link with the Shanti-Griha-Project with its leprosy patients. Besides rendering concrete medical help to these Nepalese patients, the aim of the ‘Interplast’ organisation in the whole world is to teach local surgeons special operation-techniques, and to give their know-how to them so that they can operate independently at a later stage. Other members of the medical-staff like nurses, sanitaters, physiotherapists also receive special training and instructions to take optimal care of the post-operative patients. The Interplast-run hospital is, after a period of initial financial and intellectual help, to be overtaken by the Nepalese counterparts.
Christa has been working for more than a decade in Nepal and has survived the revolution of the eighties, the nineties and now the Maoist take over at the recent polls.
‘I’m sure that this ‘help to self-help’ (Hilfe zur Selbsthilfe) is the most effective solution towards improving the situation of the patients in Nepal,’ says Christa Drigalla. She has always had an inner desire for a long time to get to know Nepal not only as a tourist, but to live here and to experience the entire seasonal changes of Nature, with winter and sommer, the dry period and monsoon, to get to know and understand the people better and to do more trekking’. And that’s exactly what she has been doing all these years and has even built a wonderful house in scenic Nagarkot from where she can peer at the Himalayas..
One can only admire her courage, endeavour and the ability to assert herself and I’d like to wish her well. She is what we call in German eine gute Seele, a good soul, and is the personification of togetherness, Miteinander.

2008-06-13T01:23:00.000-07:00

Public Viewing Zeitgeist (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

The scene is at the Joggeli ,
A stadium in Basel, Switzerland.
The Czechs think the Germans are going to be behind them.
Karel Brückner wears a black muffler on this humid afternoon.
The Swiss Nati enters the arena.
Yodel songs, Alp horns, an elegant Miss Swiss saunters by,
Samba music reminiscent of Guggemusik at Fasnet,
Swiss fans with red and white flags,
Effigies of Swiss cows, blondes wearing hats,
Caps and motley headgear,
Blonde farmers on stilts, soccer ball skirts and milk-cans,
Amid cow bells and the cries of the spectators.
Mountain pixels: Jungfrau, Mönch and Eiger,
Skiing figures of a Ski nation,
Barock costumes, dancing figures
In black n’ white,
The waltz and techno music.
Magic cube effects on the soccer field.
Symbols for Swiss watch industry,
Flags galore.
A coy Amanda Amman,
Miss Switzerland in scarlet silk.
“She’s half Swiss and half Czech” quips someone.
The Swiss are celebrating a big soccer festival.
The entire stadium becomes a soul,
Unified as 100,000 fans shout in defiance
Through their larynx and lungs.
From Ortenau to Schaffhausen,
The fans are streaming in,
Controlled by Swiss, German
And French security men and women,
Armed with guns, sticks, Alsatian dogs,
And Luftwaffe aircraft doing sorties in the sky,
The fear of Al Kaida is everywhere.
42000 in the St. Jakob’s arena,
35 000 in the Fan Zone,
Another 20 000 in the inns, taverns
Public viewing places in Basle.
Discussions center on
The four-man defence chain,
Tactics, strategies of trainers,
Performances in the Bundes and other leagues.
A big chance for Switzerland.
438 green balloons reach for the sky.
Fireworks,
Standing ovation from the spectators,
The Swiss hold hands
To the national hymn
Standing ovation for a knie injured captain,
Alexander Frei the surest Swiss striker,
Is in tears against the Czechs.
0:2 says the gigantic stadium neon chart,
Against the Turks.
Köbi Kuhn the dignified thoughtful Swiss man’s
Euro dream disappears.
The best Euro host takes its bow.
You can still read the disappointment on our faces.
Ach, Helvetia you’re great even in defeat.

2008-05-28T07:16:00.000-07:00

2008-05-28T07:15:00.000-07:00

Satis Shroff receiving the DAAD-Prize

2008-05-19T02:24:00.000-07:00

A Tribute to Anzu Furukawa and The Rite of Spring (Satis Shroff)
I’d often seen an outsized portrait of Anzu Furukawa in Wolfgang Graf’s home, and when we talked about Anzu and he said, “My own experience with Anzu came in 1999, during the San Francisco Buto Festival. I participated in her workshop and found her to be a good teacher, able to communicate well to her students despite the fact the her English was somewhat limited. She used humour to break the tension that so often can hamper a student from learning. That same humour was communicated in her performance of one of her most famous works, Crocodile Time.”
Anzu Furukawa was born in Tokyo in 1952. She studied in 1972-75 under professor Yoshiro Irino in the Toho-gakuen College of Music. She worked since 1973 as a choreographer, performer and scenarist in various groups in Japan and Europe on many international festivals. Among others she also worked in 1979 as a solo dancer in the Dairaku-kan buto group. An accomplished ballet dancer, modern dancer, studio pianist for ballet companies and a student of modern composition of music in addition to being both a teacher and performer of Buto dance.
In this connection it is necessary to talk about the Buto. 'What is 'Buto?' you might ask.
Buto is a school of modern Japanese dance which was born at the turn of the fifties and sixties. Buto dance has also influenced the development of dance in Finland and in Europe in general. Buto was born amid the upheavals in Japan, in the atmosphere characterised by student revolts, performance acts and agitation prop. The founder of the school was Tatsumi Hijikata (1928-1986), who came from Northern Japan to Tokyo. He started with violent and anarchistic dance performances, after which his relations with the official school of Japanese dance were cut off. In his later work, he created a kind of basic technique for buto, which, however, differed from Western aesthetics. Another “first generation buto artist“ is Kazuo Ohno (1906-) who also visited Finland.
Anzu gave her debut in 1973 as a director and choreographer with the first piece "grand conceptual opera" SALOME TALE at the German Cultural Centre in Tokyo. From 1974 till 79 she worked as a soloist in the dancer performance Dairaruda-kan directed by Akaji Maro. She also worked with Carlotta Ikeda, Ko Muroboshi, Ushio Amagatsu.
In 1979-86 she founded and led, together with Tetsuro Tamuro, the Dance Love Machine group. Then she founded in 1987 the Anzu Dance School in Tokyo and began solo performances in Japan and Europe. In 1987 she created many successful works such as the Anzu´s Animal Atlas, Cells of Apple, Faust II, Rent-a-body, The Detective from China, and A Diamond as big as the Ritz. From 1991 till 1997 she held University Professorship in Hochschule fur Bildende Kunste Braunschweig, Germany (schwerpunkt Performance) . She received many grants and prizes from the Goethe Institut Tokyo Contemporary music series, The Japan Foundation, Nippon Geijutsu Bunka Shinko Kikin, Afred Kordelin Foundation, The Art Council of Province of Central Finland and the Astro-Labium prize, The International Electronic Cinema Festival-Montreux, Kolner Theatre Prize
As a visiting instructor at a Finnish university, Anzu Furukawa concentrated on collaborative productions at the Helsinki City Theatre and staged works like the Rite of Spring in 1994 and the Buto works Bo (Keppi) and Shiroi mizu (Villi Vesi) in 1995 using mostly Finnish dancers. In Western Europe, most people believe that a dancer should stop performing at the top level sometime in their 40s. Due to the attitude of placing importance on the realities of the body mentioned earlier in regard to the interest in Buto, or perhaps the influence of Buto itself, many Finnish dancers still continue to perform into their 50s.
It is the presence of cross-over type activities that transcend conventional category boundaries, like the works of Uotinen that give Finnish dance its contemporary strength. There is also active collaboration with artists from other genre, especially collaborations with media artists and lighting creators. This writer has personally feels that there is a lot of beautifully created light work in Finnish dance, and it seems as if the sensitivity of the lighting art is not unrelated to a dramatic element that originates in the Finnish natural environment with the shining brightness of the midnight sun in summer, the darkness that dominates the winter and the fact that its polar proximity makes the Aurora borealis a common sight. This light-effect is brought onto the stage by no other than Mikki Kunttu, Finland’s representative lighting designer.
In the work of Saarinen mentioned at the beginning, the natural light effect designed by Mikki Kunttu helped to bring an abstract expression of the religious spirituality achieved through a life of denial of human desires that is the theme of the work.
The solo Hunt that takes Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring as its motif, is an impressive solo that brings the theme to life within the burning energy of the dance. Beginning from silence and having the body spring to life with the music, the piece proceeds to the closing stage to build as images of Marita Liulia projected on the body in a way that created a visual expression of the human body in the information age. I personally like Igor Stravinsky’s “Der Feuervögel”, the firebird very much and it is performed in many German schools. There’s a strong interest in Buto in the Finnish dance world and there are many choreographers and dancers who have studied Buto or been influenced by it. This is the result of an expansive approach to the natural world and the physical implications of the fact that the distant roots of the Finnish people who make up most of the population live in Asia. I’d say “Pippis!” to that as a South Asian.
For instance, the approach to nudity that has resulted from Finland’s sauna culture, which is an integral part of Finnish life, is completely different from that of other European countries and even its neighbour Sweden. For the Finnish, nudity is neither implicative of the taboos of sexuality or the diametrically opposed concepts of utopia but simply a natural state that is part of daily life. This fact further deepens the interest in Buto as a form of dance that examines the truths of the body, and the darker sides of life, and seeks to encompass expressions of ailment and death as a part of dance. Dance does not necessarily have to be artificial and aesthetic at all times. In contemporary times we have the Riverdance, Bollywood dancing, Bolshoi or Royal Ballet, in which the body plays a dominant role but the emphasis is on the footwork and a minimum of facial expressions that are used to display the emotions. Not so in Boto performances.
The artistic director of the previously mentioned Kuopio Dance Festival from 1993 to 98, the Asian arts researcher Jukka O. Miettinen, was one of the first to take an interest in Buto and play an active role in introducing Buto artists Carlotta Ikeda, Ko Murobushi, Kazuo Ohno, Sankaijuku and Anzu Furukawa: The festival did help establish an audience for Buto in Finnland.
Among the front-line dancers and choreographers in Finland are a number who have journeyed to Japan to study Buto. Tero Saarinen, who performed as a dancer for the Finland National Ballet Company, before forming his own Tero Saarinen & Company, studied Buto for a year in Tokyo at the Kazuo Ohno Dance Studio. And, Arja Raatikainen and Ari Tenhula also studied under Ohno and Anzu Furukawa.
Other Buto artists who have visited and worked in Finland include Masaki Iwana, but the influence of the late Anzu Furukawa who visited Finnland numerous times. and gave many workshops, was especially strong. After performing with Dairakudakan, Furukawa formed Dance Love Machine with Tetsuro Tamura. Later she moved to Germany and continued her activities based in Europe, forming a multinational dance group called Dance Butter Tokio. The reason for her popularity was probably the wild dance theatre type composition of her works that made use of unexpected or comic twists and the exaggerated deformé type body movement that connected in some ways to German expressionist dance.
In an e-mail posted by Chikashi Furukawa, Anzu's 'little boy' brother dated October 23rd you could read: "I am sorry to inform you that Anzu passed away early this morning. She had been sleeping for more than 30 hours and stopped breathing in peace with her two lovely children holding her hands. She danced at Freiburg New Dance Festival only 20 days ago. In my memory, Anzu was and is always a 'little girl in an oversized dress'. She ran through all of us in such a hurry."

2008-05-19T02:20:00.000-07:00

Goethe: A Writer of the First Rank (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)
Johann Wolfgang Goethe, who was lifted to nobility as J. W.von Goethe in 1782, was born on August 28, 1749 in the town of Frankfurt. The Goethes lived in a large, comfortable house in the Hirschgasse, now called Goethe Haus. Besides practical, scientific and autobiographical writings, he left behind more than 15,000 letters, diaries relating to the 52 years of his life and also countless conversational writings of people he’d met.
Even though Goethe’s work is fragmentary in general, it reveals the essence of his literary genius. Goethe himself said: ‘Alle meine Werke sind Bruchstücke einer großen Konfession.’
He remains to date one of the most original and powerful German lyric poets and his Faust is no doubt a work of inexhaustible ambiguity and wonderful poetry.
The atmosphere that was evident in his parent’s home was that of the educated and their lifestyle in those days, and through his writings we get an exact idea of the Zeitgeist of Goethe’s days. He held the town of his birth in high esteem for it was the environment and intellectual background of his youthful development. Young Goethe loved to lose himself in the crowd around the Dome or in the Roman hill (Römerberg), which he always remembered as a fine place to go for a walk.
The closest relationship of his youth was his sister Cornelia, who sadly enough died at the age of 27. Asked about the influence of his parents on him, Goethe summed it this way:
From father I have the stature,
To lead an earnest life.
From mother the good nature,
And the joy of story-telling.
Goethe was taught by house-teachers. After learning the old languages, he started learning French, English and Hebrew. At the age of 10 he read Aesop, Homer, Vergil, Ovid and also the German folks-books. Besides education in humanities and science, he was also taught religion, which was determined by the dominating explanatory issue of Lutherdom in Frankfurt.
The big earthquake in Lissabon in 1755 was important for the development of Goethe’s mind, as it went into history as one of the greatest natural catastrophies of the century. Besides these natural calamities there were also religious and historical movements which left a deep impression in Goethe’s mind, for example the Seven-Years War between Prussia and Austria wherein he saw the consequences of the general political situation in his own life. Another important event during the occupation of Frankfurt by Napoleon’s troops was his fascination for a troupe of French actors, who’s shows he was allowed to visit regularly. That was the awakening in Goethe of his interest for theatre, and which had been sparked earlier in his life through a puppet-stage (Puppenbühne) and which can be seen in some scenes from ‘Wilhelm Meister’s Theaterical Shows.’
At the age of 16 Goethe was prepared for his academic studies. His father wanted him to study law in Leipzig. This was a city known for its trade, commerce, rich people in a wealthy epoche, and was filled with the spirit of Rokoko. Although Leipzig made a lasting impression on Goethe, he found the lectures on law rather boring. Nevertheless, the town of Leipzig brought to Goethe his passion for Anna Katherina, the daughter of a man who owned an inn, where he used to eat lunch since 1766.
In his first completed play ‘The Whims of a Lover’ (Laune des Verliebten) which is based on the times of the Rokoko (Schäferstücke), he drew his own glowing passion. It was his inner desire to put into poetry the themes that were burning within him. In March 1770 Goethe arrived in Strassburg to complete his university studies in law.
Like in Leipzig, Goethe found friends in Strassburg. One of the most important events was his meeting with Herder, who due to his eye-disease was obliged to stay in Strassburg for a couple of months. Here’s what Goethe said about Herder: “Since his conversations were important at all times, he used to ask, reply or express himself in another way, and in this manner I had to express myself in new ways and new views, almost every hour.” It was Herder who brought Goethe to the immeasureability of Shakespeare, told him about Ossian and Pindar, and opened his vision for Volkspoetry. Influenced by Herder’s appreciation of Shakespeare’s genius, he wrote at speed a pseudo-Shakespearean tragedy called: “Geschichte Gottfrieds von Berlichingen.” This was so ill-received by Herder that he put it aside.
Shortly after his return from Strassburg, he turned 22 and started working as a lawyer at the Frankfurter Schöffengericht. Goethe couldn’t care less about the traditions of the citizens in Leipzig and his relatives, his parents’ home. As a lawyer in the courtrooms he had to suffer a bit due to his strange way of putting proceedings to paper, and gradually he began to write farces and parodies about well-known authors of his times and railed upon his own friends, took interest in Alchemy experiments and sought out open-minded literary circles of Frankfurt and in his neighbourhood.
At 24 Goethe was already a well-known author of Germany. No other time in Goethe’s life was filled with prolific poetic works than in this period in Frankfurt. The time before and after his work ‘Werther’ was not only a time of multiple literary production, but also a period in which he spent a lot of time on seeking answers for questions on religion.
The last Frankfurter year (1775) brought Goethe another year of passionate love in the form of Lili Schönemann, a 16 year old daughter of a Frankfurter trader. He experienced one of the most exciting and happiest times in his life. Alas, Goethe drifted between his love for Lili and the feeling that he’d settled for a happiness at home wouldn’t be enough for him. An episode from outside helped him to bear and make the separation from Lili possible.
On November 7, 1775 Goethe came to Weimar, which was in those days a town with a population of 6000. In July 1776 Goethe joined the state service formally as its Secret Legislations Council. Goethe’s new position in the Geheim Konsil brought him soon enough in contact with almost all the pre-commissions of the state-administration.
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In 1779 he was appointed the War Commissioner and was responsible for the 500 soldiers of the state. Three years later he had the Chamber under him and became the highest financial administrator. Through his participation in the reading-evenings, redouts and other functions at the court and its high and snobbish society, the events became rather extravagant. And through Goethe’s presence and mediation Weimar gained importance.
However, it was the serene, tempered lady-in-waiting (Hofdame) Charlotte von Stein, a cold beauty, who was unhappily married, who gained more influence on Goethe. From the first moment they met, she reminded Goethe of his sister Cornelia, and he felt drawn to her. In the years to come Goethe couldn’t do without her clear, mature way of doing things. He called her ‘the serene,’ an angel, even a Madonna. A friendship of kindred souls began, which was a puzzle to Goethe himself. It was in these Weimar years that Goethe wrote poems such as: Harzreise im Winter, An den Mond, Gesang der Geister über den Wassern, Wanderer, Nachtlied and so forth. Moreover, many of his songs and poems were set to music by composers ranging from Mozart and Frederik Schubert to Othmar Schoeck (1886-1957). Under the influence of Charlotte von Stein began a decisive change within Goethe. It was during this period in the months of February and March 1779, when he had to go to different places of the Dukedom to recruit soldiers, to keep an eye on them, to inspect the conditions of the roads, that he wrote the first edition of ‘Iphigenie and Taurus.’ This drama became the mirror of his search for purity. The period after ‘Iphigenie’ was penned in 1779 was a phase in the inner development of Goethe’s life, till he travelled to Italy. Goethe became not only confident as an administrator but also improved the purity and quality of his verses.
The more prosaic he became in his daily duties, the more he endeavoured to bring a sense of order and system in all what he did. In addition to the completion of Iphigenie, he also started ‘Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre,’ wrote the concept for ‘Tasso’ and some parts of his ‘Faust.’ These were the fruits of lyrical productions. And just before his Italian journey, he did extensive studies in the natural sciences. His activities at the University of Jena brought him in intensive contact with comparative anatomy. In those days there was a conception regarding the original form and relationship between all living beings, and he proved the existence of the ‘Zwischenkieferknochen’ in humans, which was thought to be known only in the animal world. Goethe showed the biological development of living beings almost 100 years ahead of Charles Darwin.
Goethe’s interest in natural science showed him how his career in the state service brought him away from things he most cherished to do. So he decided on the tenth year of his period in Weimar that he had to break up his service. After arranging his farewell from the state service and personal matters, he asked the Duke for a prolonged leave. He left abruptly, like in 1772 in Wetzlar and 1775 in Frankfurt, as though he was fleeing from something. Even in the presence of Duke and Charlotte von Stein he didn’t utter a word about his concrete plans. He embarked upon the biggest journey to Italy after a short spa sojourn in Böhmen (Bohemia).
After a week-long ride in a coach he reached bella Italia. The first stop was in Rome, where Goethe stayed for four months. It had always been the middle point of his life to study the works of art history in Rome He went to the theatre and attended court cases, watched processions, took part in church festivals, and towards February 1788 even visited the Carnival in Rome. He expanded his knowledge of art history systematically. Goethe found it difficult to say adieu to Rome. The return to Germany was disappointing for Goethe and he felt isolated. Goethe’s record of his journey to Italy (Italienische Reise) appeared in 1816-17. Instead of the Weimar politicians and administrators, Goethe sought to fraternise with professors of the Weimar University. He met Schiller often.
Goethe found a new love: Christiane Vulpius, a handsome woman of lower rank who became his mistress, and with whom he had five children, but only one survived, his first son August, born in 1789. Goethe put his energy in the Weimar Court Theatre, founded in 1791, and developed it within a few years to one of the most famous German stages. Goethe’s loss of Rome was compensated to some extent by his meetings with Schiller, which did him good. Out of the first meeting with Schiller developed an intensive exchange of thoughts in spoken word and writing that was of mutual benefit for both. It was based on their common classicism and on their conviction of the central function of art in human affairs. Goethe’s epic poem ‘Hermann und Dorothea’ (1779) was well received.
Goethe was instrumental in changing Schiller’s tendency to go to extremes, and his habit of indulging in philosophical speculations.
On the other hand, Schiller brought back Goethe from his scientific studies to literature and poetic production. In 1797 Schiller stimulated Goethe to carry on with Faust and it preoccupied him for the next nine years. Part One appeared in 1808, Part Two in 1832. Goethe didn’t stand near Schiller since 1794 and two long journeys to Weimar took him away from his intellectual friend, and in the year 1805 Schiller passed away. Schiller’s death in 1805 coincided with the end of Goethe’s classical phase. After Schiller’s demise, Goethe saw an epoche of his life disappearing. He tried to struggle against the uncertainty of time by concentrating and delving into his own work. Without the regular intellectual argumentation that the company of Schiller brought to Goethe, he felt politically isolated through his distance towards the anti-Napoleon attitude of the public and started living like a recluse.
I
In 1806 war broke out between France and Prussia and the decisive battle was fought at Jena and French soldiers who occupied Weimar broke into Goethe’s house. Goethe believed tristiane had saved his life from the French marauders. He married her a few days later. Goethe met Napoeon at Erfurt and Weimar in 1808. The Bastille was stormed when Goethe was 39. In 1809 he wrote the subtle and problematic novel: Die Wahlverwandschaften in which the interrelations of two couples are described.
Besides working for the hat Chance. Soldiers who occupied b Science Institutes of the University, he also carried forth botanical studies. The last two decades in Goethe’s life were devoted not to outer happenings but daily routine work.
A key towards understanding Goethe’s various interests was his conception of human existence as a ceaseless struggle to make use of time at one’s disposal. Despite such intensive devotion to his writings, the ageing Goethe didn’t remain so isolated from his environment as he’d done in his younger years. Since he was seldom out of Weimar, he opened his house for the world. It is interesting to note that among his many visitors were not many poets and writers but more Nature researchers and art historians, discoverers who travelled, educators and politicians. The innermost circle around Goethe was his own family.
In order to avoid the pompous celebration of his 82nd birthday, Goethe left Weimar in August 1831 for the last time.
The most meaningful work of poetry in the German language, Goethe’s tragedy Faust, took a long time to develop. Goethe wrote his Faust almost a life long, and before him were writers who worked on the material. According to his own memories Goethe played with the thought of writing a Faust-drama even during his Strassburger student days. Perhaps the most important aspect of tragedy of Goethe is that these twists and turns took place not only in the outside world but also in the soul of Doctor Faustus.
Despite the colourful scenes and the manifold happenings, Goethe’s Faust remains a drama of the soul, with a chain of inner experiences, struggles and doubts. Among his best works was Novelle, started thirty years ago. Goethe worked away at the last volume of Dichtung und Wahrheit and at Faust II which he finished before his death.
On March 22,1832 at 11:30 in the morning Goethe died at the age of 82, the last universal man and the most documented creative writer.
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Johann Peter Eckmann saw the deceased on the following day and said: “Stretched on his back, lay he like someone sleeping. Profound peace and fastness were to be seen in the eyes of his noble face. The mightiest forehead seemed still to be thinking…”

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2008-04-14T02:22:00.001-07:00

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2008-02-10T14:09:00.000-08:00

Morgenstraich: Switzerland’s Famous Carnival (Satis Shroff)

Switzerland’s famous carnival, the Morgenstraich, began on Monday morning at 4am, and is a world attraction with its magical atmosphere. The official lights of this cultural town went out and suddenly artistically decorated, self-made lanterns began to glow in the darkness that had enveloped Switzerland’s second biggest city.

The cliques of the Basler Fastnacht were gathered in their individual costumes in the narrow cobbled alleys of the olde historical town. Just before the signal was given, the motley clad people donned their outsized masks (Larven) and stood in formation like infanterists out to conquer a town, not with muskets but music. You hold your breath for a second in the darkness, even though you know that Basle vibrates with life.

Someone shouted at the top of his voice: “Morgenstraich, forwards march!” The people began to move to the melody of drums and piccolo flutes. If you didn’t want to lose contact with your near and dear ones you had to catch hands lest they be lost in the crowd. The piccolo flutes with their shrill notes are characteristic of Basle.

In the three days that follow there’s an outburst of colour, grotesque masks, music and satirical comments that are distributed on long strips of coloured paper along with tons of confetti and goodies for all and sundry. The people of Basle do it perfection, painstaking creativity and you can sense the dedication behind the celebrations.

The Rhine town vibrates to the music of the Fastnacht for three days and nights till Thursday at 3:59 according to Swiss time. The celebrations have an air of joy combined with disciplined behaviour, especially among the members of the Swiss cliques, where they see to it that no clique members starts dancing out of the disciplined formation. It is indeed the biggest flute concert in the world along the cobbled old town as they go about with their piccolos and drums---peacefully and traditionally. There’s none of the noisy ‘Narri, narro, helau’ that you hear and get to see on the German side of the Rhine.

And when you’re tired of walking around in the cold, cobbled streets of Basle, you enter one of the Altstadt Cafes where you can eat the traditional brown Mehlsuppe (flour-soup) with white Swiss wine and round onion and cheese cakes.

The Basler Fasnacht is regarded this year as an ideal chance to integrate foreign youth in the cliques, since they live in the town and their parents work who are migrants work in the area. Thomas Kessler, a guy from Zürich, who’s an admirer of the Basler Fastnacht, is also the chief of the ‘Integration Basle’ of the Security Department. He has integrated the second generation of migrant youth into the cliques because they need new members to carry out the Swiss tradition. The number of Swiss nationals taking part in the Basler Fastnacht has gone down to 20 per cent but a lot of children of the foreigners living in Basle and its suburbs take delight in the celebration and join the cliques when they reach their teens. To this effect the cliques have distributed flyers in nine languages in Basle’s schools. More and more Turks, who are actually Moslems, have been buying Fastnacht costumes for their kids so that their children have a sense of belonging to Basle’s Fastnacht tradition, which in turn is a Catholic festival. When it comes to the Basler Fastnacht, the boundaries between culture, religion and tradition seem to disappear. What counts is: do in Basle as the Basler do, namely celebrate Morgenstraich in this world-open city. And the Basler are an exuberant, fun-loving folk. Celebrating the Morgenstraich can be infectious and visitors are known to come again and again. Like yours truly for instance.

In the pre-Fastnacht days there are a lot of events in the theatres with the many cliques carrying names like: Barfiessler (barefoot), drummeli (drums) for music lovers, Pfyfferli for the friends of theatre, Mimosli for people who’re jolly, Zofinger-conzärtli for two finger concerts, which is meant for insiders, Drufftaggt for those who’d like to experiment, and the Charivari at the Volkshaus, which was originally created as an alternative to the Drummli and which was visited by Miss Switzerland Claudia Wambululu, and naturally a children’s Charivari version for the kiddies at the Theatre Basle, in which a certain Frau Fastnacht wants to do away with the Fastnacht celebrations, because she thinks that the children only think about the forthcoming Euro 08. The list of the pre-Fastnacht events seem to be longer each year.

The taverns, inns and restaurants are open all the time for the next 72 hours. The three beautiful days are called ‘drey scheenste Dääg’ in Schwyzer Deutsch. You can google or yahoo for these celebrations and events till Thursday in the internet under: http://fastnacht.ch/.

Gruezi Miteinander. Cherrio.

2008-02-04T00:21:00.000-08:00

Fastnachtzeit in Friburg (Germany) and Basle (Switzerland) (Satis Shroff)

When we cry ‘Narri, Narro!’in Freiburg, they rejoice in Cologne, Mainz and Düsseldorf, for it is carnival-time. And the German and Swiss TV channels have mostly carnivals on their screens. But most of the people, young and old, are out in the streets of their towns and enjoying themselves with merry-making and repitition of Fasnet slogans.

In Freiburg there were the usual shoppers and pedestrians between the Kaiser-Joseph street and the town council (Rathaus) and small costumed kids dubbed “the Eckeplätzer” came with flutes, trumpets and drums what the Germans and Swiss are wont to call ‘Guggemusic.’ The knaves shouted ‘Narri, Narro’ on top of their voices, and the onlookers were treated with long red sausages, crepe,` Flammkuchen, a speciality with cheese and bacon from Alsace and, of course, American doughnuts introduced by the occupation GIs.

This was followed by the big procession of the Badische knaves organisation in the third meeting of the knaves (Narren) with 10,000 participants and many other Freiburger knaves, witches, ghoulish figures as the highlight of the Fasnet celebrations.

On Rose-Monday you are awakened the Wühlmäuse, people masked and costumed as moles at 7:30 am, and a bit later at 8:11 your are startled by the cries of the Ribblinghieler. On February 5, which is called the Fasnet-Zischdig, the celebrations come to an end, like in Tiengen where the decorated Fasnet tree is pulled down , followed by the burial of Ignaz at the Tuniberg house. The Fasnets-burning takes place at 12 o’clock in the night, which symbolises the end of the days of fasting. And on Ash Wednesday the purses and wallets are washed in front of the Freiburger town council building (Rathaus). This tradition demands that empty wallets and purses be immersed in the water of the Freiburger Bächle because till the next year the water of the Bächle is expected to turn into currency notes. What a wonderful Allemanic belief, isn’t it? And they say, if you are a stranger and fall into the Freiburger Bächle (small water-canal), which runs through the city, then you are obliged to marry a Freiburger damsel. I must admit it happened to me, and I wouldn’t change this Allemanic damsel for another. Great customs and beliefs, don’t you think so?

I like it in these times of Fasnet when people are merry, sociable, laughing and there’s a lot of clownery and no seriousness, because life is earnest enough, provided there’s not much alcohol, alcopops involved.

In the Black Forest town of Wolfach the people come out at 5:30 in the morning costumed Narren figures come wearing white night gowns, long caps and white stockings like out of a Carl Spitzberg oil painting. The people of Wolfach are woken up by a lot of noise-making using trumpets, trombones, flutes, drums and in the afternoon there’s a jolly big procession. The Germans and the Swiss like it loud with brass-bands, samba dancing, percussions-on-wheels, Gugge-music and a lot of oomph.

The Fasnet Monday begins in Rottweil at 8am with a four-hour ‘springing-of-the-knaves’ (Narrensprung). Thousands of classical costumed Narren figures come through the old gate of Rottweil and scatter themselves everywhere in the olde town historical town. The Rottweiler do it with style. In Munderking there’s a fountain around which the knaves dance at first before jumping three times into the icy waters of the fountain. They strengthen themselves with a swig of hot wine.

The highlight of the Fasnet Sunday is in Elzach at 8pm when the torch procession takes place. The torches are lit and the famous and notorious Schuddig, with his inflated pig’s bladder dangling from a stick with which he clobbers the teasing onlookers, walks along this Black Forest town---which is immersed in a ghostly light.

Swiss Fastnacht: It must be mentioned that last year’s Fastnacht celebration in Basle (Switzerland) was marred by the death of a boy, who was eagerly collecting goodies in the street and he was crushed by a procession wagon. This year the security committee has promised to be stricter so that such accidents don’t occur again. 12,000 active members of the Swiss Fastnacht will be taking part in the street parades, and this year 485 groups will be walking, dancing or driving by distributing sweets, chocolates, flying kisses and bombarding the spectators with confetti cannons to the sound of reggae, hip hop, salsa, samba, techno and other rhythms. There will be around 100 sujets or themes, a few of which are listed here: the noise-tolerance of the Basler citizens, littering (the Swiss want to keep their country clean), SVP, a political party, women and gendering, Euro 08 and global climate-problems with Swiss undertones.

You can hear the noisy Guggen music again in Lucern, the monsters dance and quite a few Luzerner are high on alcohol and sway around the sidewalks. Fastnacht, the nights of fasting, have begun in catholic Switzerland. A big bang opens the Narrenzeit with 12,000 early risers, which is 2000 more than last year, and the ‘most beautiful week of the year’ begins. No one is spared in the week of merry-making, satire and lampoonery, not even the politicians, with all their misdeeds of the past year. In traditional Luzern a person named Brother Fritschi get kidnapped and jailed in the town council hall by costumed Swiss soldiers. 500 years ago the Basler stole Luzern’s Fasnacht figure of identification, and the two Swiss cities re-enact the spectacle from those days. Brother Fritschi is put in chains for half a year, till he is kidnapped by the Basler.

On the day of Basle’s Morgenstraich, when the lights go out, people in the streets hold hands and celebrate the traditional Fastnacht, Brother Fritschi and Frau Basilea are invited as the guests of honour by the local government and peer at the Basler Fastnacht procession from the terrace of the town council.

After the long Morgenstraich, I love to have the traditional Basler Mehlsuppe (flour soup), croissant and coffee. You ought to try it too. I personally prefer the Swiss Fasnet to the German one because it’s well-organised, and when the lights go out at 5am in Switzerland’s second biggest city Basle, there’s an eerie atmosphere when the drums begin to beat, followed by the shrill and high sound of the typical piccolo flutes. When the sun shines you see isolated, masked piccolo flute players in their colourful costumes in different parts of the Swiss town playing on their flutes---oblivious of the world.

2007-12-15T03:43:00.001-08:00

Longing for the Himalayas (Lulu.com)
von Satis Shroff
"Longing for the Himalayas" is an art collection that the multi-published lecturer, poet and writer Satis Shroff has painted. The paintings have appeared in his blogs for his poems and articles. He writes about the Sehnsucht or longing for the Himalayas in his lyrics.Anfangsdatum: January 1st, 2008Dauer: 12 Monate(26 Seiten) Kalender: €14.09

2007-12-12T07:48:00.000-08:00

Calender and three books by the author on http://www.lulu.com/:

Longing for the Himalayas
by Satis Shroff
"Longing for the Himalayas" is an art collection that the multi-published lecturer, poet and writer Satis Shroff has painted. The paintings have appeared in his many blogs for his poems and articles. He writes about the Sehnsucht or longing for the Himalayas in his lyrics. Start Date: January 1st, 2008 Duration: 12 months(26 pages) Calendar: €14.09

Katmandu, Katmandu
by Satis Shroff
Satis Shroff’s anthology is about a poet caught between upheavals in two countries, Nepal and Germany, where maoists and skin-heads are trying to undermine democratic values, religious and cultural life. Satis Shroff writes political poetry, in German and English, about the war in Nepal (My Nepal, Quo vadis?), the sad fate of the Nepalese people (My Nightmare, Only Sagarmatha Knows), the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany (Mental Molotovs, The Last Tram to Littenweiler) and love (The Broken Poet, Without Words, About You), women’s woes (Nirmala, Bombay Brothel). His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political and social terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.(187 pages)
Paperback: €13.84 Download: €6.25

Through Nepalese Eyes
by Satis Shroff
‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ is about the journey of a young Nepalese woman to Germany to meet her brother, who lives with his German wife and daughter in an allemanic town named Freiburg. It is a travelogue written by a sensitive, modern British public-school educated man. He describes the two worlds: Asia and Europe and the people he meets. There is a touch of sadness when his sister returns to her home in the foothills of the Himalayas.(205 pages) Paperback: €12.00 Download: €6.25

Im Schatten des Himalaya
by Satis Shroff
Themen der Geschichten und Gedichten sind u.a.: Kampf um Demokratie (My Nepal: Quo vadis?), Transition (Wenn die Seele sich verabschiedet), und die Stellung der Frau (Bombay Bordel, Nirmala: Zwischen Terror und Ekstase), die verführerische Bergwelt (Die Himalaya rufen, Die Sehnsucht der Himalaya), das Leben in der Fremde (Gibt es Hexen in Deutschland?), Soldatenleben und Krieg (Der Verlust einer Mutter, Die Agonie des Krieges, Kein letzte Sieg), Tod nach Tollwut (Fatale Entscheidung), Trennung und Emanzipation (Santa Fe), Migration und Fremdenhass (Mental Molotovs, Letzte Tram nach Littenweiler), Tourismus (Mein Alptraum, Die Götter sind weg), Alkoholismus (Der Professors Gattin), Gewalt (Krieg), Trennung (Die Stimme, Der Rosenkrieg), Nachbarn (Die Sommerhitze) und die Liebe (Der zerbrochene Dichter, Eine seufzende Prinzessin, Ohne Wörter), die Familie (Meine Maya), der Tod (An Carolin Walter, Wenn die Seele Abschied nimmt).
(87 pages) Paperback: €11.84 Download: €6.25

2007-12-10T00:56:00.001-08:00

Ethnic Self-help in Nepal's Development (Satis Shroff)

Kulturspezifische ethnische Self-help in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

Das Prinzip der Hilfe zur Selbsthilfe hat eine emanzipatorische und eine restriktive Seite. Es unterstreicht die anthropologische Annahme, daß Menschen in der Lage sind, ihr Leben in eigener Bestimmung und Verantwortung zu gestalten. Die Betonung von Selbsthilfe (Selbstorganisation) kann einerseits als Warnung vor staatlicher Bevormundung verstanden werden, andererseits kann sie als Rechtfertigung staatlicher Untätigkeit in strukturellen Krisensituationen benutzt werden. Selbsthilfegruppen in Nepal sind kulturspezifisch. Messerschmidt1 schreibt: „Die Idee von kleinen Gruppen von Verbrauchern, die als Nachbarfamilien zusammenarbeiten, produktive Aktivitäten gestalten, gemeinsames Landmanagement oder öffentliche Arbeitsentwicklungen sind eine gut etablitierte Tradition in Nepal.“

Der Entwicklungswerker könnte auch hier tätig werden mit ergänzender Schuldner- bzw. vernünftiger Finanzberatung und sozialen, psychosozialen Beratungs- und Betreuungsangeboten. Solche ergänzende Hilfen sind sehr wichtig für die einfachen, ungebildeten ländlichen Einwohner Nepals. Eines der Prinzipien der Entwicklungshilfe sagt, man solle „dort anfangen, wo der Klient steht.“ In den beratenden und helfenden Angeboten kann der Entwicklungswerker nicht über die Geisteshaltung des Klienten hinwegsehen. Die Nichtachtung oder Mißachtung einer soziokulturellen Gegebenheit kann von vornherein die Kommunikation zwischen Entwicklungshelfer, Sozialarbeiter (NGO-Experte, Ärzte, Schwestern, Pflegepersonal) verkümmern lassen. Auf die erkannte Fähigkeit des Klienten zu vertrauen, sein Selbstwertgefühl zu stärken und ihn ein Weg zur Selbsthilfe sein, ist die Aufgabe des Entwicklungshelfers.

Es wäre wichtig, solche traditionellen2 Organisationsformen zu unterstützen und zu fördern, damit die Ethnien in Nepal davon lernen und profitieren können. Denn es ist höchste Zeit, daß den ländlichen Armen,3 die seit Jahrhunderten von den höheren Kastenangehörigen sozial,-, kulturell, politisch und wirtschaftlich dominiert, unterdrückt und benachteiligt worden sind, endlich geholfen wird, auf eigenen Füßen zu stehen. Dieses Ziel wäre durch die Re-vitalisierung der induzierten Selbsthilfegruppen in den verschiedenen Ethnien zu erreichen.

Die GTZ RRD4 Projekte haben in der Vergangenheit gezeigt, daß die induzierten Selbsthilfe organisationen durchaus funktionieren. Hinzu kommen die einheimischen intraethnischen Selbsthilfeorganisationsformen, die jahrzehntelang erfolgreich eingeführt worden sind. Die ländlichen Bewohner Nepals sind familiär mit kurzfristigen oder wenig permanenten Selbsthilfegruppen, die für verschiedene Zwecke zusammengestellt werden. Zum Beispiel:
Landwirtschaftliche Selbsthilfegruppen wie kulobanaune (irrigation channel maintenance Gruppe), mal bokne (Düngeträger), khetala (Feldarbeitern), ropahar (Pflanzer von Getreiden), hali (Pflüger/Bauer), parma (Gruppenarbeitsaustausch Gemeinschaft) und gothalo (Schäfer).
Forstwirtschaftselbsthilfegruppen wie bana djane (Waldarbeiter), ghas katne (Grassschneider), pat tipne (Futtersammler), und daura tipne (Feuerholzsammler).

Soziokulturelle Selbsthilfegruppen wie guthi (bei den Newars vom Katmandutal), rodi (Kommunale Gruppe von den Gurungs) und bheja (kommunale Gemeinschaft).
Religiöse Selbsthilfegruppe wie kirtan-bhajan mandali (Hymne bzw. Gesangsgruppe).
Politische Selbsthilfegruppe wie die canton ko bhaladmi (ehrenhafte Gentlemen des Cantons) und dharma canton (örtlicher Rat).

Andere, auf der kommunalen Ebene auch wichtige Organisationsformen in Nepal sind: die dhikuri vom Thakalistamm, wobei es um freiwillige Rotations-Kredit-Gemeinschaften geht; die Guthisysteme von den Newars (hier handelt es sich um kommunale Tempel und Land „tenure“ Gemeinschaften; die parma/nogar/pareli/porima (Gruppenarbeitstauschkooperativen); Baglungs Hängebrücke (suspension bridge) Baubewegung; chhatis maudja Kommunale Irrigation Organisation. Manche Organisationen scheinen formell zu sein, aber strukturell sind sie informell. Manche sind kasten- bzw. ethnien-bezogen, und andere sind weit verbreitet in ganz Nepal. Bhattachan5 meint, dass „obwohl die dhikuri, parma und guthi in der Natur ad hoc sind, sind sie dennoch sehr beständig, produktiv und lohnend für die Mitglieder.“

Des weiteren stellen verschiedene Projekte und Initiativen in eigener Trägerschaft ein Beratungsfeld für Entwicklungshelfer dar, wie die Strassenkinder von Katmandu und die Slumarbeit im Sinne von Mutter Theresas Orden in Kalkutta. Solche NGOs suchen auch die Zusammenarbeit mit Entwicklungshilfeinstitutionen (wie UNDP, GTZ, DED, Helvetas, OXFAM etc.) damit gute Kooperation entstehen kann.

Deutsche Regierungsorganisationen (GOs und NGOs 6) in Nepal: Dem Gesundheitssektor Nepals wird allgemein bei der Entwicklungszusammenarbeit ein hoher Stellenwert eingeräumt. Dies drückt sich nicht zuletzt darin aus, daß viele Organisationen und Einrichtungen sich in diesem Sektor engagieren. Neben den multilateralen Organisationen wie Weltbank, WHO, UNICEF, UNFPA etc. ist vor allem das britische DFID (Department for International Development) stark in Nepal vertreten.

Der Gesundheitssektor stellt einen Schwerpunktsektor der deutschen7 Entwicklungszusammenarbeit mit Nepal dar. Gegenwärtig werden folgende Vorhaben in Nepal gefördert:

Primary Health Care Project (PHC): Dieses Vorhaben hat die Stärkung der zentralen Programm-Planung und -Steuerung im Gesundheitsministerium, Verbesserungen der Aus- und Weiterbildung des Gesundheitspersonals sowie die Entwicklung von dezentralisierten Gesundheits- und Familienplanungssystemen zum Gegenstand. Das Projekt existiert seit 1994, und die Planung reicht bis weit in das nächste Jahrhundert.

Im Frühjahr 1998 werden zwei weitere durch die GTZ geförderte Projekte beginnen. Zum einen das Vorhaben Reproduktive Gesundheit, welches darauf abzielt, daß Frauen, Männer und Jugendliche verstärkt die Möglichkeit nutzen, vorbeugende, gesundheitsfördernde und kurative Praktiken im Bereich reproduktiver Gesundheitsförderung anzuwenden. Desweiteren ist das Projekt Instandhaltung im Gesundheitswesen geplant, das eine Verbesserung des administrativen Instandhaltungssystems sowie die Verbesserung des Zustandes medizinischer Geräte und Ausrüstungsgegenstände in Gesundheitseinrichtungen zum Inhalt hat.

Bis neulich hatten 93% von Nepals Einwohner keine Möglichkeit Gesundheitsfürsorge zu erhalten. Im Jahre 1991 hat die nepalesische Regierung eine „New Health Policy“ verabschiedet, wobei 4000 Sub Health Posts (SHPs) eingeführt werden sollen, um eine primäre Gesundheitsfürsorge zu fördern. Dieses Programm wird von GTZ (beratende Funktion) und KfW (zuständig für die Ausrüstung und Medikamente mit 10 Mio DM Kapital) unterstützt. Die Idee ist, ein neues und landesweites Netzwerk von Sub Health Posts zu errichten. Die Dörfer sollen die SHPs selbst unterstützen. Seit 1991 sind viele Nepalis im Gesundheitsbereich trainiert worden und jedes Jahr werden 500 SHPs eröffnet. Die Träger dieses Projektes sind: Die japanische Regierung, UNICEF, Nippon Foundation und die deutsche Kreditanstalt für Wiederaufbau (KfW).

NGOs: Als Konkurrenz zu Nepals Ministerien oder als Ergänzung? „Es gibt zu viel Konkurrenzdenken unter den Geldgeber-Nationen und somit ist jede Kooperation gescheitert“ schreibt einst Toni Hagen (Schweiz9). Der Nepali-Publizist Kanak Mani Dixit fragt: „Die zentrale Frage bei der Vergabe von Entwicklungsgeldern ist, ob die Geber etwas für ihr Geld sehen. Hat die ausländische Finanzhilfe als Katalysator gewirkt, um den Lebensstandard der Bevölkerung zu erhöhen? Hat das Land ein Ziel erreicht, das Nepal auf anderem Weg nicht hätte erreichen können? Die Antwort lautet nein.“

Harka Gurung10 war der Meinung, dass „For environment, population control, women’s development, NGO11 is the latest fag. Home governments don’t like the NGOs because there is too much of paper processing by the immigration department. But the NGOs are the creation of the donor agencies as an alternative mechanism. They say your normal administrative channel never reaches the poor which the NGOs can do. So this is also an imposed idea. But the problem is: How do you coordinate 480 projects and 900 NGOs?“

„Das Geld ausländischer Steuerzahler ist in Nepal verschwendet worden und das, obwohl es zugleich die Energie zur Eigeninitiative für Nepali untergrub“. Dixit ist der Meinung, dass die ausländische Hilfe die in Katmandu ansässigen Eliten des Landes vergiftete und das gesamte Land wie von einer Droge abhängig machte. Hier muß man erwähnen, daß es auch außergewöhnliche Programme seitens der Deutschen oder Schweizer12 gibt, die bescheiden und effektiv darum bemüht sind, das nepalesische Leben zu verbessern. Die meisten Geber konzentrieren ihre Gelder kaum auf die wirklichen Probleme. Die auswärtige Entwicklungshilfe hat die Macht und die Privilegien im Katmandutal zentralisiert. Sie hat die alten Reichen hofiert und unterstützend dazu beigetragen, daß eine Gruppe Neureicher entstand. Die Entwicklungshilfe hat somit ein Abhängigkeitssyndrom13 geschaffen, das sich von der Regierungsebene bis hinunter auf das Dorfniveau erstreckt. Daher erwartet jedermann in Nepal ein Entwicklungshilfeteam, gleichgültig, ob dieses eine Fernstraße bauen oder nur ein paar Setzlinge einpflanzen soll.

In Nepal bildet ein weitverzweigtes Fußwegnetz das Rückgrat jeglicher Kommunikation und Entwicklung. Ab Ende der 50er Jahre setzte Helvetas die ersten Schweizer Ingenieure für Hängebrückenprojekte ein. Nepal verfügt über eine jahrhundertealte Tradition im Bau von Brücken, welche die zahllosen Gewässer überquerten. Wo einfache Holzstege nicht mehr genügten, bauten die nepalesischen Fachleute Hängebrücken mit handgeschmiedeten Ketten. Dennoch konnten breitere Flüsse auf diese Weise nicht überbrückt werden. Die Regierung beauftragte zuerst eine schottische Firma, an verschiedenen Flussübergängen Brücken mittels Kabel zu bauen. Abgestützt auf die von dem Schweizer einstigen Geologen Toni Hagen erarbeiteten Grundlagen entstanden Ende der 50er Jahre unter der Leitung der ersten Helvetas-Fachleute im Marsyandi-Tal, einer wichtigen alten Handelsroute , vier Hängebrücken. Ab 1987 entstand das Konzept des „Brückenbaus auf lokaler Ebene“. Es geht davon aus, daß vielerorts Wissen über die Brückenbau vorhanden ist, daß die Nepalesen im Stande sind, ihre Bedürfnisse zu artikulieren und daß sie wissen, wo sie ihre Brücke haben wollen, und auch daß sie bereit sind; die Verantwortung für die Durchführung eines solches Projektes zu übernehmen und, soweit möglich, eigene Ressourcen zu mobilisieren.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Satis Shroff versteht sich als ein Vermittler zwischen westlicher und östlicher Kultur im schriftstellerischen und poetischen Sinne.

2007-11-26T02:18:00.000-08:00

The Japanese Garden (Satis Shroff)

Nine Hauptschule kids in their teens,
Sit on benches in the Japanese Garden,
Near the placid, torquoise lake.

The homework is done sloppily.
Who cares?
The boys are bursting with hormones,
As they tease the only blonde from Siberia.

A fat guy named Heino likes the blonde,
But she doesn’t fancy him.
Annäherung, Vermeidung:
A conflict develops.

The teacher tells him in no uncertain terms:
“Lass Sie bitte in Ruhe!”
But Heino with the MP3 doesn’t care
And carries on:
Grasping her breasts,
Caressing her groin.
She puts up a fight to no avail.

Heino is stronger, impertinent,
And full of street rhetoric.
Meanwhile, the other teenies
Are climbing, kicking the Japanese pavilion,
Spitting, cursing shouting
At all and sundry in German.

The grey-haired gardener in charge comes,
Tells the boys to behave
And goes.
Boredom in the afternoon.
The boys don’t want to play soccer,
Handball or basketball.
Sitting around, criticising, irritating each other,
Is cool.

Creative workshops: music, songs, essays, own movies?
Nothing interests them.
Killing time together,
Cursing at each other,
Getting a kick provoking passersby,
This is the Hauptschule in Germany today.

The clever kids go to the Gymnasium,
After the fourth class.
The trouble-makers, aggressive alpha-wolves
And clowns remain in the Hauptschule.
An ironical name for a school,
For Haupt means the ‘main’
Comprising the lower class of the society:
Kids of foreigners, ethnic Germans from the east Bloc,
Who hope to make it somehow,
As apprentices for hair salons, car repair garages,
Kebab shops, Italian restaurants, Balkan kitchens,
Roofers and masons.

The Japanese Garden, a present from Matsuyama
To the people of Freiburg,
With truncated shrubs and rounded trees.
A waterfall and quiet niches,
A place for contemplation and solitude.

For the Hauptschule kids,
A place to get together,
Be loud, grunt, fight with fists, shove, scratch,
Slap, spit everywhere,
And play the gangsta.
“At night they throw empty alcohol bottles
Where ever they like,” says an elderly lady
From the neighbourhood.
Wonder how the kids are in Matsuyama?

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Miscarriage and Sonderschule (Satis Shroff)

“Halt’s Maul, Du Missgeburt!”
Says one to the other.
‘Halt dein Mund, Du Jude!
Ich hasse Juden, Mann!’ barks an obese Hauptschuler.

The others play football in the classroom.
The teacher says emphatically,
‘It’s forbidden to play soccer here!’
They reply in chorus:
‘It doesn’t disturb anybody.’
A grey-blonde teacher barges into the room and says:
‘Leben Sie hier noch?’ to his colleague.
Are you still alive?

Boris has an appointment with the police.
They nabbed him stealing a car.
Nicky quips to Suleika:
‘Du hast einen fetten Arsch!
Gebärfreudige Hintern.’

Albin runs helter skelter,
Settles down on a table,
Chewing gum between his yellow teeth,
Doesn’t like authority.
Hans, Fritz and Bruno do their extra homework,
Meted out as a punishment by the English teacher.

Vitaly throws scissors in the classroom,
Which land with a thud on the cork wall.
Heino is doing his best to disturb the group,
With his loud MP3 music.
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Du Hurensohn!’ he says,
To a fellow classmate.

A Kosovo-kid who’s hyperactive,
Steals and fights at school.
The Germans send him to a Sonderschule.
His father’s proud for ‘sonder’ means ‘special.’
His son is attending an elite school, he thinks,
Only to realise later,
It was a school for difficult children.
A dead-end.
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East Bloc Kid Goes West (Satis Shroff)

A pair of heavy scissors fly
In a dark Hauptschule classroom,
Thrown by an Aussiedler school-kid,
Near Freiburg’s Japanese Garden.

The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
You can be maimed for life,
Like Scarface,
If the sharp ends
Bury in your eyes,
Or mine.

Let there be light.
Vitaly, a boy from the former east Bloc
Comes to the West,
In search of ancestors and heritage.
What he gets is rejection but freedom.
Freedom to do as he pleases,
With pleasant negative sanctions.
‘Even in jail they have TV,’ he says with a laugh.

He grows up in a ghetto,
And his anger burns.
Anger at his ageing parents,
Who forced him to come to the West,
But who are themselves lost in this new world
Of democratic, liberal values,
Luxurious and electronic consumer delights,
Where everyone cares for himself or herself,
Where the old structures of the society
They clung to in the east Bloc days
Don’t exist.

A brave new world,
A Schlaraffenland,
Where economy and commerce flourishes,
Where the individual’s view is important,
To himself,
To herself
And to others.

The East Bloc boy learns
To assert himself in the West,
Not with solid arguments and rhetoric
But with his two fists.
He fancies cars and their contents,
Breaks open the windows,
Takes all he wants.
Brushes with the police
At an early age.

English, Latin and French at school,
Irritates him,
He prefers to play the clown:
To dance on the table,
Make suggestive moves with his groin,
High on designer drugs,
High all the time.
Opens the classroom door,
Sees a girl from the seventh grade,
And yells at her:
‘Nach der Schule fick ich Dich.’
‘Screw you after school.’

His behaviour brings laughter
But he turns off the girls he admires.
He grins and insults his peers.
Rejected by youngsters,
Admonished by grown-ups.
He watches the society.

Chic clothes, streamlined cars, plastic money,
But he forgets that there’s personal performance
Behind these worldly riches.
‘The rich German drives his BMW
With his head in the air.
What does he care?
What does he care?’ thinks Vitaly.

A pair of scissors fly
In a dark classroom.
His pent-up emotions,
Let loose in a German Hauptschool,
Near the Japanese Garden.

His classmate from Croatia
Throws chairs at the another.
‘Aus Spass’ he says.
Just for fun.
He shouts at the Putzfrau,
Who cleans the classrooms:
‘Sie Geistesgestörte!’
You mad woman.
‚My French-cap is XXX’ he sings
And jerks his pelvis at her.

Is the school-system to blame?
Is western culture, tradition
Social, liberal values and norms to blame?
Are his parents who speak a conserved Deutsch to blame?
Is his Russian mother-tongue
And his great Russian soul to blame?

Nobody answers his questions,
Nobody cares,
Out in the West.
“Verdammt, I want to be heard!” screams Vitaly.
The people shake their heads,
Mutter, ‘Ein Spinner!’
And walk away.

A pair of sharp, long scissors
Fly in a dark classroom.
The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.

2007-11-14T00:15:00.000-08:00

Lyrik: Im Schatten des Himalaya (www.Lulu.com)Im Schatten des Himalaya
von Satis Shroff

Themen der Geschichten und Gedichten sind u.a.: Kampf um Demokratie (My Nepal: Quo vadis?), Transition (Wenn die Seele sich verabschiedet), und die Stellung der Frau (Bombay Bordel, Nirmala: Zwischen Terror und Ekstase), die verführerische Bergwelt (Die Himalaya rufen, Die Sehnsucht der Himalaya), das Leben in der Fremde (Gibt es Hexen in Deutschland?), Soldatenleben und Krieg (Der Verlust einer Mutter, Die Agonie des Krieges, Kein letzte Sieg), Tod nach Tollwut (Fatale Entscheidung), Trennung und Emanzipation (Santa Fe), Migration und Fremdenhass (Mental Molotovs, Letzte Tram nach Littenweiler), Tourismus (Mein Alptraum, Die Götter sind weg), Alkoholismus (Der Professors Gattin), Gewalt (Krieg), Trennung (Die Stimme, Der Rosenkrieg), Nachbarn (Die Sommerhitze) und die Liebe (Der zerbrochene Dichter, Eine seufzende Prinzessin, Ohne Wörter), die Familie (Meine Maya), der Tod (An Carolin Walter, Wenn die Seele Abschied nimmt).
(87 Seiten)Paperback: €11.84 Download: €6.25

Wenn man an die Gedichte Nepals des 20. Jahrhunderts denkt, fallen einem Dichter wie: Lekhnath Paudyal,Bhanu Bhakta Acharya,Balkrishna Sama und Lakshmiprasad Devkota in den Sinn. Nepals vielfältige und anspruchsvolle Literatur ist reich an Gedichten, da fast jeder Schriftsteller auch Gedichte schreibt. Das Gedicht hat immer eine besondere Rolle gespielt, weil es als Mittel benutzt wurde, um sozialkritische und politische Fragen in einer Gesellschaft zu postulieren, in der Regierungen Medien zensierten. Zensusfreie Literatur gibt es in Nepal erst seit November 1990 mit der Umwandlung der absoluten Monarchie in eine konstitutionelle Hindu-Monarchie mit demokratischen Grundprinzipien.

Die nepalesische Literatur beschreibt auch die Situation in anderen Himalayastaaten. Die Hochburg der Nepali Literatur findet man in Kathmandu aber auch in Darjeeling, Kurseong, Kalimpong, Assam, Nagaland und Gangtok (Sikkim). Hier gibt es literarische Gesellschaften und jährliche Auszeichnungen für Nepali Schriftsteller und Dichter. Die bekanntesten Preise sind: Royal Nepal Akademie Preis, Tribhuvan Puraskar, Madan Puraskar, Sajha Preis, Nepali Literatur Gesellschaft Preis (Darjeeling), Nepali Akademie Preis (West Bengalen) und Nationale Literatur Akademie Preis (Delhi). Budathoki's Best Nepalese On-line Writer Preis (International Nepali Literature Society, USA).

In seiner Anthologie von Lyrik und Prosa geht es zum Teil um politische Lyrik über den Krieg in Nepal, das traurige Schicksal der nepalesischen Bevölkerung, die Wiederentstehung von Neonazismus in Deutschland, Liebe und Frauenleiden. Seine bikulturelle Perspektive bereichern seine Gedichte, die herzzerreissend und traurig sind. Wenn er von 'Heim' spricht, kehrt er immer wieder zu seinem Herkunftsland und teilt das Schicksal der Nepalesen mit den westlichen Lesern.

Obwohl viele Besucher in Nepal wandern und neue Ideen und Fortschritt auf dem Vormarsch sind, hat sich das Dorfleben nicht verändert und das Kastensystem besteht weiterhin. Nepal hat noch immense politische, sozio-kulturelle- und religiöse- Probleme sowie im Wirtschaftssektor. Die Korruption in allen Sektoren und Schichten der Gesellschaft hat das Vertrauen von Generationen von Nepal erschüttert. Die viel proklamierte konstitutionelle Monarchie und die neue Demokratie haben die Versprechungen nicht einhalten können. Die neue maoistischen und demokratischen Kräfte kämpfen weiterhin auf der politischen Ebene um die Macht. Zwischen 1996 und 2005 haben die Maoisten 4,500 Landsleute getötet und die Royal Nepal Armee und Polizei ebenfalls 8,200 Nepalesen.

Die Zeit hat uns gezeigt, dass es keine schnelle Lösung für die Probleme dieses Landes gibt. Nepals Demokratie muss lernen zu krabbeln bevor sie eigenständig stehen und laufen kann, da sie noch in der Kindheitsphase ist. Die ständige Regierungswechsel und der wachsende Maoismus irritiert Nepals Bevölkerung und die helfenden Nationen. Trotz der 40,000 Nicht-Regierungs Organisationen (NGOs), gehört Nepal immer noch zu den am wenigsten entwickelten Länder der Welt. Da ist etwas schief gegangen in diesem Shangri-la, sonst würden 2000,000 Nepalesen ihre Heime nicht verlassen. Es gibt 1,8 Millionen Asyl Suchende in den Nachbarländern, unter denen sind Nepals Intellektuelle.

Das, was Satis Shroff schreibt ist wichtig aus sozialer und politischer Hinsicht. Er fühlt sich berufen, nepalesische Metaphern zu erfinden und sie an die westlichen Leser durch seine Gedichte weiterzuleiten.

Themen der Geschichten und Gedichten sind u.a.: Kampf um Demokratie (My Nepal: Quo vadis?), Transition (Wenn die Seele sich verabschiedet), und die Stellung der Frau (Bombay Bordel, Nirmala: Zwischen Terror undEkstase), die verführerische Bergwelt (Die Himalaya rufen, Die Sehnsucht der Himalaya), das Leben in der Fremde (Gibt es Hexen in Deutschland?), Soldatenleben und Krieg (Der Verlust einer Mutter, Die Agonie des Krieges, Kein letzte Sieg), Tod nach Tollwut (Fatale Entscheidung), Trennung und Emanzipation (Santa Fe), Migration und Fremdenhass (Mental Molotovs, Letzte Tram nach Littenweiler), Tourismus (MeinAlptraum, Die Götter sind weg), Alkoholismus (Der Professors Gattin), Gewalt (Krieg), Trennung (Die Stimme, Der Rosenkrieg), Nachbarn (Die Sommerhitze) und die Liebe (Der zerbrochene Dichter, Eine seufzende Prinzessin, Ohne Wörter), die Familie (Meine Maya), der Tod (An Carolin Walter, Wenn die Seele Abschied nimmt).

Zum Autor: Satis Shroff ist Dozent,Dichter, Journalist und Schriftsteller. Schule in Darjeelings North Point, Studium der Zoologie und Botanik an der Tribhuvan Universität (Kathmandu). Danach Tätigkeit als Lehrer der Naturwissenschaften an einer englischen Schule in Kathmandu und später Features Editor (The Rising Nepal). Verfasser der "Sprachkunde Nepals" (Horlemann Verlag) und Veröffentlichungen in: The Christian Science Monitor, epd-Entwicklungspolitik, Nepal Information (Köln), Himal Asia, The Rising Nepal, The Independent, Nelles "Nepal", Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India). Er studierte Creative Writing (bei Prof. Bruce Dobler,MFA Universität of Iowa, und Writers Bureau Manchester). Preisträger des DAAD-Preis, Mitglied bei World Poets Society (WPS),Canadian Federation of Poets, PEN Nepal.Der Autor ist sehr aktiv im Internet, wo er verschiedene Blogs betreibt. Er schreibt regelmässig für The American Chronicle (www.amchron.com.) und seine einundzwanzig Zeitungen,www.satisshroff.blogspot.com/ContemporaryWritings,www.satisshroff.blog.ch(Zeitgeistblues), und Gastautor bei www.Boloji.com, The Megaphone.net.

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Katmandu, Katmandu
von Satis Shroff et al(Editor)

Satis Shroff's anthology is about Nepal's poets caught between upheavals in two countries, Nepal and Germany, where maoists and skin-heads are trying to undermine democratic values, religious and cultural life. Satis Shroff writes political poetry, in German and English, about the war in Nepal (My Nepal, Quo vadis?), the sad fate of the Nepalese people (My Nightmare, Only Sagarmatha Knows), the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany (Mental Molotovs, The Last Tram to Littenweiler) and love (The Broken Poet, Without Words, About You), women's woes (Nirmala, Bombay Brothel).

His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing 'home,' he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political and social terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry. (187 Seiten)Paperback: €13.84 Download: €6.25

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

Through Nepalese Eyes
by Satis Shroff Travel book:

'Through Nepalese Eyes' is about the journey of a young Nepalese woman to Germany to meet her brother, who lives with his German wife and daughter in an allemanic town named Freiburg. It is a travelogue written by a sensitive, modern British public-school educated man. He describes the two worlds: Asia and Europe and the people he meets. There is a touch of sadness when his sister returns to her home in the foothills of the Himalayas.
(205 Seiten)Paperback: €12.00 Download: €6.25

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).

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"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. In writing 'home,' he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry." (Sandra Sigel, poetess, Germany). An anthology of poems and prose 'Im Schatten des Himalaya' and poetry collection "Katmandu, Katmandu" (Satis Shroff) can be ordered or downloaded at www.Lulu.com/content/247475.Cherrio, and happy reading!

2007-10-17T05:51:00.000-07:00

KATHMANDU, KATHMANDU
Lyrik Anthologie von Satis Shroff

Satis Shroff’s anthology is about a poet caught between upheavals in two countries, Nepal and Germany, where maoists and skin-heads are trying to undermine democratic values, religious and cultural life. Satis Shroff writes political poetry, in German and English, about the war in Nepal (My Nepal, Quo vadis?), the sad fate of the Nepalese people (My Nightmare, Only Sagarmatha Knows), the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany (Mental Molotovs, The Last Tram to Littenweiler) and love (The Broken Poet, Without Words, About You), women’s woes (Nirmala, Bombay Brothel).

His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political and social terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.
(187 Seiten) Paperback: €13.84 Download: €6.25 Sprache: Deutsch & Englisch

What others have said about the writer:
Reviewed by Albert Hagenaars in WritersDen.com 8/17/2007 Fascinerend! Ik voel veel verwantschap met deze thematiek. Ik wil deze pagina's blijven volgen! Tot de volgende keer dus...

Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007 Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems throughly. 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 Earths 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.

--------------------------------------------------------------
<strong>THROUGH NEPALESE EYES
By Satis Shroff

‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ is about the journey of a young Nepalese woman to Germany to meet her brother, who lives with his German wife and daughter in an allemanic town named Freiburg. It is a travelogue written by a sensitive, modern British public-school educated man. He describes the two worlds: Asia and Europe and the people he meets. There is a touch of sadness when his sister returns to her home in the foothills of the Himalayas.
(205 Seiten) Paperback: €12.00 Download: €6.25

2007-09-28T05:02:00.000-07:00

HINDUISM IN NEPAL (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

Hinduismus ist das Ergebnis eines langwierigen Entwicklungsprozeßes. Hinduismus ist nicht nur eine Religion, sondern eine philosophische Weltanschauung und eine bestimmte Art zu leben. Hinduismus hat seinem Ursprung etwa 1000 v. Chr. Es war die Religion der nach Indien eingewanderten arischen Stämme. Diese arische Eroberung Indiens vollzog sich über viele Jahrhunderte. Im Verlauf der Zeit kam es zu einer allmählichen Verschmelzung der arischer Mythologie und Geisteswelt mit der der Einheimischen.

Naturverehrung ist bei den Hindus und Buddhisten Nepals und Indiens weitverbreitet. Hügel, Flüsse und Seen, Pflanzen und Bäume werden als Wohnsitz der Gottheiten, als günstig für Meditation betrachtet. Zahllose solcher Orte gibt es in Nepal, und ihre Heiligkeit wird täglich durch Rituale verstärkt. Als besonders heilig gelten Flußquellen und Einmündungen von Nebenflüssen. Sonnenstand und Mondphasen werden vergöttlicht, und den Gottheiten sind Tierinkarnationen zugeordnet. Der Unterschied zwischen Menschen und Tieren, belebter und unbelebter Natur wird als graduell und nicht wesensmäßig angesehen.

Die Quellen des früheren Hinduismus sind die Veden, eines der ersten literarischen Werke der Menschheit überhaupt. Die Veden1 sind in vier verschiedene Veda unterteilt:
1. Rigveda: Der Veda der Verse, das Wissen von den Lobeshymnen, der göttlichen Offenbarung.
2. Samaveda: Der Veda der Lieder, das Wissen von den Gesängen.
3. Yadshurveda: Der Veda der Opfersprüche, das Wissen von den Opferformeln.
4. Atharveda: Der Veda des Atharvan, das Wissen von den magischen Formeln.

Den vier Veden-Sammlungen folgen:
Brahmanas: Ritualistische Bücher in alter Sanskritprosa mit Erläuterungen über das Opfer; sie sind sehr wichtig für die Geschichte des Opferwesens.
Aranyakas: "Waldbücher", weil sie wegen ihres geheimnisvollen Inhalts in der Stille der Wälder gelernt und erwogen werden sollten.
Upanishads: Enthalten die in vertraulichen "Sitzungen" dem Schüler übermittelte Geheimlehren über Gott, Natur und Mensch. Das ist der Vedanta, der "Abschluß und Inbegriff des geschauten göttlichen Wissens". Diese spätvedische Literatur von riesigem Umfang enthält Bestandteile aus frühester Zeit und wuchs, bis sie um 500 v. Chr. einen gewissen Abschluß erlangste.

Die Bhagavadgita: Gehört zu der umfangreichen epischen Literatur, die aus den Epen Mahabharata und Ramayana besteht. Genauer gesagt ist sie ein Teil des Epos Mahabharata und umfaßt in dessen sechstem Buch (Parvan) die Kapitel 25 bis 42. Sie besteht also aus 18 Kapiteln (Gesängen), wie denn auch das ganze Epos 18 Bücher hat. Gerade das Mahabharata weist nun neben der eigentlichen Handlung zahlreiche Einschübe von Legenden, Episoden und didaktischen Stücken auf.

Die vedische Religion kannte keine Kultbilder. Im Zentrum stand das kultische Opfer, das ein außerordentlich kompliziertes Ritual hatte, das von Brahmanen ausgeführt wurde, die auch die Veden mündlich tradierten. Später wurde das kultische Opfer als zentrales religiöses Ereignis durch eine Puja2 ersetzt; die Verehrung der Bildnisse von Göttern.

Die Künste entstammen dem Ritual, das eine Mitte schafft, Energie bündelt, negative Kräfte austreibt und Übergangsriten feiert. Aus Beschwörungen entstehen Gesten, aus den Gesten das Opfergerät. Deren Form und Zusammenstellung schaffen das rituelle Kunstwerk. Die Ausrichtung des geweihten Raumes verlangt nach Tempel und Yantra, nach dem Mittelpunkt, dem abstrakten Symbol oder dem Bildwerk als Verkörperung göttlicher Kraft. Geopfert wird nur das Feinste und Reinste. Die Blüte der Morgendämmerung, ihr Duft, blutrotes Quecksilberoxyd, schneeweißer Kampfer, kühle Sandelpaste, Getreide und Kräuter der Jahreszeit, dem Zeitpunkt3 im zyklischen Leben der Gottheit entsprechend. Als Gegengabe bekommt der Gläubige prasad4 : eine Blüte, eine Farbmarkierung auf die Stirn und ein wenig von den Opfergaben (auch Süßigkeiten und amrit) , die dem Gott gereicht wurden.

Es wurde ein Trias der drei höchsten Götter aufgestellt, Brahma, Vishnu und Shiva5. Dabei erhielt Brahma die Funktion des absoluten Schöpfers des Universums, Vishnu die des Erhalters und Shiva die des Zerstörers zugewiesen. Die Dreieinigkeit Trimurti (Brahma, Vishnu und Shiva) des Hinduismus sind die Teile eines größeren Ganzen, für das die Hindus die heilige Silbe Om6 kennen und ihr als dem „höchsten Halt“ auch magische Kraft zusprechen. Die Relation des menschlichen Bewußtseins gegenüber dem göttlichen Prinzip im Universum wird auf diese Weise als Eingeständnis der menschlichen Unzulänglichkeit zum Ausdruck gebracht.

Nicht-arischen Ursprungs ist die Verehrung eines weiblichen Prinzips, des Shaktismus. Er entwickelte sich aus einem Kult um die "Große Mutter" und wurde dem Hinduismus beigefügt, indem jedem Gott eine weibliche Entsprechung assoziiert wurde, unter der Annahme, daß der Gott nur dann wirklich seine Kraft aktivieren könne, wenn er mit einer weiblichen Gottheit vereint sei. Die Muttergottheit wurde als Uma7 zur Frau Shivas (bzw. Rudra) gemacht, der als Umapati, als Herr Umas, bezeichnet wurde. Hinter dem Shaktismus steht die Samkhya-Philosophie, für die der große Gott als Purusha immer aktiv bleibt, während die große Göttin als Vertreterin des Prakriti-(Natur) Elements dynamische Aktivität besitzt. Im Volksglauben erscheint die große Muttergottheit vornehmlich als schrecklich. Wurden Tier- bzw. Menschenopfer dargebracht, so wurden diese niemals den Göttern, sondern immer der "Großen Mutter" dargebracht. Als Beispiel kann man Dakshinkali (Kali des Südens) nennen, die zu den beliebtesten Göttinnen des Katmandutales gehört. Sie wird heute noch mit einem blutigen Tieropfer verehrt.

Die Göttin Kali soll während der Schlacht gegen die Dämonen der Stirn Durgas entsprungen sein. Kali, die schreckliche Form der großen Göttin, erscheint als Zauberin, als Mutter, als Zerstörerin. Sie erweckt Erfurcht und Liebe. Sie ist von gräßlichen Symbolen umgeben, die jedoch doppelte Bedeutung haben.

Kali ( sfnL ) ist das Symbol der kosmischen Kraft der Zeit (kala sfn), und in dieser Hinsicht bedeutet sie Vernichtung. Der Tod trägt aber den Keim des Lebens in sich. Kali verkörpert Schöpfung, Erhaltung und Zerstörung. Sie wird schwarz dargestellt, denn "„ie alle farben im Schwarz verschwinden, so vergehen auch alle Namen und Formen in Ihr"(Mahanirvana Tantra8). Im tantrischen Ritual ist sie mit Raum bekleidet (digambari). Nackt ist sie frei von allen Schleiern der Illusion. Ihr zersaustes Haar ist ein Vorhang des Todes, der das Leben mit Geheimnis umgibt. Der Kranz aus fünfzig Schädeln, die für die fünfzig Buchstaben des Sanskritalphabets stehen, ist ein Symbol der Kraft des Wissens. Die Buchstaben sind keimhafte Klangschwingungen, die auf die Kraft der mantras verweisen. Sie trägt einen „Gürtel aus menschlichen Händen“, die auf die Wirkung des Karma, der angehäuften Taten, hindeuten und den Betrachter erinnern, daß die höchste Freiheit von seinem Handeln abhängt. Kalis drei Manifestationen herrschen über Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft. Ihre weiße Zähne sind ein Sinnbild des Sattva9, der lichten Geistsubstanz, pressen die rote Zunge nieder, Sinnbild von Rajas, einer fest umrissenen Seinsebene, die hinunter führt zu Tamas, zur Trägheit. Kali hat vier Hände: eine linke hand hält einen abgetrennten Kopf, ein Hinweis auf die Zerstörung dunkler Kräfte, die andere das Schwert der Vernichtung, mit der sie das Verhaftetsein durchschneidet. Ihre beiden rechten Hände zerstreuen Furcht und mahnen zu spiritueller Stärke. Sie ist die grenzenlose Urkraft (adya-shakti), die den nichtmanifestierten, passiven Shiva zu ihren Füßen erweckt.

Die Samkhya Philosophie: 1. Natur 2. Geist 3. Seele: Nach der Samkhya-Schule gibt es ein doppeltes ewiges Sein, die Vielheit der Seelen und der Körper (Stoff). Die Samkhya-Philosophie hat einen Dualismus von Natur und Geist, und diese zwei gelten als anfangslos und ewig. Bestimmte Richtungen des Samkhya kommen somit ohne einen Gott aus. Die Seele ist erlöst, wenn sie ihre Verschiedenheit vom Körper erkennt. Die Seele umkleidet sich ja nur mit den einzelnen Körpern, ohne mit ihnen eins zu werden. Die Erkenntnis von der Geistigkeit der Seele befreit von der Verstrickung und bringt die Erlösung.

Andere Samkhya Richtungen amalgamieren sich dagegen mit dem Theismus bzw. Pantheismus (der die Welt zum Absoluten erhebt; das All wird Gott). Danach hat Gott zwei Naturen (Prakriti), eine niedere und eine höhere Natur:

Die niedere Natur besteht aus fünf Elementen: Erde, Wasser, Feuer, Luft und Äther, sowie aus feinmateriellen Faktoren: Geist, Bewußtsein und Individualisator. Die höhere Natur ist die Seele (Jiva). Nach der Samkhyavorstellung kann nur der Körper zerstört werden. Die Seele gilt für unzerstörbar, ewig, ungeboren, nicht verschwindend, alldurchdringend, nicht wandelnd, von alters her bestehend, nicht offenkundig, undenkbar und unwandelbar. Die Seele wechselt den Körper wie dieser die Kleider.

Theopanismus und Devotionalen Hinduismus: Man unterscheidet heute zwischen Pantheismus, der die Welt zum Absoluten erhebt – das All wird Gott -, und Theopanismus10, der umgekehrt aus dem ursprünglichen Geistig-Realen das Niedere hervorgehen läßt. Gott wird das All. In den alten Upanishads tritt sie klar zu Tage. Sie verkünden, oft in gehobener Sprache und in trefflichen Gleichnissen, daß das unpersönliche Sein (das Brahma), eins ist mit dem Atman, dem inneren geistigen Selbst des Menschen. Es entfaltet sich zur Welt. Die Erkenntnis der Einheit von Brahman und Atman bedeutet Erlösung und Glück.

Der kürzeste Weg zum Heil (Vereinigung mit Gott) ist durch Bhakti in devotionalen Hinduismus, die hingebungsvolle Liebe zu Gott durch Meditation. Dafür braucht man aber das rechte Wissen d.h. Jyana. Die Bhakti-Idee hat auf das hinduistische Geistesleben bis in die Gegenwart hinein den großten Einfluß ausgeübt. Sie ist sogar in den philosophisch völlig anders strukturierten älteren Buddhismus eingedrungen und hat ihn tiefgreifend verändert. Meditation und Abkehr von weltlichem Verlangen sind für die Vereinigung mit der Gottheit auch von Bedeutung.

Was verspricht Krishna denjenigen die ihm Bhakti entgegenbringen? Krishna verspricht seinen Anhängern Begreiung von Sündenlast, Kummerlosigkeit, Herzensfriede und Zugang zu ihm selbst (IX, 30-31.34). In XI.55 kann man die Quintessenz des ganzen Werkes sehen: Wer Krishna ehrt und liebt, der gelangt dereinst zu ihm.

Die Seele und die Seelenwanderung: Die Seele, von einem feinstofflichen Leib umgeben, wandert nach dem Tod in ein anderes Lebewesen, einen Gott, einen Menschen höherer oder niederer Kaste, ein Tier, eine Pflanze. Bestimmend ist das Karma, die Summe der guten und bösen Taten beim Abschluß des vergangenen Lebens, die sich dem feinstofflichen Leib eingeprägt und ihn zu einem entsprechenden neuen Dasein zwingt. Erst wenn kein Karma mehr übrig bleibt, erreicht der Kreislauf des Lebens (Sansara11) ein Ende in der Erlösung, dem Nirvana. Karma ist auch das Gesetz von Ursache und Wirkung. Die Seelenwanderung ist das Gemeingut der Hindus und hat seinen Ursprung in den urindischen animistischen Vorstellungen. Im übrigen glaubten auch die Christen bis zum Jahr 554 n. Chr. an die Wiedergeburt. Sie wurde durch einen hauchdünnen Mehrheitsbeschluß beim Akklamationskonzil zu Konstantinopel abgeschafft.

Der Körper ist der vorübergehende "Tempel der Seele" und wird nach dem Tod verbrannt. Die Hinterbliebenen helfen der Seele durch langwährende Rituale, zur Ruhe zu kommen. Für den Nepalesen ist die ersehnte Form des Hinübergleitens vom Leben zum Tode ein Sterben auf den Treppenstufen des Pashupatinath Tempels, während er die Füße in das heilige Wasser taucht.

Die Seele wird nicht geboren, noch stirbt sie.
Dies Selbst hat nicht einen Ursprung, ihm ist
nichts entsprungen. Geburtlos, beständig, ewig
und von altersher wird dies Selbst nicht getötet,
wenn der Körper getötet wird.
KATHA UPANISHAD

Die ganze Spanne des Menschenlebens ist von jeweils angemessene Ritualen begleitet. Kunstvolle Riten sind mit der Zeit vor der Geburt, mit dem Gebären, dem Heranwachsen, der Reifezeit, der Hochzeit und dem häuslichen Leben verknüpft, mit Rückzug und Entsagung, schließlich mit dem Tod. Auf jeder Stufe der Entwicklung werden häusliche Rituale vollzogen, bis sich der Körper wieder in seine Bestandteile auflöst. Der Tod ist nicht das Ende des Individuums, sondern ein neuer Anfang in einem dynamischen Prozeß. Nach der Bhagavadgita ist der Tod wie ein Ersetzen alter Kleider durch neue. Deshalb ist das Bestattungsritual antyeshti ein Übergangsritus. Das Individuum entsteht, entwickelt sich, verschwindet und wird wiedergeboren. Der Verlauf des nächsten Lebens wird vom gegenwärtigen bestimmt. Bis die Befreiung erreicht ist, beeinflußt das gesamte karmische Handeln die Struktur des zukünftigen Daseins. Der Tod ist daher nur eine „Zwischenstation“.

In der Katha Upanishad12 stellt der junge Nachiketas dem Todesgott Yama Fragen. Der antwortet ihm und sagt, daß der Atman, das wahre Selbst und ein Funke Brahmans, des universellen Selbst, beim Tod des Körpers niemals stirbt. Er ist zeitlos und endlos. Die Totenrituale verweisen auf die Einheit des Lebens, geben einen Ausblick auf die ewige Wirklichkeit, das Brahman. Leiden und Tod wie auch das Verglühen dessen, was einst einen Mensch beherbergte, sind in Nepal ins tägliche Leben miteinbezogen.

Die Kastengesetze stellen Schranken zwischen die Lebenden, der Tod reißt sie nicht nieder. Die erste in der steinernen Reihe der Plattform längs des Bagmatiflußes ist für die Kremation von Mitgliedern des Königshauses bestimmt, die zweite einst für Maharajas, heute für die höchsten Würdenträger des Staates. Dann folgen in respektvollem Abstand die Verbrennungsplätze der übrigen Kasten.

2007-09-21T06:39:00.000-07:00

BUDDHISMUS IN NEPAL (Satis Shroff)

Der Buddhismus war ursprünglich eine philosophische Reformbewegung, eine von vielen, die aus der Krise der vedisch-brahmanischen Religion im 6. Jahrhundert v. Chr. resultierten. Der historische Buddha wurde um 563 v. Chr. in Lumbini, im Süden des heutigen Nepal, nahe der Stadt Kapilavastu, als Prinz Siddhartha geboren. Nach seinem Familiennamen Shakya wurde er später auch Buddha Shakyamuni genannt.Die Mutter Maya war eine Prinzessin aus dem Geschlecht der Koliya von Devadaha. Ihre Schwester Mahapajapati übernahm die Pflege des Kindes, da Maya eine Woche nach der Geburt starb.

Im Mahayana Buddhismus tragen auch göttliche Wesen, die sich nie in menschlichen Leibern verkörpern, den Namen Buddha. Sie werden als Transzendente Buddhas bezeichnet, früher war der Ausdruck Dhyani-Buddhas üblich. Sie stellen die geistigen Mächte dar, die die Welt regieren, Vairocana in der Mitte, Aksobhya im Osten, Ratnasambhava im Süden, Amitabha im Westen, Amogasiddhi im Norden. In Nepal zieren die Bilder dieser fünf Buddhas den Türsturz jedes buddhistischen Hauses.

Im Alter von neunundzwanzig Jahren verließ der Buddha eines Nachts heimlich seine Familie und den elterlichen Fürstenhof und zog sieben Jahre als Wanderasket umher. Unter dem Bodhi-Baum (Pappelfeigenbaum) in Bodh Gaya erlangte er die Erleuchtung, die Einsicht in das Wesen des Daseins und seiner Überwindung. Später erhielt er zahlreiche Ehrentitel, vor allem Shakyamuni (der Weise der Shakyas), Jina (Sieger) und Tathagata (der Vollendete, wörtlich der ‚So-Gegangene‘.

Der Buddhismus sucht nach der letzten Ursache von Sünde und Leid und entdeckt, daß es kein Selbst oder Ich gibt. Der Buddha verkündete keine neue Religion, im Gegenteil, seine Lehre vertrat eine atheistische Weltauffassung.

Die Vorzeichen eines Lebensweges: Buddhas Lehre ist nichts mehr als die Vorzeichnung eines Lebensweges. Über andere Fragen wie Gott, Seele und die Welt. Auskunft zu geben, erklärte er für nutzlos. Seine Ansichten darüber lassen sich aber aus seiner Lehre erkennen. Sie fußt auf Samkhya-Gedanken. Der Buddha bekennt sich zu einem vollständigen Atheismus und Akosmismus, d.h. er leugnet jedes substantielle Sein, Gott, Seele und die Welt. Es gibt nur ein Werden und Vergehen ohne wirkliche Grundlage in einem anfang- und endlosen Kreislauf, dem Sansara.

Die Welt, der Gott und der Mensch sind eine Summe von physischen und psychischen Erscheinungen in ständigem Fluß, wobei die vorhergehende die nachfolgende bestimmt. Jedes Wesen gleicht einer Flamme, die scheinbar eine Substanz, in Wirklichkeit aber ein stetig voranschreitender Verbrennungsprozeß ist. In der Summe der Erscheinungen (Körperlichkeit, Empfindungen, Vorstellungen, Gestaltungen, Bewußtsein) die ein Mensch nennt, bewirkt das Karma des abgeschlossenen Lebens die Art des neuen Daseins, das ein tierisches, menschliches oder göttliches sein kann. Diese ruhelose Aufeinanderfolge ist das große Leid der Welt, das Aufhören des Kreislaufs ist die Ruhe des Nirvana1.

Die "vier edlen Wahrheiten:"Den Weg zum Nirvana will der Buddha, so wie er ihn selbst gegangen ist, auch seinen Jüngern lehren. Es ist ein Mittelweg zwischen dem Weg der weltlichen Menschen und dem Weg der sich kasteienden Asketen. So verkündet er, zum ersten Male in der Benares-Predigt, die "vier edlen Wahrheiten2". Es sind die folgenden:
1) Die Wahrheit vom Leid: Alles Dasein ist Leiden3.
2) Die Wahrheit von der Entstehung des Leidens: Aus der Unwissenheit als letztem Grund entstehen die Lebensäußerungen, als verhängnisvollste der Durst, d.h. das Haften am Dasein.
3) Die Wahrheit von der Aufhebung des Leidens: Das Aufhören der Lebensäußerungen, namentlich des Durstes, führt zum Ziel.
4) Die Wahrheit vom Weg der Aufhebung des Leidens: Auf dem edlen achtteiligen Pfad führt der Weg zur Erlösung: Rechte Einsicht, rechtes Wollen, rechtes Wort, rechte Tat, rechtes Leben, rechtes Streben, rechtes Gedenken, rechtes Sichversenken.

Unter den Lebensregeln finden sich Anleitungen zum sittlichen Handeln, die auf dem Wege voranhelfen; so wird vor allem das Wohlwollen empfohlen. Da aber auch Freude und Liebe und alle guten Handlungen Karma hinterlassen und zu einem neuen Dasein zwingen, sind sie auf den höheren Stufen zu meiden. Der Weise verharrt in völlig seelischer Untätigkeit. Der Weg Buddhas bedeutet ein Selbsterlösung ohne göttliche Hilfe, ohne selbstlose Menschenliebe, ohne Tugendübung. Nur die wenigen, die sich zur völligen Weltflucht entschließen, können diesen Weg gehen.

Der ursprüngliche Buddhismus ist deshalb wesentlich ein Mönchsreligion. Genaue Vorschriften, die zum Teil von Buddha herrühen mögen, regeln das Leben der Mönche und der Mönchsgemeinde (Sanga).

Die Heilswege und ihr Ziel: Der Buddhismus wurde durch innere Spaltungen geschwächt. Mit dem ersten nachchristlichen Jahrhundert begann in Nordindien eine Umwandlung, wodurch sich der Buddhismus klar in zwei Religionen spaltet: das Hinayana (Kleine Fahrzeug), das nur die wenigen Mönche zum Nirvana zu führen verspricht, und das Mahayana (Große Fahrzeug), das allen Menschen einen leichten Weg der Erlösung zeigen will. Die Entwicklung vollzieht sich unter dem Einfluß der alten Volksreligion und des Bhaktigedankens. Das Mahayana nähert sich der brahmanischen Religion und erleichterte die Aufsaugung durch dieselbe. Ein wichtiger Weg des Mahayana ist aber der des Vertrauens auf den Buddha und seine Lehre. Das Vertrauen (shraddha) auf den Buddha und seine Lehre fordert die ganze Person. So kann es von Tugenden und Selbstzucht begleitet, zur Erlösung führen. Das Erlösungsziel ist das Nirvana. Es wird in der Buddhaschaft erreicht, in der Erkenntnis des Illusionscharakters (Maya) des Sansara.

Im Mahayana ist es das Einswerden mit dem Absoluten, das einen andauernden Glückszustand mit sich bringt. Dies ist das Jenseits, und dieses Jenseits ist das Ziel aller derer, die im großen Fahrzeug zur Erlösung streben. Zum Jenseits des Nirvana führen alle "Fahrzeuge" im Buddhismus, zu einer Erlösung, über deren Beschaffenheit kein Wort möglich ist. Mit der Erlösung aber hat die Lehre ihr Ende.

Der freiwillige Verzicht auf Erlösung:
Die Bodhisattvas: In der neuen religiösen Richtung tritt Buddha als milder Gott vor uns. Man erhebt ihn zu einem einzigartigen göttlichen Wesen, dem Urbuddha, von dem ungezählte Ausstrahlungen erfolgen. Das sind die Dhyanabuddhas in der oberen Welt, sodann die Bodhisattvas, die Vollendeten, die auf das Nirvana verzichten, um den Menschen zu helfen, endlich die irdischen Buddhas, deren letzter Sakyamuni war. Der Grund hiervon ist das "Große Mitleid", das alle Bodhisattvas für die Wesen empfinden und das sie zur Tätigkeit für die Wesen treibt. Sie versuchen, die Leiden der Sansara auf sich zu ziehen, und umgekehrt ist es ihnen möglich, das durch ihre Verdienste gesammelte Karma auf andere zu übertragen. So sind die Bodhisattvas deutlicher Ausdruck für die Möglichkeit der Fremderlösung.

Der große Dhyanabuddha im gegenwärtigen Zeitalter ist Amitabha, der im Paradies des Westens thronende allbarmherzige Erlösergott, der alle, die ihn anrufen, selig macht. Der mächtige Bodhisattva der Gegenwart ist Avalokiteshvara4, der in seiner Hilfsbereitschaft auch vor Sünde und Höllenqual nicht zurückschreckt. Dazu finden die hinduistischen Götter Aufnahme in den Buddhismus.

Erzwungene Kastensystem in Nepal: Unter König Jayastathi Malla (1382-1395) wurden die Buddhisten unter Berufung auf die von Sankaracharya durchgeführten Maßnahmen, in ein rigoroses, neu geschaffenes Kastensystem eingegliedert. Außerdem wurde die Verwaltung und Jurisdiktion gestrafft. Man unterstellte, daß die unverheirateten Mönche ursprünglich aus der Bahun- (Brahmanen) oder Chettri- (Kshatriya) Kaste gekommen waren und nachdem sie gezwungen worden waren zur Heirat und Fortzupflanzung, sollten sie diesen Kasten weiter angehören. Zuunterst in dem hinduistischen Kastengefüge in Nepal stehen die unberührbaren Kasten, unter anderem die Kami (Schmiede), die Sarki (Schuster) und die Damai, die zwei Beschäftigungen ausüben: Sie sind Schneider und Musikanten. Die frühe Geschichte Nepals läßt Stämme, aber keine rigorose Kastenordnung erkennen.

Die Erlösung als das Ende des Strebens: Im Buddhismus redet man nicht nur von Wissen, das die Kausalität des Entstehens hebt sondern auch vom Nichtwissen, das die Bildung karmagestaltender Triebkräfte nach sich zieht. Die Triebkräfte sind die Urheber allen Strebens; da sie vom Nichtwissen freigesetzt wurden, bilden sie ein Bewußtsein aus, das sich dann im Einzelnen niederläßt. So kommt eine Individualität zustande, die nicht mehr ein leeres Bewußtsein trägt, sondern ein durch Eindrücke, Empfindungen, Bedürfnisse, Gier bzw. Streben angefülltes Organ.

Als Folge des Strebens tritt mit dem Lebenshang das karmische werden. Es realisiert sich als Wiedergeburt, und damit als Wiedereintritt in den Sansara, ins Dasein, ins Leid5. Das Streben ist das, was den Sansara bewegt und die Erlösung verhindert. Das Erlösungsstreben findet man auch im Hinduismus; hier wird das Streben selbst als Ursache des Leides erkannt. Das Streben nach guten Taten bewirkt eine bessere Wiedergeburt, nicht aber die Erlösung. Und Streben muß sich immer auf die Illusion des Ich richten, also auf das Nichtwissen. Läßt man diese Illusion als Wissender fallen, so erscheint die gesamte Welt des Samsara als eine Illusion. Im Durchschauen dieser Illusion (Maya) besteht die Erlösung, die in der völligen Aufgabe allen Strebens und der vollkommenen Ruhe des Geistes erreicht wird. Mit dem Verlöschen allen Strebens ist das Samsara überwunden.

Der Tod im Buddhismus: In den Himalayaregionen Nepals, wo die Bevölkerung überwiegend buddhistisch sind, findet man Manisteine und Chortens. Die Toten werden begraben und Chortens (Pukangs) als Denkmäler errichtet. Wenn ein Lama stirbt, dann muß ein anderer Lama das Feuerholz bei der Verbrennungszeremonie anzünden. Im Gegensatz zu dem hinduistischen Todesritual darf der Sohn des Verstorbenen die Todesreste seiner Eltern nicht anzünden.

Einer der wichtigsten Texte des tibetischen Buddhismus ist das Totenbuch "Bardo Thodol"6. Trotz seines Namens und der Tatsache, daß dieses Buch am Bett der Sterbenden von den Mönchen vorgelesen wird, ist es ein Buch des Lebens. Bardo heißt "Zwischenraum" (‘bar’ bedeutet zwischen, und ‘do’ heißt Insel ). Es ist nicht nur das Intervall des nachtodlichen Schwebezustandes, sondern vielmehr der Schwebezustand in der Situation des Lebens. Die Bardo-Erfahrung ist Teil unserer grundlegenden psychologischen Struktur. Dieses Buch erhält nicht nur eine Botschaft für jene, die bald sterben oder bereits gestorben sind, sondern auch eine Botschaft für jene, die bereits geboren sind.

Geburt und Tod widerfahren jedermann andauernd, genau in diesem Augenblick. Es besteht ein Konflikt zwischen dem Körper und dem Bewußtsein, und es gibt die dauernde Erfahrung von Tod und Geburt. Die Buddhisten in Nepal betrachten den Tod nicht als besonders unangenehme oder schwierige Situation. Der sterbende Mensch hat Anteil an seiner eigenen Festigkeit. Wenn man gefaßt ist, dann wird die Person im Bardo-Zustand automatisch davon angezogen. Mit anderen Worten: man sollte den sterbenden Menschen eine sehr geistes-gegenwärtige Situation präsentieren. Man sollte auf ihn eingehen, sich füreinander gegenseitig öffnen und das Zusammentreffen von zwei Seelen entwickeln.

Die Botschaft des Totenbuches ist folgende: Die Verwirrungen des Lebens werden durch die dualistische Sicht des Menschen verursacht. Indem er das Bardo Thodol aufmerksam liest oder hört, wird der Mensch befreit und in einem nicht-dualistischen Zustand versetzt, in dem sich die Verwirrungen in Weisheit umwandeln.

Im Mahayana Buddhismus gibt es die Lehre eines höchsten Gottes bzw. eines Ur-Prinzips, des Adi Buddha. Aus diesem entspringen die fünf Dhyani Buddhas, die als Verkörperung der fünf ursprünglichen Elemente, aus denen der Kosmos besteht, angesehen wurden. In der Regel werden die einzelnen Gottheiten mit der Miniaturfigur ihres jeweiligen Dhyani Buddha, aus dem sie emanierten, im Kopfschmuck gezeigt. Dabei werden die Bodhisattvas als Söhne der jeweiligen Dhyani Buddhas mit ihrem Buddha-Shaktis angesehen.

Obwohl die Erlösungswege von Hinduismus und Buddhismus verschieden sind, so gleichen sich die zwei Religionen in der Annahme des Sansara, die die Einmaligkeit des Lebens auf der Erde ablehnt und einen Kreislauf von Wiederbeburten setzt. Die ausgleichende Gerechtigkeit vollzieht sich selbst in der Qualität der Wiedergeburten. Im Christentum wird mit der Überzeugung der Einzigkeit des menschlichen Lebens auch die eines personalen, allmächtigen Gottes verbunden.

Während es für den Hindu keine einzige, fest umrissene, alleinseligmachende Wahrheit gibt, ist die Zuflucht zur Lehre für den Buddhisten unerlässlich.

2007-09-06T07:50:00.001-07:00

When Mother Closes Her Eyes (Satis Shroff)

When mother closes her eyes,
She sees everything in its place
In the kingdom of Nepal.
She sees the highest building in Kathmandu,
The King’s Narayanhiti palace.
It looms higher than the dharara,
Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati,
For therein lives Vishnu,
Whom the Hindus 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,
Visits the Nepal’s remote districts
In a helicopter with his consort and militia.
He inaugurates building
Factories and events.
Vishnu dissolves the parliament too,
For the sake of his kingdom.
His subjects and worshippers are, of late, divided.
Have Ravana and his demons besieged his land?

When mother opens her eyes,
She sees Vishnu still slumbering
On his bed of Sesha, the serpent
In the pools of Budanilkantha and Balaju.

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 Nepalis screamed and died for democracy.
And now the corpses of the Maobadis,
Civilians and Nepali security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.
-------------------------------------------------------

A DISRUPTED LIFE (Satis Shroff)

I bought some buns and bread at the local bakery
And met our elderly neighbour Frau Nelles
She looked well-dressed and walked with a careful gait,
Up the Pochgasse having done her errands.
She greeted in German with ‘Guten morgen.’
Sighed and said, ‘ Wissen Sie,
I feel a wave of sadness sweep over me.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Today is our wedding anniversary.’

‘Is it that bad?’ I whispered.

‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘My husband just stares at me and says nothing,
And has that blank expression on his face.
This isn’t the optimistic, respected philology professor
I married thirty years ago.

He forgets everything.
Our birthdays, the anniversaries of our children, the seasons.
My husband has Alzheimer.
Es tut so weh!
Our double bed isn’t a bed of roses anymore,
It’s a bed of thorny roses.
I snatch a couple of hours of sleep,
When I can.

I don’t have a husband now,
I have a child,
That needs caring day and night.
I’ve become apprehensive.
I’m concerned when he coughs
Or when he stops to breathe.
He snores again,
And keeps me awake.
Has prostrate problems,
And is fragile.
Like Shakespeare aptly said:
‘Care keeps his watch in every old (wo)man’s eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.’

Neither can I live with myself,
Nor can I bring him to a home.

Glossary:
Guten morgen: good morning
Es tut so weh!: It pains such a lot

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

KATHMANDU IS NEPAL (Satis Shroff)

There were two young men, brothers
Who left their homes
In the foothills of the Eastern Himalayas.
The older one, for his father had barked at him,
“Go to Nepal and never come home again.”
The younger, for he couldn’t bear the beatings
At the hands of his old man
.
The older brother sobbed and stifled his sorrow and anger
For Nepal was in fact Kathmandu,
With its colleges, universities, Education Ministry,
Temples, Rana-palaces and golden pagodas
And also its share of hippies, hashish, tourists,
Rising prices and expensive rooms to rent.

The younger brother went to Dharan,
And enlisted in the British Army depot
To become a Gurkha, a soldier in King Edwards Own Gurkha Rifles.
He came home the day became a recruit,
With a bald head, as though his father had died.
He looked forward to the parades and hardships
That went under the guise of physical exercises.
He thought of stern, merciless sergeants and corporals
Of soccer games and regimental drills
A young man’s thrill of war-films and scotch and Gurkha-rum evenings.
He’d heard it all from the Gurkhas who’s returned in the Dasain festivals.
There was Kunjo Lama his maternal cousin,
Who boasted of his judo-prowess and showed photos of his British gal,
A pale blonde from Chichester in an English living-room.

It was a glorious sunset,
The clouds blazing in scarlet and orange hues,
As the young man, riding on the back of a lorry,
Sacks full of rice and salt,
Stared at the Siwaliks and Mahabharat mountains
Dwindling behind him.
As the sun set in the Himalayas,
The shadows grew longer in the vales.
The young man saw the golden moon,
Shining from a cloudy sky.
The same moon he’d seen on a poster in his uncle’s kitchen
As he ate cross-legged his dal-bhat-shikar after the hand-washing ritual.
Was the moon a metaphor?
Was it his fate to travel to Kathmandu,
Leaving behind his childhood friends and relatives in the hills,
Who were struggling for their very existence,
In the foothills of the Kanchenjunga,
Where the peaks were not summits to be scaled, with or without oxygen,
But the abodes of the Gods and Goddesses.
A realm where bhuts and prets, boksas and boksis,
Demons and dakinis prevailed.

Glossary:
Ranas: a ruling class that usurped the throne and ruled for 104 years in Nepal
Gurkhas: Nepali soldiers serving in Nepalese, Indian and British armies
Dal-bhat: Linsen und Reis
Shikar: Fleischgericht
-------------------------------------------------
Patchwork Kaleidoscope (Satis Shroff)

What’s happening around us?
Lovers getting united,
Only to be separated.
Champagne glasses are raised.
We look deep into our eyes,
Our very souls.
There are reunions
But with other partners and families.
Patchwork families,
With tormented and bewildered children.
Marriages between gays and lesbians,
Adopted children to give the new bond
A family touch.

A colourful kaleidoscope unfurls before our eyes.
Do we know enough about relationships?
You and me.
Me and you.
Till death do us part?
Or till someone enters your or my life,
And takes my breath away.
Or yours.

******

The Street Where I Lived (Satis Shroff)

Three decades ago, I remember
I lived at the Maru Tole.
In my student days in Kathmandu,
Right near the Kastamandap,
The temple that gave Kathmandu
Its name.

The rent of the room wasn't much
But water was scarce.
There were always people
Gathered around the only tap.
There was a bathroom with a tub,
But nobody took a bath.
There was no running-water.
It was like in a fake ad.
When I washed myself in the morning
A few rats and cockroaches would scurry by.
It just wasn’t the same as my parents’ home.
An elderly Newar gentleman would sing,
A Sanskrit verse ‘Om jaya jagadisha hare.’

Nearby, you could hear the beat of the damaru,
The chiming of the temple bells,
The blowing of a conch to round up the morning prayers.

The entrance near the street was always open,
And the heavy wooden doors had the eyes
Of the primordeal Buddha carved and painted on them,
As if to say--- God sees you everywhere:
Up in the hills, down in the plains,
When you’re alone, and in company.

The sahu, our landlord, was a lean Newar,
Who preferred traditional Nepali clothes to shirts and trousers.
He composed Nepali music for Radio Nepal
And his songs could be heard
In the evening programmes of the Valley radio.
He didn't care who lived in his house,
Didn't bother about repairing
Or renovating the rooms,
As long as they paid the monthly rent in rupees.

From the window, sans glass, which was normal,
I could see funeral-processions rushing
To the cremation ghats of the holy,
But filthy Bishnumati river.
Below my window lived a Dutch man
With a Sherpa woman.
One day I opened the third page of The Rising Nepal
And saw my neighbour from the Netherlands:
Nabbed by the police and photographed by a city reporter.
The charge was ‘illegally smuggling hashish.’
After a few days he was in the Sherpa woman’s arms again.

People of tall stature always banged
Their heads on the house-entrances in Kathmandu.
The doors were meant for small Newaris,
Tamangs, Gurungs, Rais, Thakalis,
Not for tall plainsmen or westerners.
Many a rasta-haired Hippy cursed the wooden doors of Valley,
For they didn't give in, but the foreign skulls did.

After dinner I often strolled the streets of Maru Tole,
Didn't go far and entered a house
Where Led Zeppelin's music
Was oozing out of every old brick.
Man, this was groovy.
A semi-dark room with scarlet light,
Jimmy Hendrix, Santana posters,
And suddenly psychedelic colours,
Low tables and the sweet smell of charas.
Kathmandu's chocolate cake
Baked with plenty of hash and flower-power love
Did the rounds and so did the cannabis,
Passed on by friendly, blonde, red-headed, brunette,
Long and sticky-haired, roadies from the whole world,
Who donned gaudy Indian cotton clothes,
Spoke of nirvana, karma-cola and imitated tantric-sex.

For me, this was a fascinating scenario,
For I came from the foothills of the Eastern Himalayas,
Where the majestic peaks bore names like Jammu,
Kabru and Kanchenjunga.
I’d visited a Kindergarden run by western nuns
And an Irish boarding-school, which was originally a British cadet-school
With strict rules, canes on our young buttocks
If we broke the rules.
Discipline, obedience and no-nonsense.

The Christian Brothers of Ireland ruled the school with an iron fist.
Many a hill school-boy had to give up schooling,
When the poor parents couldn’t pay the exorbitant fees.
Drop outs had to join the Gurkhas, and fight India’s wars
With China in the Himalayas, against the Portugese in Goa,
In East Pakistan to help the Bengalis against the West Pakistanis,
In the Falklands on Her Majesty’s Service against the Argentinians,
And Nepal’s numerous UN Peace Keeping Missions.

Later I joined another school run by American priests,
Which was much more liberal and democratic.
We did a play called the Judgement at Nuremburg
And our music teacher was a colossal bloke from Germany.
His blonde son David gave us free shaves
With his Papa’s electric Rasierapparat.
The school-band played marching songs with a lot of oomph.

******

The Street Where I Live (Satis Shroff)

The street where I live with my family is the Pochgasse.

It lies to the north of Freiburg, in Zähringen.
Zähringen has a castle ruin, which is a tourist attraction.
In the early days they dug for silver ores below the castle.
The ores were brought to the 'Poche',
Where they separated the silver from the ore
By melting them at high temperatures in the charcoal-kilns.

Our house is fondly remembered as ‘the milk shop of family Wichmann.’
People used to tell us often,
“Gel, ihr wohnt da, wo früher die Wichmanns gewohnt haben?“

Frau Sanders, who lives at the charcoal-street, said to me,
'I went there often to buy milk.'
I tried to imagine our house with cows, big milk-cans and haystacks.
At the moment it smells of smoked-fish.
The adjacent barn has been rented to a German,
Who wears his spectacles on the tip of his nose,
He lisps and tells stories of the old times in Zähringen.
He smokes trout from the Black Forest thrice a year.
I think he sells them, otherwise he wouldn't smoke so many fishes.
He always hands me a freshly smoked trout
Wrapped on a piece of German newspaper.
I thank him and hand him a bottle of Weissherbst from our cellar.

My one-eyed neighbour Herr Huber and I relish the trouts.
He drives an old, broken-down car and has two big, black Rotweiler dogs.
He calls them Zeus and Apollo.
They're nice and always leashed.
At noon, when Herr Huber is away, and they have hunger,
You hear blood-curdling howls reminiscent of the hound of Baskerville.

When I sit and read a book on the terrace,
Frau Keller greets me with a friendly 'Hallochen!' from the street.
She has short, silvery hair and has a warm smile across her face.
She's an ethnic German from Romania.
I like her soft-spoken East Bloc accent.
Her friendliness is disarming even though she has a lot of pain.
She used to go walking in the European countryside with her husband.
He’s dead and she undertakes only small walks in the Black Forest now.

Then there are two Frau Maiers, a thin and an obese one.
The obese one is fighting a losing battle with her breath and varicose veins.
One can plainly see that she has a tough time
Walking up the steep and narrow Pochgasse.
Bur her pain-filled countenance disappears,
When she emits a courageous smile and greets me.
It's like watching the sun breaking
Through the sky on a clouded, winter morning day.
‘One has to walk as long as one can, night wahr?’ she says.

The thin Frau Maier wears spectacles and is over 70,
Likes to chat about the weather and the day's headlines.
She certainly is going strong.
She knows every Zähringer,
And everyone knows her.
In the afternoon I hear soft piano melodies,
When my son Julian does his music exercises.
The tones of the piano mingle with bird-cries,
And suddenly one hears the loud noise of a lorry,
Transporting either furniture or building materials,
Up and down the Pochgasse.
A lot of expensive villas are under construction.

'Ach, Zähringen isn't what it was previously ' says Herr Flamm,
Who lives four houses down the street.
Herr Flamm knows Zähringen, for he and his grandparents were born here.
The entire Music Choir Zäringia, of which he's a member,
Has aging problems.
The choir sings only the old traditional songs.
Broadway songs, rap, hip-hop, gospels aren't traditional enough.
The German youth just keep away.
They've become Europeans.

The Zähringer, as people living in Zähringen are wont to be called,
Are an active folk when it comes to organising things.
Every autumn there's a Hock around the St. Blasius church,
A get together, with Blasmusik, children's cries of joy,
The smell of waffel, noodle soup, roasted pork, sausages,
Fried potatoes and pizza lies in the air.

The ancestors of the people in Zähringer were charcoal-burners,
Who lived behind the castle.
One day the coal-burner discovered melted silver under his oven.
In those days there used to live a king, who'd fled to Kaisersstuhl.
He lived with his family in poverty.
The coal-burner went and gave the silver he'd found to the king.
The king was so impressed that he gave his daughter in marriage to the coal-burner,
As well as the land surrounding Freiburg.
The king named him the Herzog von Zähringen.
The Zähringer duke founded Freiburg and other castles.

Sometimes, we send our children to Herr Laule, the fat grocer.
The children like doing errands to Herrr Laule,
For he never forgets to reward them with candies.
The bespectacled Frau Laule, is stout and kind and both come from Waldkirch.
Hope they'll run the shop for years to come.
The children get a slice of Lyoner as a treat at the butcher Sumser's shop.
My daughter Natasha loves Lyoner.

There's a tunnel at the end of the Pochgasse.
The cars drive below and the ICE and Swiss trains above.
Young and elderly Germans come by and ask only one question:
„Wo, bitte, geht’s zum Zähringerburg?“
Where's the road to the Zähringen castle-ruins?

The castle was built in 1091 by Herzog Bertold V.
It was destroyed by war and fire.
What has remained is an 18 meter high tower,
With a commanding view of Freiburg.

Glossary:

Gasse: small lane
Köhler: charcoal-burner
Köhlerei: charcoal works
Weissherbst: a German wine
Blasmusic: brass band music
Burg: castle
Meiler: charcoal-kiln
Blaskapelle: brass-band
spanferkel: porkling
Herzog: Duke of Zähringen

THE HOLY COWS OF KATHMANDU (Satis Shroff)

Holy cow! The mayor of Kathmandu
Has done it.
Since ancient times a taboo
The free, nonchalant cows
Of Kathmandu were rounded up
In a rodeo by the Nepalese police.
Was it Nandi, Shiva's bull?
Or holy cows?
"They're cattle still",said the mayor.
"Straying cattle are not wanted".

Eighty-eight holy cows
Were auctioned
Not at Sotheby's
But in Kathmandu.
The auction yielded 64,460 rupees
Said the mayor of Kathmandu.

Cows that were a nuisance
To pedestrians and tourists at Thamel.
Cows that provided dung
And four other products:
Milk, yoghurt, butter and urine
For many a hearth.
Cows that gave urine
That the Hindus collected.
Cows that were sacred
And worshipped as the cow-mother.
Cows that were donated
And set free by Brahmins and Chettris
To set themselves free from sins.
Cows that marked the Gaijatra,
An eight-day homage to the dead.

It was a king, according to legend,
Who ordered cows to be set free
By families in mourning
In the streets of Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur.
To share the bereaved pain of
The death of a beloved prince
And a sad mother and queen.

The children disguised themselves
As grotesque cows and motley figures
And danced to Nepalese music
To make the queen laugh,
And forget her tears.

Even today the bereaved
Families drive their cows
Through the streets of Kathmandu
On the day of Gaijatra:
The festival of the cows.
Despite the ecological control
On the cows of Kathmandu,
Lalitpur and Bhaktapur.

From ancient times
Kings, noblemen, pedestrians
Cyclists, pullcarts, cars,
Scooters and rickshaws,
The traffic snaked around the holy cows.

The umwelt-conscious mayor
Has made up his mind:
The cattle are obstructing the traffic
Long-haired Nepalese youth need a crew-cut
Horse-pulled carts and rickshaws must go.
They worsen sanitation
And environmental problems.
But the carpets and cars must stay.

Elephant-rides remain for the tourists
After all, we've developed
A yen for dollars, francs and marks.
Kathmandu is catching up
With the rest of the world.

Glossary:
Umwelt: German word for environment
Braahmins, Chettris: high castes in Hinduism
___________________________________________________________________

THE HILLS ARE EMPTY (Satis Shroff)

Where have all the young folk gone?
The men are in foreign armies
Serving strange masters.
The servile, pretty women
Have been enticed to India's brothels
And you ask me:
"Where have all the young folk gone?"
They went to survive
The coldness that has swept the land
The drought, famine
Poverty, nepotism and feudalism
And the curse that goes
Under the name of afno manchey'
And chakari.

Glossary:
afno manchey: one's own clan or own people in a set-up
chakari: service done in a feudal heirarchy system (Speicheleckerei) to attain personal gains
___________________________________________________________________

BACK TO THE VILLAGE (Satis Shroff)

Go back to the village
And order and a decree
With the blessing of the palace
To send the rural people home
And urbanised spectators to rural Nepal
Villagers who fled from the poverty
And the barrenness of their homes.
___________________________________________________________________

THE VIDEO-DOCTOR (Satis Shroff)

"I'll go to the video-doctor
He'll find out what's wrong with me.
And prescribe a foreign cure
Or give me an imported cure
A medicine that's stronger than
The herbs of the traditional shaman.

Yes,the video-doctor examines my belly
He applies a white, cold paste
On my ailing belly.
Turns on and off fascinating switches
And fumbles like Dr. Frankenstein
Above his prostrate creature,
With instructions and signs that are alien.

Red, green, yellow lights blink
The screen flimmers, curves appear
Am I that? Is that my belly? Honestly?
A broad, hazy conical contour that
Appears and disappears.
What has the foreign-trained shaman seen?

I saw numbers and shades
Did he see more?
Can he tell more?
Can he find a cure?
Does he see spirits, boksas and boksis
Bhut and pret that I don't?
Or other spirits that don't exist?
Will the cold metal on my belly
Perhaps explode?
Will I get an electro-shock?

Had I but listened to Maila Tamang
And gone to the jhakri, dhami or bijuwa
I could have saved the precious rupees
And got away with a rooster,
Instead of being told to turn
To the right, left, on my belly and back
With my body exposed
And a nurse, a woman sneering at me
Oh, what a shame for my male pride.
I'll never go there again.
___________________________________________________________________

A SMALL PARADISE (Satis Shroff)

A walk with Elena in a pram
Along the Wildtal (the Wild Valley) path,
I hear the chirping of birds
In the trees and dense foliage on the wayside.

Elena leans out, only to throw herself back on her pram.
Suddenly a clearing and you see
Two ranges of the Black Forest mountains,
Behind the conifer silhouette.

Two white butterflies frolic and fly by.
Elene, who’s not even two, exclaims, ‘Da-da- da!’
As she points to them full of glee.

We go past the pastures and discover
A small Hexenhaus (witch’s house)and a row
Of Herrenhäüser (mansions).
There’s shade from the morning sun.
A noise along the tracks below
Increases in crescendo.
The world has caught up with us.
A sleek, snow-white ICE-train dashes by and breaks my reverie.
___________________________________________________________________

At the German Doctor’s (Satis Shroff)

My small daughter Elena’s middle-ear is inflamed
So I go to our German child-doctor.
He examines her and curses her left ear,
Which is read and causes pain, even after thirteen antibiotic cures.
“By the way, what do you say about the massacre in your kingdom?”
I tell him it’s incredible, a crown prince who killed the King and Queen,
His brother and sister and then himself,
In a fit of rage and helplessness”.

The bald, bespectacled German doctor went on,
‘My little daughter quipped today at breakfast,
“the King must have lied when he said to his people
The automatic gun went off and shot them all.”

Strange things happen in the Kingdom of Nepal.
-------------------------------------------
The Summer Heat (August 2003) (Satis Shroff)

Forests are burning in Canada, Portugal and Brandenburg-Germany
There’s danger of fire even in the Black Forest
With this scenario in the background,
Our children Julian and Elena and a Kindergarden friend Sarah
Are playing: teasing, jumping, running and singing in the garden,
Having a rollicking time in their inflated swimming-pool
Under the shade of two plum trees
No Kindergarden and no school, for it’s the summer holidays.

The summer heat is with us.
The fair town of Zäringen-Freiburg and the entire Schwarzwald
Seems to have slid to the tropics.
Car drivers of all makes barking at each other
To turn off their car stereo music and ghetto blasters, and barbeques
For fear of a flame that might spark off a wild fire.

A thick set bearded in casual wear, spectacles on his nose,
A grin countenance came, leaned on our house wall and said,
“I can’t bear the noise of you children playing in your garden.’
Six pair of eyes looked up at him
Not understanding what the neighbour had against them.
Herr Hermann lived two houses away.

‘I’m retired since two months
And I want to enjoy my days reading philosophic texts
Or listening to classical music
But I get the jitters when I hear the you shouting and screaming.

Our immediate neighbour is a one-eyed roofer,
With a heart for big dogs, cats and children.
He told us, ‘When I first came to Zäringen
It was a dead area and silent like a graveyard.
I’m so glad that people are buying houses or building them.
It’s filling with life.’

He has bought the house next to ours
And renovates it around the clock,
Not even bothering about the afternoon rest hours from 1 to 3 pm.
He stops working neither on weekdays nor on religious and state holidays.
He hates silence and gets nervous when he doesn’t work.
At that very moment you could hear him working with his electric drill.

I asked Herr Hermann, ‘Can you hear this noise day in and day out? We do.’
“I don’t hear it, but I hear the children’s noise.
I can’t concentrate when I read or listen to the music.
It penetrates my ears.

Strange ears that don’t register noises
Created by cars, vans, trucks, taxis that pass by all day and night,
Created by his own garden appliances,
Created by his other neighbour who works like a horse on his 300 year house,
Created by how own beer parties deep into the night
And the blood curdling barks of the neighbour’s big black dogs,
That Julian my 5 year son fondly calls:
“The Howls of the Baskerville hounds” after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s book.

Sarah, who’s mother is a state-attorney, remarked:
‘We also make a lot of noise in our garden,
But no one has complained.
Children are allowed to have fun and scream and shout when they play.’
Julian couldn’t resist the temptation of adding:
‘Herr Hermann, didn’t you scream and shout when you were a child?
Or have you forgotten it?’

Herr Hermann was speechless and left.
It just wasn’t his day.
Perhaps it was the 40 degrees outside.
___________________________________________________________________

On Painting a Winter Landscape (Satis Shroff)

I’ll paint a picture in acryl,
Of a winter landscape.
Not the Alps, but the Himalayas.

The eternal snows in the mountains
Are silvery and white.
The sky is azure, like on a holiday card,
With fluffy clouds above.
It’s a winter scene,
But you don’t feel the cold.
And you don’t freeze at daytime.
Yet when it becomes dark,
We Nepalis feel in our marrows the cold Himalayan wind,
Howling down the valleys and spurs.
Theirs is no central heating.
Neither gas nor electro-heating.
There are no plugs in the Himalayan huts,
Except along the well-beaten trekking trails.

There’s a tree in the landscape.
A black, naked tree
With branches like hands
In suspended animation.
A black crow crows aloud
And a shaman listens to it. It’s a mute language.
The shaman understands the crow
Does the crow follow the shaman?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A NEPAL TALK (Satis Shroff)

A German school teacher invites me
To talk about Nepal
And to introduce a traditional dish to her German class.
The teacher, a lady in her forties,
Likes it multicultural.
She asks her pupils with foreign parents
To greet the class in outlandish tongues.

The bicultural children comply,
And the class learns to say:
‘Good morning, Bon Soir, Namaste,
In English, French and Nepali.
A class full of curious children await me.

We make momos and little hands help in turn.
In the audio-visual room the slide projector has no bulb.
An Italian Hausmeister turns up with a new one
And voila! Our adventure can begin.
I show them colour transparencies
Of Nepal, my homeland.
Temples, streets and school-children and ethnic Nepalis
From Kathmandu Valley and the hills.
Living Goddesses, potters, farmers, sadhus and priests,
Overdressed and underdressed Nepalis.
Rhinos, tigers and elephants in the subtropical flatlands.
King Birendra, Queen Aishwarya,
King Gyanendra, his consort and the smart Royal Gurkha Guards.

After the slides we return
To the classroom to try out the momos.
The German kids relish the Nepali Maultaschen.
I tell them a story about the yeti.

Meanwhile, Frau Wolf gathers money for the ski afternoon.
Our Nepal theme is over,
What remains are the queries,
Of the innocent, well-fed and well-off children of Freiburg:
Why did you come to Germany?
Have you climbed the Everest?
What does the Yeti look like?
Is the King of Nepal rich?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

OUT OF GERMANY (Satis Shroff)

Germany is our home, our Heimat
A land with Christian occidental norms and values.
A land with a culture and tradition
Rich in values, diversity and a hoary past.
Even in this social welfare state,
The poor are getting relatively poorer.
We’re embraced the euro,
And everything is expensive.
The old Deutsche Mark is out,
Though a lot of older Germans
Have problems with the conversions.
It reminds me of the time,
When Nepal went metric according to a royal decree.
The government did, but the older generation of Nepalis didn’t.
They still cling to the manas and pathis.
That’s tradition .
Is Nepal going with the times?

WHEN THE SOUL LEAVES (Satis Shroff)

Like Shakespeare said, 'All the world's a stage'
And we've played many different roles in our lives
In various places and scenarios.
As we grow old and ripe, our knowledge of the world grows.
We hold what we cannot see, smell, taste and touch in our memories.
We only have to walk down memory lane
To find the countless faces, places, sights and sounds that we have stored,
To be recalled and retrieved through association
In conversations with others
Or when we contemplate alone.

Why should elderly people be scared of social terror and aging?
Aging is a biological phenomenon.
We should be glad that we have lived useful lives,
Filled with good experiences.
The wonderful children that we have created,
The very gems of our genes,
Each so individual in their personalities.
The house we lived in and filled
With love, laughter, songs and music.
The parents and grand-parents, friends and relatives
We have had the time to share with.
But we should be able to assert our exit from this earthly existence
In the manner that we desire,
And not leave it in the hands
Of an intensive life-extension unit.

Let us dwell on common experiences and encounters
That we can take with us,
When the soul leaves the body
And races towards space and becomes unified
With the ever expanding, timeless cosmos.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

GROW WITH LOVE (Satis Shroff)

Love yourself
Accept yourself,
For self-love and self-respect
Are the basis of joy, emotion
And spiritual well being.

Watch your feelings,
Study your thoughts
And your beliefs,
For your existence
Is unique and beautiful.

You came to the world alone
And you go back alone.
But while you breathe
You are near
To your fellow human beings,
Families, friends and strangers
As long as you are receptive.

Open yourself to lust and joy,
To the wonders of daily life and Nature.
Don’t close your door to love.
If you remain superficial,
You’ll never reach its depth.

Love is more than a feeling.
Love is also passion and devotion.

Grow with love and tenderness.
------------------------------------------

WITHOUT WORDS (Satis Shroff)

We speak with each other
A wonderful feeling overcomes me
And I’m touched to the roots of my existence.
As though it was a doubling of my existence.
It becomes a passion
To speak with each other.

Our lives filled with togetherness:
With ourselves and our children.
I discover myself in you
And you in me.
Where one is at home
In the company of the other
And vice versa.

Where you can be the way you are
Where I can be the way I am.
Our tolerance for each other is crucial
There are moments when one forgets time.
We speak to each other without words.
It’s not sung,
It’s not instrumental chords.

Just our hearts understanding each other.
In tact with each other.
Our eyes speak volumes
And a nod is enough.

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

THE SEA SWELLS (Satis Shroff)

The sea shells on the sea shore
Suddenly the sea swells.
Ring the church and temple bells.
All is not well.
The sea has gone back.

Brown-burnt Tarzans and Janes
From different continents,
Wonder what’s going on.
A man from Sweden
Is immersed in his thriller under the palms.
A mother and daughter from Germany
Frolic on the white sunny beach.

Even the sea-gulls stop and listen
To the foreboding silence.

The sea swells,
Comes back
And brings an apocalyptic destruction:
Sweeping humans, huts and hotels,
Boats, billboards and debris.
Cries for help are stifled by the roaring waves.

The sea goes back.
Leaving behind lost souls,
Caught in suspended animation.
I close my eyes.
Everything dies.
Tsunami. Tsunami.
Shanti. Om shanti.

THE NEPALESE REALITY (Satis Shroff)

All the king’s horses
And all the king’s men
Could not put Nepal together again.

Nepalese men and women
Look out of their ornate windows,
In west, east, north and south Nepal
And think:
A decade long war between the Maoists and Royalists
Has come to an end
We have suffered so much.
So many innocent men, women, boys and girls
Have been slain by bullets,
From both sides.

Kal Bhairab seems to be pacified,
For Vishnu has crept to his bed of serpents.
He peers at the unfurling scenario:
A new interim government,
A new constitution,
More amendments.
He hisses with a sulk:
‘What can they do better than I?’

When aristocrats, chauvinists, egoists and phallocrats
Were in power,
The underprivileged castes and tribes,
Women and children,
Went always with empty hands.
A new revolution and democracy is in the land,
But have the people changed their minds?
Or are they still conscious of their caste, birth and tribe?
Of their earlier prejudices, hatred and malice
Towards the dalits, the have-nots?

Our fervent prayers have been heard.
The people are rejoicing in the streets of Kathmandu.
May there be ‘everlasting’ peace again in Nepal,
Though ‘everlasting peace’ has become inflationary.
We have no choice,
But to lay our hopes on the fragile signatures
Of two protagonists,
In the Shadow of the Himalayas.
Rejoice and take reality as it is.

2007-09-04T06:04:00.000-07:00

Der Zerbrochene Dichter (Satis Shroff)

Ich war der Präsident von der Nepali Literarische Gesellschaft
Und mein Reich war ein kleines Königreich
Von Dichtern und Schriftstellern am Hang des Himalaya.
Ich machte viel Fortschritte,
Nachdem ich als Buchhalter in Seiner Majestätsregierung anfing.
Ich war Brahmane und nahm eine Chettri als Frau,
Schön wie ein Bollywood Sternchen.
Jedes mal als ich ihre Antlitz betrachtete,
Wurde meine Männlichkeit geschmeichelt.
Ach, weil sie ein Jahrzehnt jünger war als ich.
Ich fing an spät zu schreiben
Und veröffentlichte ein Gedicht.
Die Kritiker sagten meine Verse wären schlecht
Und ich bekam mehrere Abfuhren.
Durch Zufall begegnete ich einem begabten jungen Mann,
Der mein Ghostwriter wurde.

Während ich mit meinem Geschäft beschäftigt war,
Und die Zahlen hin und her schob,
Schrieb er wunderschöne Verse
Und Kurzgeschichten in meinem Name.
Meinem Ruf wuchs im Königreich.
Ich wurde hoch verehrt für meine endlose Kreativität.
Gedichtbände mit meine Name sind erschienen.
Sie wurden in literarischen Kreisen vorgelesen.
Ich wurde produktiv und Prominent.
Bis mein Ghostwriter meine schöne Frau nahm
Und verschwand.

Da war ich: Ein alter, verletzter, zerbrochener Mann,
Der im Bett lag und auf Yamaraj wartete, der Gott des Todes.
Ich bereitete mich vor um dem ewigen Schicksal
Meines Lebens zu begegnen,
Nach einer Diagnose von Leberzirrhose.
Der Raksi, Gurkha Rum und teuere schottische Scotch
Hatten mich umgebracht.

Bis zum bitteren Ende riss ich mich zusammen.

2007-09-04T05:59:00.001-07:00

Mental Molotovs (Satis Shroff 1990)

Wenn Hoyerswerda brennt
Diskutieren sie über Asylanten.
Friedliche, Rechtbewusste Deutsche
Gehen mit Kerzen auf die Strassen.

Wenn ein Haus in Mölln brennt
Diskutieren sie ob sie Soldaten
Von den Gefahren von Somalia
zurückbringen sollen.

Bei der türkischen Beerdigung in Solingen,
Blieb der Kanzler weg.
Und vermied so das
Faule Eier und überreife Tomaten,
In seine Richtung fliegen würden.

Bei der Gerichtsverhandlung
Kommt der Skin und der Neonazi
Mit vielen Haaren auf dem Kopf.
Eine wahre Umwandlung.
Er trägt ein Zweiteiler Anzug,
Eine Krawatte um seinen Hals
Und sieht so respektabel aus.
Er schaut in die Kamera
Mit klaren, kalten, blauen Augen und
Sagt: „Ich bin unschuldig
Und ein Opfer der
Modernen Industriegesellschaft,“
Und zieht seine ursprüngliche Aussage zurück.

Die Richter sind Nachsichtig,
Und der Neo wird auf
Freien Fuß gesetzt.
Draußen gestikuliert mit seinem Mittelfinger
Und sagt: „Leck mich am Arsch!“
Als er in einem Auto wegfährt,
Und kommt wieder mit einem Molotov,
Wie ein Sphinx aus der Asche.
„Ausländer raus!
Deutschland den Deutschen!“
Das sind die Parolen
Von den neunziger Jahren
Und jetzt noch.
Die alte Schwarz und Weiß Fahne
Von dem Dritte Reich
Verursacht kein staunen mehr,
In Fußballstadien, Strassen und Kneipen.

2007-09-04T05:55:00.000-07:00

Die Frau des Professors (Satis Shroff)

„Mein Mann ist verrückt, er spinnt,“
Sagt Frau Fleckenstein, meine Vermieterin,
Als sie die Marmor Treppe schwankend hinunter kommt.
Sie bremst ihre torkelnde Gang
Mit einem Schluckauf
Und sagt: „ Entschuldigen Sie,“
Und entlädt ihre Elend,
Unzufriedenheit,Melancholie
Und Leid.
Der Emotionsstau von vierzig Ehejahren.

Ihr Mann ist ein angesehener Intellektueller.
Ein Ehrenwürdiger Mann.
Ein Professor mit einer jungen Geliebten.
Und sie hat ihre wohlgeformte Flaschen:
Rotwein, Weißwein,
Burgunder, Tokay und Ruländer,
Schwarzwälderschnaps, Whiskey,
Kirchwasser und Feuerwasser.
Je hochprozentiger
desto besser.

Sie verteidigt sich
Sie verletzt sich
Mit Bitterkeit und Eifer.
Ihre Schönheit ist verblasst.
Einst ihre Kapital,
Jetzt ein Handikap.
Ein ledernes Haut,
Taschen unter den Augen,
Vernachlässigte blonde Haare
Und ein Spitzbauch
von abendlichen Naschereien.
Eine verfaulte Leber,
Und ein Überschuss an Zorn.
Eine Fee die eine Nörglerin
Geworden ist.

Spannung liegt in der Luft
Töpfe und Pfannen fliegen in der Luft
Furie und Frustration,
Zorn und Bösartigkeit.
Eine Ehe ist zerrüttet

Was übrig bleibt ist eine Fassade,
Von einem Professor und seiner Gattin.
Grau und grausam zueinander.
Maskierte Gesichter die sagen:
„Guten Tag,“
Wenn es innen bewölkt, stürmisch,
Hurrikanartig ist.

Sie vergeben und vergessen.
Das ist menschliche Schwäche.
„Ich ertrage mein Groll,“ sagt Milady.
Und mein Vermieter ist ein wahrer Herr.
Herr über sein Reichtum,
Frau und sein elendes Eheleben.
Ein erbarmloses, reuloses,
mitleidloses Dasein,
Im Winter ihres Lebens.

Zu alt sich scheiden zu lassen,
Zu jung um zu sterben.
Was übrig bleibt ist nur die Lüge.

2007-09-04T05:51:00.000-07:00

Nur Sagarmatha weiß es (Satis Shroff)

Der Sherpa stapft durch die Schnee
Keucht und Kämpft
Und bereitet den Weg
Mit Fixierseil, Leitern,
Haken und Spikes vor,
Und sagt: „Folgen Sie mir, Sir.“

Letzte Saison war es ein Tiroler, ein Tokyoter
Und ein Gentleman von Vienna.
Diesmal ist es ein Sahib aus Bolognia,
Mit Gesundheitsversicherung
Und Lebensversicherung,
Bewaffnet mit Kreditkarten und Stolz,
Stürmen Sie die Himalaya Gipfeln,
Mit der Hilfe von Nepalis.

Hillary nahm Tenzings Bild auf.
Ach, die Zeiten haben sich geändert.
Für den Sahib ist es pure Eitelkeit,
Für den Sherpa krasse Existenzkampf.

Durch stürmische Wetter und der Sherpas
Können und schaffen am vorherigen Tag,
Nimmt der Sahib einen kräftigen Zug Sauerstoff,
Er denkt laut im Basislager:
„Die Sherpas können eh nicht kommunizieren,
Die sind des Schreibens und Lesens
Unkundig zu der Außenwelt.“

Der Sahib täuscht Krankheit und klettert runter.

Und macht ein Solo Klettern am nächsten Tag.
Und so wächst die Legende
Von der Sahib auf dem Gipfel.
Ein Digitalfoto geht rund um die Welt
Ohne Sherpa
Ohne Sauerstoff
Ohne Amphetamine.

War es ein faires Verhalten?
Nur Sagarmatha weiß es
Nur Sagarmatha weiß es.

2007-09-04T05:48:00.001-07:00

Die Berge sind Menschenleer (Satis Shroff)

Wo sind die jungen Leute?
Die Männer sind in fremden Armeeen
Und dienen ausländischen Herren.

Die schönen, Gehörsamen Frauen
Sind in Bombays und Kalkuttas Bordellen verführt.

Und sie Fragen mich:
„Wo die jungen Leute sind?“

Sie gingen fort um zu überleben,
Weil eine Kälte sich im Königreich verbreitet hat.
Die Dürre, die Hungersnot,
Die Armut, die Vetterwirtschaft
Und der Feudalismus
Und der Fluch unter den Namen
Afnu manchey
und Chakari
geht.

Glossar:
Afnu manchey: Leute von dem eigenen Kasten (Vitamin B)
Chakari: Speichelleckerei, Dienstleistungen in einer feudalen Hierarchie

2007-09-04T05:41:00.000-07:00

Der Makel (Satis Shroff)

Ich lebe in ständiger Angst
Entdeckt zu werden.
Meine Frau weiß es
Meine Tochter weiß es
Sonst niemand.
Ich fühle mich wie ein Versager,
Denn ich habe einen Makel.

Die Gründe liegen im Elternhaus,
Teilweise in der Schule.
Meine Eltern hatten keine Zeit für mich
Sie schufteten und schafften.
Vater kam oft mit einer Fahne.
Er schlug auf Mutter und uns.
Mein Lehrer verprügelte mich auch.
Ich bekam Lernprobleme.

Als Kind musste ich in den Feldern arbeiten,
Denn mein Vater war Bauer.
Ich wurde als Kind vernachlässigt.
Meine Mutter hätte mir geholfen,
Aber sie war Müde und ratlos.
Ich mogelte mich durch in der Schule,
Schaffte aber den Schulabschluss nicht.
So wuchs ich als Mann auf
Ohne Lesen,
Ohne Schreiben
Zu können.

*****

2007-09-04T05:36:00.001-07:00

Die heilige Kühe von Kathmandu (Satis Shroff)

Heilige Kuh!
Der Bürgermeister von Kathmandu
Hat es geschafft.
Seit Jahrhundert eine Tabu
Die freie, nonchalant Kühe von Kathmandu
Wurden zusammengetrieben
Wie bei einem Rodeo von der Nepali Polizei.
War es Nandi, Shivas Stier?
Oder heilige Kühe?
„Trotzdem sind sie Rinder,“ sagte der Bürgermeister.
„Streunende Kühe sind nicht erwünscht.“

Achtundachtzig heilige Kühe
Kamen unter das Hammer
Nicht bei Sothebys
Sondern in Kathmandu.
Die Auktion brachte 64,460 Rupien.

Kühe waren Hindernisse
Für Fußgänger und Touristen in Thamel.
Kühe die Dünger lieferten,
Und andere Produkte:
Milch, Joghurt und Butter
Für den Hindus und Buddhisten in Kathmandu.
Kühe gaben Urin
Das die Hindus eifrig sammelten
Und für religiöse Zeremonien brauchten.
Kühe waren Heilig
Und wurden angebetet und verehrt
Als die Kuhmutter.

Kühe die geschenkt wurden
Und frei gesetzt von den Brahmanen und Chettris
Um sich von ihren Sünden zu befreien.
Kühe, die eine Zeichen für Gaijatra waren,
Eine achttägige Hommage an den verstorbenen.

Es war ein König, so eine Legende,
Der Befahl, dass Kühe freigesetzt sollen
Von Familien die trauerten,
In den Strassen von Kathmandu,
Lalitpur und Bhadgaon,
Um die Schmerzen von einem verstorbenen Prinz
Zu verkraften,
Und eine traurige Mutter und Königen
Zu trösten.

Die Kinder verkleideten sich
Als groteske Kühe und lustige Figuren
Und tanzten zu Nepali Musik,
Um die Königen zum lachen zu bringen
Und ihre Tränen zu wischen.

2007-09-04T05:30:00.000-07:00

Santa Fe (Satis Shroff)

Ein deutscher Professor machte mir den Hof
Und sagte, dass ich trotzdem
Mein Kreatives Schreiben
Weitermachen dürfte,
Wenn ich ihm heiraten würde.
Ich gab ihn das Jawort,
Schenkte ihm fünf Kinder
Und hatte fürs Schreiben keine Zeit.

Ich war ewig dabei
Pampers zu wechseln,
Popos einzukremen
Für sieben Familiemitgliedern zu kochen.
Ich staubte die vielen Fenstern und Möbeln ab.
Polierte das Treppenhaus
Räumte immer die Kindersachen auf,
In einem dreistöckigen Haus.
Ich fütterte und pflegte den Kleinen,
Lobte und streichelte den Größeren.

Ich hatte plötzlich keine Zeit
Für mich und meine Belange.
Hin und wieder hatte ich eine Inspiration
Aber ich hatte keine Zeit
Und die Gedanken sind in Luft aufgelöst.
Verloren waren meine
Intellektuelle Kostbarkeiten,
Zwischen Sonnenaufgang und Sonnenuntergang.

Eine Müdigkeit fiel über mich.
Ich war froh, wenn ich einmal gut schlief.
Der Schlaf tröstete mich nach meiner Hausarbeit.
Die Familie war zu sehr mit mir.

Eines Tages habe ich mir auf den Weg
Nach Santa Fe gemacht,
Der einzige Ort wo ich mich frei fühlte.
Frei zu denken und auszusortieren
Und sie in meinem Laptop heranwachsen zu sehen.

2007-09-04T05:26:00.000-07:00

Das göttliche in Dir (Satis Shroff)

Wenn das vertraute plötzlich Fremd wird,
Die Fremde wird vertraut.
Eine fremde Zunge und fremde Sitten,
Fremd zueinander
Ein Nepali trifft ein Schweizer Fräulein
In den Bergen von Grindelwald.

Ein fremder in ein vertrautes Landschaft,
Eine Welt voller eisige Schneehänge
Dennoch wuchs eine Wärme.

Wir hatten die gleiche Gedanken
Ohne ein gemeinsames Wort.
Die Gesten und die Mimik sagten:
Wir verstehen uns.

Namaste! Auf wiedersehen!
Auf wiedersehen! Namaste!
Wir werden uns wiedersehen.
Ich begrüße das göttliche in Dir.

*****

2007-09-04T05:21:00.000-07:00

Mein Alptraum (Satis Shroff)

Wenn die Nacht nicht so Kalt ist,
Wenn ich im Bett bin
Träume ich von einem entfernten Land.
Ein Land wo ein König über seinen Reich regiert
Ein Land wo es noch Bauern gibt, ohne Rechte,
Die Felder bestellen, die denen nicht gehören.
Ein Land wo die Kinder arbeiten müssen,
Und keine die Zeit für Tagträumerei haben.
Wo Mädchen das Gras schneiden
Und schwere Körbe auf dem Rücken tragen.
Winzige Füße, die steilen Wege gehen.
Ein Land, wo der Vater Holz sammelt und zerstückelt,
Die schließlich nur ein Paar Rupien bringen,
Von Sonnenaufgang bis Sonnenuntergang.
Ein Land, wo unschuldige Mädchen
Ihre rechte Hand ausstrecken,
Und werden mit Dollars belohnt.

Ein Land, wo eine Frau weiße, rote, gelbe und lila
Tabletten und Pillen sammelt,
Von den altruistischen Touristen, die vorbei laufen.
Die meisten sind weder Ärzte noch Krankenschwestern.
Dennoch verteilen Sie Pillen,
Sich ohne Gedanken zu machen über die Nebenwirkungen.
Die Nepali Frau besitzt eine Arsenal
Von potente Pharmaka.
Sie kann die fein gedruckte Hinweise nicht lesen,
Weil sie auf Deutsch, Französisch, Englisch
Oder Spanisch sind,
Die Hieroglyphen von viele ferne Grammatik.
Schwarze Buchstaben sehen aus
Wie asiatische Wasserbüffel in ihren Augen.
„Kala akshar, bhaisi barabar“ sagt die Nepali Frau.

Die Gedanken, dass sie Pillen und Tabletten
An andere Kranke Nepali Mütter oder Kinder verteilt,
Macht mir Angst.
Wie gedankenlos, diese Fremden,
Die Trekker und Bergsteiger mit Bildung,
Die medizinische Almosen geben,
Und dabei die makabere Rollen von Ärzte,
Im Schatten des Himalaya, spielen.

Glossar:
Kala: Schwarz
Akshar: Buchstaben
Bhaisi: Wasserbüffel
Barabar: ist gleich/ähnlich wie

2007-09-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

Satis Shroff’s German Translations: Satis Shroff has translated Nepali literature (prose and poems) by Nepali writers such as: Laxmiprasad Devkota (Muna Madan), Bhupi Sherchan, Banira Giri (Kathmandu), Bhisma Upreti, Krishna Bhakta Shrestha, Bal Krishna Sama (Ich Hasse & Auf der Suche nach Poesie), Abhi Subedi, Toya Gurung, Dorjee Tschering Lepcha (Die Ameisenkönigin & Der Spinnenmensch), Guruprasad Mainali (Der Martyrer), Krishna Bam Malla (Der Pfluger), Lekhnach Paudyal (Der Himalaya), Hridaya Singh Pradhan (Die Tränen von Ujyali), Shiva Kumer Rai (Der Preis des Fisches),Sharad Sharma (Woman:Nature), Toya Gurung (Mein Traum), Binaya Rawal (Phulmayas Dasainfest), Abhi Subedi (Am Abend mit dem Auto), Bimal Nibha (Jumla), Jiwan Acharya (Der Bildhauer & Muglin) etc. into German, a part of which can be read under the title ‘Under the Shadow of the Himalayas.’
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Muna Madan (Laxmi Prasad Devkota)

Devkotas Werk „Muna und Madan“ entstand 1936 auf. Dieses Gedicht basiert auf einer Newari-Ballade. Madan, ein Geschäftsmann will nach Lhasa (Tibet) um dort Handel zu treiben, wie es früher üblich war. Damals gab es eine richtige Newar-Kolonie von Händlern in Lhasa. Seine frisch verheiratete Frau Muna liebt ihn innig und bittet ihn, sie nicht allein in Kathmandu zu lassen, „mein Herz nicht brennen zu lassen in einem Feuer, das nie ausgemacht werden kann“. Madan macht sich sehr viele Sorgen, geht aber trotzdem weg von Muna. Bevor er geht, verlangt er ein Lächeln von Muna. Aber Muna kann „die Sonne nicht herausbringen in der Nacht und lächeln zum Abschied“. Sie hat keine Interesse für Reichtum und ist sogar bereit, ein Leben in Armut, Frieden und Liebe zu verbringen. Aber Madan muss sein Haus reparieren und muss sich um seine alte Mutter sorgen. Er geht auf diese gefährliche Reise, wird auf dem Rückweg krank und wird von seinen Händlerfreunden im Stich gelassen. Dennoch hat er Glück und wird von einem guten Tibeter gepflegt. Muna kann die lange Zeit der Trennung nicht aushalten und ist traurig und verzweifelt. Sie sieht viele schlechte Omen. Ein böser Verehrer von Muna schickt eine Nachricht von Madans Tod zu ihr. Muna stirbt an gebrochenem Herzen. Viele Jahre später kehrt Madan zurück und findet seine Geliebte schon längst tot und verschwunden und seine Mutter liegt auf dem Sterbebett. Er kann den Schmerz und das Leiden nicht verkraften und stirbt auch.

Madan verabschiedet sich um nach Tibet zu gehen:

(Muna): „Geh nicht, mein Leben, und lass mich hier allein,
Im Wald meines Herzens hast du ein unlöschbares Feuer der Sehnsucht entfacht,
Ein unstillbares Feuer der Sehnsucht hast du entfacht,
Du Stern meiner Augen, oh mein Geliebter! Wenn dieses Licht erlischt,
Was soll ich sagen? Ich würde nichts sagen, auch wenn du mich vergiftet hättest,
Geliebter, mich vergiftet!
Die Worte aus meinem Herzen, bleiben mir im Hals stecken, in meinem Hals bleiben sie stecken
Mein Herz schlägt fünfzig mal in einer Sekunde,
Wenn meine Brust aufgerissen (würde) und dir gezeigt würde,
Würden deine Gedanken vielleicht zurückkehren wenn das Bild entschleiert würde,
Ein Stück meines Herzens fällt in meine Tränen, diese Tränen sprechen nicht,
Meine tiefsten Gefühle bleiben in meinem Herzen, meine Brust zeigt sie nicht,
Meine Liebe, Tränen können nicht sprechen!“

(Madan): „Oh meine Muna, sprich nicht so, blühend im Mondlicht,
Schnell werde ich zurückkehren, warum vergisst du?
In Lhasa werde ich zwanzig Tage verweilen, und zwanzig Tage unterwegs sein,
Der Cakheva Vogel kommt an einem Tag morgens angeflogen,
Geliebte, der große Tag, an dem wir uns treffen.
Eines Mannes Entschluss ist Handeln oder Sterben,
Geliebte, leg mir mit deinen Tränen kein Hindernis auf den Weg.
Lächle, und zeige deine Zähne, die wie Kerne des Granatapfels sind,
Wenn du lächelst, kann ich Indra1 auf seinem Thron herausfordern,
Geliebte, lächele beim Abschied !“

(Muna): „Oh, mein Rama, oh mein Krishna, es wird Dschungel und Berge geben,
Die Tibeter auf den Felsen sind wie wilde Tiere, die Kühe anfallen!
Ein Lächeln beim Abschied ist wie die Sonne in der Nacht, wie kann ich dies verstehen?
Wenn du gehen musst, lass mich nicht allein, lass mich dich begleiten,
Laß mich dein Gesicht und deinen Körper beschützen mit meiner Liebe.“

(Madan): „Sprich nicht so, verstehe Muna, deine Füße sind wie Blumen,
Die Wälder sind dornig und steil, wie kann ich dich mitnehmen?
Oh Nagas Tochter, komm nicht in die Berge !
Meine einzige Mutter, das glückverheißende Licht, vergiss sie nicht zu pflegen,
Lass eine Mutter, die sechzig Winter überstanden hat, nicht alleine,
Sie möge sitzen und auf dein mondgleiches Gesicht schauen.“

(Muna): „Ihre grau gewordenen Haare, ihre müde gewordener Körper, die Liebe deiner Mutter
Haben deine Füße nicht zurückgehalten, die Schatten der Liebe konnten dich nicht aufhalten,
Mein Herr, die Liebe deiner Mutter.
In ein wildes Land gehen, gekleidet wie ein Händler, Gefahren ausgesetzt,
Was soll gewonnen werden, Herr ! Du verlässt sie und gehst nach Lhasa?
Taschen voller Gold,( sind) Hände voller Schmutz, was bringt so ein Reichtum?
Besser ist es Brennnessel und Salat zu essen mit zufriedenem Herzen,
Oh meine Geliebte, mit einem reichen Herzen !“

Madan): „Geliebte, deine Worte treffen mich ins Herz,
Was willst du machen, Muna ? Dieser Atem stockt vor jenem sündhaften Reichtum,
Mit ein paar Schluck Milch würde ich Mutters Kehle erfrischen,
Ihre Wünsche nach eine Herberge und einem Brunnen erfüllen,
Diese Arme würde ich schmücken mit Reifen aus schwerem Gold,
Das Fundament des Hauses, baufällig durch Schulden, würde ich verstärken.
Diese Hoffnung entstand in meinem Herzen und verschwand wieder
Ich habe meine Füße jetzt gehoben, meine Wünsche gehoben,
Gott ist oben, mein Herz ist meine Begleiter, Ich werde diesen Fluss überqueren,
Falls ein Gefühl mir gesellen sollte, obwohl ich mich richtig verhalte, werde ich auf dem Weg sterben,
Außerhalb von dieser Erde, im Himmel, Liebste, werden wir uns wieder treffen.

(Muna): „Oh mein Krishna, sprich nicht und binde nicht den Knoten im Herzen noch enger,
In meinem Geist male ich ein Bild von deinem kostbaren Gesicht,
Wende dich nicht ab, Liebster ! Verstecke nicht die Tränen, die deine Augen füllen,
Die Mädchen von Lhasa, mit blitzenden Augen, aus Gold geschmiedet,
Ihre Sprache wie die einer Nachtigall, mit Rosen die auf ihren Wangen blühen,
Lass sie alle spielen, lass sie alle tanzen auf den Bergen und Wiesen,
Falls du mich vergisst, diese Tränen werden dich beunruhigen, sage ich ängstlich.
Mach dich auf die Reise, lass dunkel werden in Haus und Stadt,
Ich habe keine Kraft mehr zu weinen, ich habe Tränen vergossen vor dir“.
In der Dunkelheit brennen die Erinnerungen wenn es blitzt,
Ein Regen von kühlen Tränen wird vor den Augen der Sorgenvollen fallen.

Muna allein

Muna allein, wunderschön, blühend wie eine Lotusblume,
Sich offenbart wie der Mond, der die silberne Wolkenkante berührt,
Wenn sie ihre zarten Lippen öffnete zum Lächeln, regnete es Perlen,
Sie welkte wie eine Blume in Winter (Pus), und Tränen flossen aus ihren Augen
Sie trocknete ihren große Augen und kümmerte sich um ihre Schwiegermutter,
Wenn sie schlief in ihrem Kämmerlein war ihre Kissen durchnässt von tausend Sorgen.
Lang (waren) die Tage, lang die Nächte, traurig die Tage,
Ob dunkle Nächte oder helle, der Mond selbst war traurig,
Muna am Fenster, ein glitzernder Stern, ihre Liebster ist in Lhasa,
Tränen in ihren Augen, Munas Herz war zerfressen von Sorge,
Es war als ob ein dünner Nieselschauer in ihrer Stimme wäre.
Ein Lied stieg empor in der Stille, als ob die Sehnsucht selbst gesprochen hätte.
Ihre Träume waren kostbar für ihre Augen, Tausende von Sorgen erreichten sie nicht,
Wenn sie ihn im Traum sah, fiel es ihr schwer aufzustehen.
Sie weinte, da sie noch lebte, auch im Traum,
Tag für Tag welkt sie dahin wie eine Rose.
Sie versteckt ihre Trauer in ihrem Herzen, verbirgt sie in Schweigsamkeit:
Ein Vogel versteckt mit seinen Federn den Pfeil, der sein Herz durchbohrt,
Das Ende des Tages wird hell im Schein einer Lampe.
Die Schönheit einer welkenden Blumen wächst, wenn der Herbst nahe ist.
Die dunkeln Ränder der Wolken sind silbern, und der Mond ist noch heller,
Sein Gesicht beim Abschiednehmen leuchtet auf in ihrem Herzen, das Licht der Traurigkeit,
Tränen von Tautropfen fallen auf Blumen, Regenwasser vom Himmel,
Sternenlicht, Tränen der Nacht, tropfen auf die Erde.
Die süßen Wurzeln der schönen Rose werden zur Nahrung von Würmern
Eine Blume, die in der Stadt blüht, wird Opfer eines Bösen,
Die Hand eines Menschen füllt Schmutz in reines Wasser
Menschen säen Dornen in den Weg der Menschen.
Wunderschön, unsere Muna, sitzend an ihrem Fenster
Ein Stadtgauner, ein Taugenichts, sah sie, sie bewegte sich wie ein Nymphe,
Machte eine Lampe für die Göttin Bhavani.
Ihre runden Backen, ihre Ohrläppchen, ihre lockigen Haare,
Bei dieser plötzlichen Erscheinung stand er auf, verlor seinen Verstand,
Und ging weg, einmal hierhin, einmal dorthin.

Du siehst die Rose ist schön, Bruder berühre sie nicht!
Er sah sie mit Verlangen, er war verzaubert, werde kein Wilder!
Die Dinge der Schöpfung sind schöne Edelsteine für unsere Blicke,
Berühre und töte nicht die Blume, die Gottes Lächeln bekommen hat.

Madan ist auf dem Heimweg an Cholera erkrankt

„Lasst mich nicht im Wald allein, meine Freunde,
Zur sündigen Beute von Krähen und Geiern,
Meine alte Mutter daheim! Wird die alte Frau sterben?
Meine Muna, gleich wie der Mond, wird sie zu Tode geschlagen?
Oh meine Freunde, O meine Brüder, ich werde jetzt nicht sterben,
Ich werde den Tod bekämpfen, ich werde aufstehen, ich will nicht im Wald sterben,
Mein Hals ist trocken, meine Brust brennt, trocknet meine Tränen,
Noch habe ich Atem, noch habe ich Hoffnung, versteht meinen Schmerz,
Meine alte Mutter wird euch segnen, rettet mich!
Es ist Pflicht eines Menschen, die Tränen des anderen zu wischen.“

Was willst du tun, Bruder? Unser Heim ist weit entfernt von diesem Dschungelweg,
Warten wir bis du geheilt bist von dieser Cholera, wird uns Unglück bringen,
In diesem Wald gibt es keine Heilkräuter,
Verweile hier und denke an Gott,
Alle müssen gehen, ihre Haus und Heim verlassen,
Wenn du in deiner letzten Stunde an Gott denkst, wirst du sicher gerettet werden.“

Gestützt auf seine Arme, erhob sich Madan, (er sah), seine Freunde waren gegangen,
Im Westen hatten sich die Augen des Tages blutrot gefärbt,
Eine fahle Dämmerung kam über den Wald, sogar der Wind schlief ein,
Die Vögel hörten auf zu singen, die Kälte befiel ihn
Ein trauriger Zustand, erbarmungslos die Berge und Wälder,
Die Sterne, die ganze Welt erschien grausam, grausame Trostlosigkeit.
Er drehte sich langsam auf dem Gras, dann seufzte er,
Ein Bild von Zuhause kam in sein Gedächtnis, klarer als je zuvor,
‚Oh meine Mutter, denk an mich!
Oh meine Muna, denk an mich!
Gott, Gott, in diesem Wald bist Du meine einziger Freund,
(Von) oben siehst du die steinharten Herzen der Menschen.

Wo wird jene Feuerflamme sein? Hat der Wald Feuer gefangen?
Ist ein Waldbrand entstanden, um diesen sterbenden Menschen noch mehr zu zerstören?
Ein Man näherte sich, er trug eine Fackel,
War es ein Räuber, war es ein Geist oder eine böser Waldgeist?

Sein Atem hing an einem Faden, sollte er hoffen, sollte er fürchten?
Schließlich erreicht die Fackel sein Gesicht.
Ein Tibeter schaute, wer da weinte, er sah den kranken Mann,
Er sagt liebevoll, “Deine Freunde sind treulos,
Mein Haus ist in der Nähe, nur ein wenig (kos) entfernt, du wirst nicht sterben,
Ich werde dich tragen, ist dir das recht? Mir macht es nichts aus.“

Der arme Madan berührte die Füße des Tibeters and sagte,
„Oh mein Herr, mein tibetischer Bruder! Was für wunderbare Worte!
Daheim ist meine alte Mutter, ihre Haare sind grau,
Daheim ist meine Frau, die wie eine Lampe leuchtet,
Rette mich jetzt und Gott wird zuschauen,
Wer den Menschen hilft, wird bestimmt in den Himmel kommen.
Ich, aus der Kaste der Krieger, berühre deine Füße, ich tue es nicht widerwillig,
Ein Mensch ist ein Mensch durch die Größe seines Herzens, nicht durch seine Kaste“.

Der Tibeter trug ihn zu seinem Haus und legte ihn auf ein Tuch aus Wolle,
Er gab ihm ein paar Schluck Wasser und verwöhnte ihn liebevoll,
Er suchte und brachte eine Heilkraut, zerdrückte es und gab ihm zu trinken,
Mit Yakmilch machte er ihn wieder stark.

Madan verabschiedet sich von dem Tibeter

Madan dreht sich um und schaut nach dem Hof der Tibeter:
„Was für schöne Kinder, was für schöne junge Tiere, so im Spiel vertieft!“
Nachdem er zugeschaut hatte, wandte Madan sich dem Tibeter zu und
Seine Lippen offenbarten verborgene Wünsche seines Herzens:
„Grün sind die Hügel, die Blumen blühen in den Wäldern,
In meinem Herz denke ich an mein Heim in der Ferne, lieber Bruder.
Die Knospen müssen aufgebrochen sein, zart und duftend
Der Pflaumenbaum muss sich des Frühlings erfreuen,
Ein zartes Grün wird in den Wäldern erwacht sein!

Das kleine Haus in jenem Land, es strahlt in meiner Erinnerung
Meine Tränen sind der Tribut für jene Erinnerung
Meine Mutter, Mond der Berge, muss sich an mich erinnern,
Ich verweile weit entfernt an diesem Waldesrand, bringe Tränen in jenes Haus.
Du hast ewige Verdienste erworben, ich kann (es dir) nicht zurückzahlen,
Du hast mir das Geschenk des Lebens gegeben, ich kann (es dir) nicht zurückzahlen,
Ich stehe immer in deiner Schuld, kann es dir nicht zurückzahlen.
Zwei schmutzige Taschen mit Gold habe ich im Wald vergraben,
Eine ist für dich, eine ist für mich, gerecht verteilt für deinen Verdienst,
Nimm es, verabschiede mich, ich gehe nach Hause,
Während ich weitergehe, erinnere ich mich immer an Deine Barmherzigkeit.“

Der Tibeter sagt, “Was kann ich mit reinem Gold anfangen?
Gold wächst nicht, wenn du es pflanzt, oder? Was kann ich mit Gold machen?
Kann ich es pflanzen und essen durch deine Liebenswürdigkeit?
Meine Kinder, Söhne und Töchter, sind verlassen worden von ihrer Mutter,
Was nützt Gold, Vermögen, wenn das Schicksal sie uns weggenommen hat?
Diese Kinder können nicht Gold essen, sie tragen keinen Schmuck,
Meine Gattin ist im Himmel, die Wolken sind ihr einziger Schmuck.“
Der Tibeter sagt: „Diese Gelegenheit zu bekommen, Verdienste zu sammeln, war eine Chance“
Es war ein Glück, die Tugend der Hilfsbereitschaft zu üben.
Für meine Wohltat nehme ich nichts, behalte mich in Erinnerung, während du gehst.
Ich pflüge selbst, ich ernähre mich selbst, nichts wird mir geschenkt.
Was würdest du mir geben? Was werde ich nehmen? Ich bettle nicht.
Denk an meine Name (Changbas) während du gehst, erzähle über mich daheim,
Schicke den Segen der alten Frau für diese Kinder.“
Weinend brach er vom Waldrand auf, unwissend und ungebildet
In jenem Tibeter erinnerte er sich der Quelle des guten Herzens,
Weinend ging Madan in Richtung Heimat.

Madans Mutter stirbt

Madans Mutter, ihre Haare weiß, liegt im Bett,
Mond der Berge, wartend in Traurigkeit auf ihre letzten Tag.
Die Lampe dieses Hauses, das Öl verbraucht, sich verzehrend,
Flackerndes Licht, die Dunkelheit drohte zu kommen.
Sie sieht das Gesicht ihres Sohnes, und ruft (nach) Gott
Für ihren Sohn, ihres Herzens Herz, (ruft) sie nach Gott.
Eine Brise vom Fenster streicht über ihre weißen Haare und geht vorüber
Haucht Mutters Herz in Richtung Lhasa.
Keine Tränen in ihren Augen, erfüllt mit Frieden
Der Glanz des Endes kommt um die Abenddämmerung zu erhellen,
Die treibende Kraft ihres Lebens, ihr Garant gegen den Tod: Ihr Sohn ist weit weg,
Sein Gesicht zu sehen bevor sie stirbt, ist ihr Herzenswunsch,
Heiß von Fieber, ihr schmale Hand brennt mit Sehnsucht,
Sie hält liebevoll die Hand ihrer weinenden Schwiegertochter,
Tätschelt ihre weiche Hand und sagt, “O meine Schwiegertochter,
Jetzt ist die Zeit gekommen, ich muss diese Welt verlassen2,
Warum Weinen, weine nicht Schwiegertochter !

Alle müssen diesen Weg nehmen, mein Kind, der Reiche und der Fakir
Erde vermischt sich mit Erde an den Ufern des Leidens,
Erdulde dies, sei nicht gefangen in der Schlinge des Schmerzes,
Sei Fromm, denn Hingebung erbringt Erleuchtung auf dem letzten Weg!
Ich habe die Blumengärten der Erde blühen und verwelken gesehen,
In Traurigkeit, liebe Schwiegertochter, habe ich Gott erkannt !
Die Samen, die auf der Erde gesät werden, tragen Früchte im Himmel,
Was ich gegeben habe, nehme ich mit mir, was geht mit?
Der Reichtum, den du in einem Traum erwirbst, bleibet in deinen Händen, wenn du erwachst.
Ich nehme Abschied von allen, Madan ist nicht gekommen.
„Meine Augen haben ihn heute nicht gesehen, bevor sie sich schlossen,
Ich bin gestorben,“ sag dies zu Madan.
Die alte Frau, die ihrem Ende entgegen ging sagte: „Weine nicht zu sehr“

Madan kehrt Heim

Munas Worte waren wie Geschosse, erinnert sich Madan,
Wie süß hat sie mich getadelt, „ Was kannst du machen mit Reichtum?“
Ihre nektargleichen Worte trafen mich bis ins Mark und durchbohrten mein Herz,
„Besser ist es mit glücklichem Herzen Salat und Brennnessel zu verzehren“,
Jetzt hat Gott dies ermöglicht mit Reichtum
Ein Vorhang hat mich zugedeckt, ein Vorhang hat mir meinen Weg versperrt, oh Schwester!
Ich werde nicht weinen, ich werde morgen gehen und sie treffen,
Lüfte den Vorhang, O Schicksal (Gott), und du wirst schnell gesegnet.

Madan fiel auf die Erde und wurde schlapp vor Traurigkeit.
Der Arzt3 kam, hielt ihn am Handgelenk und fühlte seinen Puls:
Was ist Medizin für einen der krank ist am Herzen?
Probleme mit Husten und Schleim, sagt der Arzt,
Ohren, die Worte von anderen nicht hören, hören diese
Madan sagt ihm „Lies die Bücher über die Heilkunde, blättere die Susruta durch‚
Wo ist die Qual des Herzens, erzähle es mir?
Die Krankheit, die meinen Körper quält, ist, am Leben zu sein: Vertreibe diese Krankheit!
Die Erinnerung macht mich unruhig, ich habe Durst nach dem Anblick von Muna (Darshan)4
Meine Augen starren in die Weite, ich werde verbrannt durch eine Brise,
Mein Gehirn dreht sich wie ein Wirbelwind, mein Herz schmerzt mich,
All meine Symptome sind in meinem Herzen, versteckt von der Außenwelt.“

Der Arzt schaute, der Arzt verstand, jener Arzt kam nie (mehr).
Was auch das Herzleiden sein mochte, ein Mittel dagegen wurde nicht gefunden.
Tag für Tag wurde es mit dem armen Madan noch schlimmer,
Er war bei Bewusstsein wie zuvor, seine Sprache war klar.
„Oh, meine Schwester, führe diesen Haushalt,
Erfülle Mutters Wunsch nach eine Herberge5 und einem Brunnen,
Muna kümmert sich um unsere einsame Mutter, hoch oben;
Möge keine andere einsame Mutter vernachlässigt werden,
Mach den Knoten6 an meinem Kleid auf, gib mir einen Schluck Gangeswasser7,
Es gibt keine Medikamente, meine Schwester, für ein gebrochenes8 Herz!“
Die Wolken rissen auf, der Mond lächelte schön am Himmel,
Begleitet von den Sternen, schaute der Mond durch das Fenster,
Die Wolken zogen sich zusammen, Madan schlief für immer,
Am nächsten Tag war es wieder klar, und die Sonne ging auf.

Habt ihr den Staub aus eueren Augen gewischt, Bruder und Schwester?
Wir müssen diese Welt verstehen und nicht Feiglinge sein.
Schauen wir der Welt ins Gesicht, reißen wir uns zusammen,
Lasst unsere Flügel zum Himmel schwingen, während wir auf dieser Erde leben.
Wenn das Leben nur Essen und Trinken wäre, Herr, was wäre das Leben?
Wenn der Mensch keine Hoffnung hätte auf ein Leben danach, Herr, was wäre der Mensch?
Solange wir auf der Erde leben, schauen wir zum Himmel,
Klage nicht, wenn du nach unten auf der Erde schaust!
Der Geist ist die Lampe, der Körper das Opfer, und der Himmel die Belohnung9.
Unsere Taten10 sind unsere Gottesverehrung, so sagt Laxmiprasad11, der Dichter.

Devkota, Lakshmiprasad:Muna Madan Sajha Prakashan, Kathmandu
e-mail:sajhap@wlink.com.np

******

Satis Shroff ist Journalist und Schriftsteller. Schule in Darjeelings North Point, Studium der Zoologie und Botanik an der Tribhuvan Universität (Kathmandu). Danach Tätigkeit als Lehrer der Naturwissenschaften an einer englischen Schule in Kathmandu und später Features Editor (The Rising Nepal). Verfasser der „Sprachkunde Nepals“ (Horlemann Verlag) und Veröffentlichungen in: The Christian Science Monitor, epd-Entwicklungspolitik, Nepal Information (Köln), Himal Asia, The Rising Nepal, The Independent, Nelles „Nepal“, Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) und schreibt regelmäßif für The American ChronicleSyndikate von 21 US Zeitungen. Er studierte Creative Writing (bei Prof. Bruce Dobler, Universität Pittsburgh), und Writers Bureau (Manchester). Er ist Dozent in Basel (Schweiz). Preisträger des DAAD-Preis.
*****

Woman: Nature (Sharad Sharma)

Die Frau, der Anfang von Schöpfung,
Eine Schöpfung bei sich, nicht eine tugendvolle Gattin!
Kann nicht in die vier Wände eingesperrt werden,
Sie, die das ganze Natur verkörpert!

Sie kann nicht nur eine Ehefrau sein,
Diese verehrte von ihre Lieblinge.
Sie ist der Inbegriff von macht,
Sie ist die Heimat von elterliche Liebe.

Sie hat Flügeln von Gefühle,
Die in den Himmel fliegen,
Und herzliche Umarmungen/Liebkosungen von der Liebe,
Die ins Herzen eindringen.

Sie ist ihre eigene Reichtum,
Ihre eigene Herrin, Sie!
Sie kann nicht irgendwo gefesselt werden,
Eine Wolke der Freiheit ist Sie!

*****

Mein Traum (Toya Gurung)

Mein Traum
Ein Traum davon einmal
In meiner Mutterleib getragen zu werden.
Ein Traum von Geburt und Rituale
Und dann von watscheln (toddling) und lispeln.
Ein Traum davon über einen Prinz
Geträumt zu haben,
Und Schamgefühle über mich selbst.
Ein Traum von eine heimliche Hochzeit
In einem Tempel.

Mein Traum
Ein Traum von Patronen,
Gezielt an einem unschuldigen Brust.
Ein Traum davon, lebend auf dem Boden
Hingeschmissen zu werden.
Und gezwungen zu werden,
Das letzte gute Henkersmalzeit zu genießen.

Ein Traum (davon) erhängt zu werden
Lebendig von einem Baum
Und gestochen zu werden,
Von eine Bajonette.
Mein Traum
Ich weiß es nicht warum,
Verfolgt zu werden von der
Vergangenheit,
Gegenwart
Und Zukunft.

*****

Phulmayas Dasainfest (Binaya Rawal)

Ich fragte Phulmaya
Als ich sie letztes Jahr in Mugling traf:
„Wie hast Du den Dasainfest dieses Jahr verbracht?“

Mit eine traurige Stimme erwiderte sie:
„Ich konnte meine Wünsche nicht erfüllen,
Schöne Kleider dieses Jahr zu tragen, Bruder,
Aber ich aß viele Pokhrelireis,
Leckere Currysauce (aber ohne Fleisch).“

Sie sagte sofort:
„Dieses Jahr lud mich der Bruder von Auswärts
Zum Curryreis,
Gab mir schöne Kleider zu tragen,
Schenkte mir ein wenig Juwelen auch.
Ich hatte eine großartige Dasainfest.

Dieses Jahr kam ich in Bombay an.
Als ich spazieren ging in Bombay
Winkte jemand von weitem.
Das Gesicht kam mir bekannt vor,
Ich kam näher und plötzlich rief meine Name:
„Phulmaya!“

Weinend sagte Phulmaya:
„Bruder, warum fragtest Du nicht,
Wie Du den Dasainfest diesmal verbracht hast?“

*****

Am Abend mit dem Auto (Abhi Subedi)

Die Stadt hebt ein Mund
Um Thamels Verkehr
Neben der königliche Palast,
Und hupt und ruft
Die Abenddämmerung,
In eine chaotischen Mannier.

Vögel
Singen nicht mehr in Chorus
In diese Bäume
Verpflanzt am Asphalt.

Der Palast hat eine Geschichte,
Mit federnen Himmel (feathery sky)
Übergossen mit Düngemittel
Über die Arsenale.

Königliche Wappen
Mit trockene Vogelmist
Getragen von Generäle,
Die Faul gegen eine Kater kämpfen.

Wie oft
Habe ich die Geschichte
Aus all diese ausgeringt?
Am Abend fährt ein Auto vorbei
Auf einem Autofenster
Rastet der Arm einer Frau:
Voller Handreifen.

Abend
In Thamel steht nebenan
In der Nation bricht der Tumult aus.

*****

Jumla (Bimal Nibha)

Der Traum ist verloren.
Nirgendwo gibt es Licht.
Warst Du in eine Siedlung,
Die von der Dunkelheit verschluckt war?

Die nackte Berge
Stehen wie kriminellen,
Die keine Nahrung mehr zu geben haben.
Was auch dort ist,
Das unertragbares (barren) Land
Streckt überall.

Die Herzen von Männern schlagen
In den Rippen von Schafe und Kühe,
Zwei kalte Hände,
Die verlangen nach Berührung haben,
Bewegen sich unendlich.

Den Dörfern berührend,
Fließt ein Fluss,
Wo große und kleine runde Steine
Miteinander stoßen.
Aber das verursacht kein Lärm.
Ist Jumla ruhig?

Das Aussehen von Brot hat sich geändert.
Der Geschmack von Hunger ist Bitter geworden.
Und die Leere im Inneren des Magens,
Hat sich übergeben und ist raus gekommen.

Dieses Jahr ist es sehr kalt.
Der Schweiß fließt,
Und der Körper des Mensch,
Der neben das Feuer steht,
Glüht wie Kupfer.

Der Saison ist unvorhersehbar in Jumla.
Plötzlich beginnen die Wälder zu pfeifen.
Hast Du den Pinienzweigen betrachtet,
Der wie eine (scaffold) schwebt?

*****

Der Bildhauer (Jiwan Acharya 1960-1991)

Ich lief um viele Statuen herum
Meisterlich gemachte Kunstwerke.
Ich lobe die Hände und suche
Das Hirn, der Körper.
In anderen Worten, der Künstler.

Eine Statue regt sich! (bewegt)
Ich bin erstaunt.
Diese Werke der Kunst
Sind nicht nur schön,
Sie sind auch lebendig!

Schau!
Die Statue fängt an zu sprechen
Von der Menge:
„Lieber Herr, bitte kauf mich zuerst!
Ich verhungere!“

*****

Munglin (Jiwan Acharya)

Als Munglin mich zum Abendmahl heranzog,
Als ob ich ihre Gatte wäre,
Sagte sie, dass sie mir ein Lächeln schenken wurde.
Sie ließ mich im Haus warten,
Und sagte zu einem anderen Mann auf der Strasse,
Dass sie ihm den selben Lächeln servieren wurde.

*****

2007-08-18T02:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-08-18T01:50:00.000-07:00

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 Freiburger Badische 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 these two German friends of mine, Moni and Yogi Rudolph, who visited Nepal sometime ago. Moni’s an English teacher who now works in a bookstore in Kenzingen, 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 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. And yet there are people who go through life without having understood this simple rule.

A foreign student from India at the 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. The student meant to say, ‘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? Salman Rushdie’s writings are replete with such gems. Most travellers to the subcontinent are confronted with the question: ‘Where-you-come-from?’ Two tired, blonde women from Sweden I met at Tiger Hill in Darjeeling complained that they were not in Asia as ambassadors, but merely as tourists, and wanted to enjoy the sights and not be pestered by scores of people asking them:’ Vich-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 gorment, no good gorment. Apply, apply , no reply. British gorment, goode gorment. 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 aunty Mrs. Dong who was a teacher with King Edward’s Own Gurkha Rifles 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, and one can only say: vive la difference! Patience and goodwill helps. Or as the Germans say: one has to speaks 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 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.

However, it is remarkable to note that a good 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 and disturb. The list increases with the passage of time.

Recently, one was with some people from London and Liverpool at a cocktail party and one said one came from Nepal. It was amusing to hear, “Oh, Nepaul?’’ The red-haired woman had been fed on Kipling, I suppose, 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 met him in Neufchateau, and he had the habit of beginning his sentences with: ‘I preferrr...’ in that funny, elaborated way. When one heard that, one thought the Nepalese school-kids who do the School Leaving Certificate exams are much better off with their knowledge of English as a second language. It’s just that we 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.

------------------------------------------------------
Satis Shroff is a writer living in Freiburg (Germany)
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Reader's response:

Dear Satis,
Interesting!
As a Scot - I speak 'English' English in my working day - but at home we speak Lallans - a lowland version of the Aberdonian 'Doric'... Now, some may argue they are merely dialects... but many Scots would beg to differ!

Robert Burns' poetry is written in Auld Scots, which was the Lallans of his day. For most who cannot understand his written words, it must obviously BE a foreign language!
Ishbel R. commented Mrz 2,2007

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

2007-08-18T01:46:00.000-07:00

Development and Destruction (Satis Shroff)

My Nepal, what has become of you?
Your features have changed with time.
The innocent face of the Kumari
Has changed to the blood-thirsty countenance
Of Kal Bhairab,
From development to destruction,
From bikas to binas.

You’re no longer the same
There’s insurrection and turmoil
Against the government and the police.
Your sons and daughters are at war,
With the Gurkhas again.

Maobadis with revolutionary flair,
With ideologies from across the Tibetan Plateau and Peru.
Ideologies that have been discredited elsewhere,
Flourish in the Himalayas.
Demanding a revolutionary-tax
From tourists and Nepalese
With brazen, bloody attacks
Fighting for their own rights
And the rights of the bewildered common man.

Well-trained government troops at the orders
Of politicians safe in Kathmandu.
Leaders who despise talks and compromises,
Flex their tongues and muscles,
And let the imported automatic salves speak their deaths.
Ill-armed guerrillas against well-armed Royal Gurkhas
In the foothills of the Himalayas.

******

Child Soldiers

Nepali children have no chance,
But to take sides
To take to arms not knowing the reason
Against whom and why.
The child-soldier gets orders from grown-ups
And the hapless souls open fire.
Hukum is order,
The child-soldier cannot reason why.
Shedding precious human blood,
For causes they both hold high.
Ach, this massacre in the shadow of the Himalayas.

*****

Not in Nepal

Nepalis look out of their ornate windows,
In the west, east, north and south Nepal
And think:
How long will this krieg go on?
How much do we have to suffer?
How many money-lenders, businessmen, civil servants,
Policemen and gurkhas do the Maobadis want to kill
Or be killed?

How many men, women, boys and girls have to be mortally injured
Till Kal Bhairab is pacified by the Sleeping Vishnu?
How many towns and villages in the seventy five districts
Do the Maobadis want to free from capitalism?
When the missionaries close their schools,
Must the Hindus and Buddhists shut their temples and shrines?
Shall atheism be the order of the day?
Not in Nepal.

*****

A THOUSAND DEATHS (Satis Shroff)

It breaks my heart, as I hear over the radio:
Nepal’s not safe for visitors.
Visitors who leave their money behind,
In the pockets of travel agencies, rug dealers,
Currency and drug dealers,
And hordes of ill-paid honest Sherpas
And Tamang and other ethnic porters.
Sweat beads trickling from their sun-burnt faces,
In the dizzy heights of the Dolpo, Annapurna ranges
And the Khumbu glaciers.
Eking out a living and facing the treacherous
Icy crevasses, snow-outs, precipices
And a thousand deaths.

No roads, no schools,
Beyond the beaten trekking paths
Live the poorer families of Nepal.
Sans drinking water,
Sans hospitals,
Where aids and children’s work prevail.

*****

Lichhavis, Thakuris and Mallas have made you eternal
Mana Deva inscribed his title on the pillar of Changu,
After great victories over neighbouring states.
Amshu Verma was a warrior and mastered the Lichavi Code.
He gave his daughter in marriage
To Srong Bean Sgam Po,
The ruler of Tibet,
Who also married a Chinese princess.

Jayastathi Malla introduced the system of the caste,
A system based on family occupation,
That became rigid with the tide of time.
Yaksha Malla the ruler of Kathmandu Valley,
Divided it into Kathmandu, Patan and Bhadgaon
For his three sons.

Prithvi Narayan Shah of Gorkha,
Brought you together,
A melting pot of ethnic diversities.
With Gorkha conquests that cost the motherland
Thousands of ears, noses and Nepalese blood.

The Ranas usurped the royal throne
And put a prime minister after the other for 104 years.
104 years of a country in poverty and medieval existence.
It was King Tribhuvan’s proclamation and the blood of the Nepalese,
Who fought against the Gorkhas under the command of the Ranas,
That ended the Rana autocracy.

His son King Mahendra held the septre
When Nepal entered the UNO.
The multiparty system along with the Congress party was banned.
We chuckled about Kaphley’s compulsory History book.

Then came thirty years of Panchayat promises of a Hindu rule
With a system based on the five village elders,
Like the proverbial five fingers in one’s hand,
That are not alike and yet function in harmony.
The Panchayat government was an old system,
Packed and sold as a new and traditional one.

A system is just as good as the people who run it.
And Nepal didn’t run.
The age-old chakary experienced a revival,
Feudalism with its countless spies and yes-men,
Middle-men who held out their hands
For bribes, perks and amenities.
Poverty, caste-system with its divisions and conflicts,
Discrimination, injustice, bad governance
Became the nature of the day.

A big chasm appeared between the haves-and-have-nots.
The social inequality, frustrated expectations of the poor
Led to a search for an alternative pole.
The farmers were ignored, the forests and land confiscated,
Corruption and inefficiency became the rule of the day.
Even His Majesty’s servants went so far as to say:
Raja ko kam, kahiley jahla gham.

The birthplace of Buddha
And the Land of Pashupati,
A land which King Birendra declared a Zone of Peace,
Through signatures of the world’s leaders
Is at war today.

Bush’s government paid 24 million dollars for development aid,
Another 14 million dollars for insurgency relevant spendings
5,000 M-16 rifles from the USA
5,500 maschine guns from Belgium.
Guns that are aimed at Nepali men, women and children,
In the mountains of Nepal.
Alas, under the shade of the Himalayas,
This corner of the world has become volatile again.

*****

GUNS INSTEAD BOOKS (Satis Shroff)

My academic friends have changes sides,
From Mandalay to Congress
From Congress to the Maobadis.
The students from Dolpo and Silgadi.
Dolpo, unforgettable through Peter Mathiessen
In his quest for his inner self,
And his friend George Schaller’s search
For the snow leopard.
The students wrote Marxist verses and acquired volumes
From the embassies in Kathmandu:
Kim Il Sung’s writings, Mao’s red booklet,
Marx’s Das Kapital and Lenin’s works,
And defended socialist ideas
At His Majesty’s Central Hostel in Tahachal.
I see their earnest faces, with guns in their arms,
Instead of books,
Boisterous and ready
To fight to the end
For a cause they cherish
In their frustrated and fiery hearts.

But aren’t these sons of Nepal
Misguided and blinded,
By the seemingly victories of socialism?
Even Gorbachov pleaded for Peristroika,
And Putin admires capitalist Germany,
Its culture and commerce.
Look at the old Soviet Union,
And other East Bloc nations.
They have all swapped sides
And are EU and Nato members.

*****

Time Stands Still in Nepal

Globalisation has changed the world fast,
In Nepal time stands still.
The blind beggar at the New Road gate sings:
Lata ko desh ma, gaddha tantheri.
In a land where the tongue-tied live,
The deaf desire to rule.
Oh my Nepal, quo vadis?

The only way to peace and harmony is
By laying aside the arms.
Can Nepal afford to be the bastion
Of a movement and a government
That rides rough-shod over the lives
And rights of fellow Nepalis?

Can’t we learn from the lessons of Afghanistan, Romania,
Poland, East Germany and Iraq?
The Maobadis will be given a chance at the polls,
Like all other democratic parties.
For the Maobadis are Bahuns and Chettris,
Be they Prachanda or Baburam Bhattrai,
Leaders who’d prefer a republican rule
To monarchy in Nepal.

*****

HOPE IN THE HIMALAYAS (Satis Shroff)

What better chance for a constitutional monarch,
A re-incarnated Vishnu,
Who now holds
Spiritual and temporal powers
In the shadow of the Himalayas?

Hush, an unholy alliance made the rounds,
The political parties and the Maoists are united
They rattle their sabres no more
Under Vishnu’s bed of serpents.

Narad brings us good news.
We don’t have to shiver together in angst.
There is hope in the Himalayas.
Hope of a separation of powers,
Hope of free elections,
Hope of fair trials before impartial tribunals,
Hope of amnesty.
We’ll do what Nepalese normally do:
Wait and drink Ilam tea,
And watch the scenario unfurl,
In the shadow of the Himalayas.

___________________________________

About the Author

Satis Shroff is a writer based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) 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 for 1998.

Writing experience: Satis Shroff has written two language books on the Nepalese 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 articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg. More articles, poems and reviews in www.yahoo & www.google under: satis shroff.

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Senior Fulbright Professor in Creative Writing, University of Iowa/
Pittsburgh).

2007-08-18T01:41:00.000-07:00

THE HOLY COWS OF KATHMANDU (Satis Shroff)

Holy cow! The mayor of Kathmandu
Has done it.
Since ancient times a taboo
The free, nonchalant cows
Of Kathmandu were rounded up
In a rodeo by the Nepalese police.
Was it Nandi, Shiva's bull?
Or holy cows?
"They're cattle still",said the mayor.
"Straying cattle are not wanted".

Eighty-eight holy cows
Were auctioned
Not at Sotheby's
But in Kathmandu.
The auction yielded 64,460 rupees
Said the mayor of Kathmandu.

Cows that were a nuisance
To pedestrians and tourists at Thamel.
Cows that provided dung
And four other products:
Milk, yoghurt, butter and urine
For many a hearth.
Cows that gave urine
That the Hindus collected.
Cows that were sacred
And worshipped as the cow-mother.
Cows that were donated
And set free by Brahmins and Chettris
To set themselves free from sins.
Cows that marked the Gaijatra,
An eight-day homage to the dead.

It was a king, according to legend,
Who ordered cows to be set free
By families in mourning
In the streets of Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur.
To share the bereaved pain of
The death of a beloved prince
And a sad mother and queen.

The children disguised themselves
As grotesque cows and motley figures
And danced to Nepalese music
To make the queen laugh,
And forget her tears.

Even today the bereaved
Families drive their cows
Through the streets of Kathmandu
On the day of Gaijatra:
The festival of the cows.
Despite the ecological control
On the cows of Kathmandu,
Lalitpur and Bhaktapur.

From ancient times
Kings, noblemen, pedestrians
Cyclists, pullcarts, cars,
Scooters and rickshaws,
The traffic snaked around the holy cows.

The umwelt-conscious mayor
Has made up his mind:
The cattle are obstructing the traffic
Long-haired Nepalese youth need a crew-cut
Horse-pulled carts and rickshaws must go.
They worsen sanitation
And environmental problems.
But the carpets and cars must stay.

Elephant-rides remain for the tourists
After all, we've developed
A yen for dollars, francs and marks.
Kathmandu is catching up
With the rest of the world.

Glossary:
Umwelt: German word for environment
Braahmins, Chettris: high castes in Hinduism
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What others have said about the writer:

Reviewed by Albert Hagenaars in WritersDen.com 8/17/2007 Fascinerend! Ik voel veel verwantschap met deze thematiek. Ik wil deze pagina's blijven volgen! Tot de volgende keer dus...

Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007 Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems throughly. 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.
Nonetheless we need more authors bringing stories of Nepal to the West. Nepal is a jewel on the Earths 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.

It's always a pleasure to read Satis Shroff's fine, well-written artistic work. I admire his strength and ability. So with that said just write on, poet. ( in WritersDen.com)
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). ___________________________________________________________________