HIMALAYA SONG: SATIS SHROFF
I'd like to share this page with people who have visited or lived in Nepal and want to share their longing and love for the people of the Himalayan country, its literature, majestic peaks, landscapes, culture, cuisine and development.
THE ABODE OF SNOW (Satis Shroff)
Majestic mountains,
Clouds on the summits,
The small white pagoda (mane)
Crested upon the ridge.
The prayers fluttering in the Himalayan breeze
Taking your prayers to the Gods and Goddesses
In the Abode of Snow.
* * *
A FLIGHT OVER THE HIMALAYAS (Satis Shroff)
"Will the passengers please fasten their seat belts," said a soft voice over the intercom. And I slid one end of the belt into the heavy metallic slot, sat back, and peered through the window of the Nepalese jet.
The runway was clear and there was an Airbus 310, three Russian-made helicopters and a Dornier- aircraft near the control tower of the Tribhuvan Airport. Some people waved from the tower. It was one of those early-morning mountain flights that are run 'provided-the-weather-is-good' as they say in tourist-brochures.
My seat was right near the port wing and I could get a fairly good view of the engines coming noisily to life. The jet taxied lazily down the southern end of the runway, swerved around and sped towards the north gathering momentum till I could finally feel a hollow in my stomach. We were airborne.
It was a steep climb and the blue mountain front was looming close. You could even spot the trees growing on the mountainside. But in a moment we left it behind.
The runway was clear and there was an Airbus 310, three Russian-made helicopters and a Dornier- aircraft near the control tower of the Tribhuvan Airport. Some people waved from the tower. It was one of those early-morning mountain flights that are run 'provided-the-weather-is-good' as they say in tourist-brochures.
My seat was right near the port wing and I could get a fairly good view of the engines coming noisily to life. The jet taxied lazily down the southern end of the runway, swerved around and sped towards the north gathering momentum till I could finally feel a hollow in my stomach. We were airborne.
It was a steep climb and the blue mountain front was looming close. You could even spot the trees growing on the mountainside. But in a moment we left it behind.
I was thrilled at the picturesque panorama of Kathmandu Valley with its pretty brown terracotta houses and prominent pagodas, which receded beneath as the jet banked almost languidly in an easterly direction.
The first mountain that caught my eyes, was the conical snowbound Langtang Peak, which was gleaming in the early morning sunlight. By the time Dorje Lakpa loomed on my window, the aircraft had attained its ceiling height of 30,000 feet. Dorje Lakhpa in Tibetan means "thunderbolt hand". Nearby was another splendid peak, the 19,550 ft. Choba Bamare, reigning in splendid isolation. Choba Bamare rose in the distance and seemed to fizzle out towards the east.
I sat tight in my seat, oblivious of the 50-odd passengers in the aircraft's cabin, lost in a world of snowy fantasy,and marvelling at the thought that we were less than fourteen miles away from those Himalayan giants, and feeling snug inside the pressurised cabin. Over the monotonous whirr of the Yeti's engines, the captains voice boomed through the intercom: "Attention ladies and gentlemen, the big peak to your left is Gauri Shanker."
The 23,442 feet Gauri Shanker, which is part of the Rowaling Himal Chain, was bathed in a ghostly mantle of snow and dominated the scene. This was indeed the Mount Olympus of the Orient, I said to myself. Gauri Shanker, the legendary abode of the Hindu God Shiva and his consort Parvati.
The Melungstse massif appeared to be blanketed with snow and looked smooth and even: like a tent covered with snow, except that a depression existed between Melungtse and its sister peak Chobutse.
Chugmago, Pigferago and Numbur impressed me with their virgin and silvery summits--looking placid and serene.
My thoughts drifted to the agelessness of the Himalayas and their eternal silence.
However, my Himalayan reverie came to a momentary stop, when a tall and petite air-hostess came offering orange juice at a cruising height of 30,000 feet. It was a toast to the Himalayas.
From the 26,750 ft. Cho Oyo onwards, the Khumbu Range began to show their undisputed supremacy, since this range boasted of the mightiest of the mighty among mountains. As the jet flew past the 25,990 ft. Gyachungkang Peak, I was pleasantly surprised to find the steward come over to my window, point out small dotted structures against a rugged mountainside and say, "There's Namche Bazaar." I was amazed. Namche of the mountaineer's delight, and the home of the Sherpas. Namche, the village that has become a byword in mountaineering and trekking circles throughout the world--lay below us.
The jet lost height gracefully to give the passengers a closer view, and the snows looked hauntingly beautiful from the port side windows. The warm sunlight filtered through smack on my face. Its warmth was reassuring.
The jet lost height gracefully to give the passengers a closer view, and the snows looked hauntingly beautiful from the port side windows. The warm sunlight filtered through smack on my face. Its warmth was reassuring.
The 23,443 ft. Pumori Peak seemed to be soaring in the distance, and that was when I began to ogle at the familiar 25,850 ft. Nuptse peak. Then suddenly, like a revelation, I spotted the giant amongst them all: the grey, imposing triangular massif that was Mount Everest to the outside world, Sagarmatha to the Nepalese and Chomolungma--"the Goddess Mother of the Earth" to the Tibetans. There were flecks of snow to be seen along the ridge of the highest peak in the world. A trail of vapour was emanating from its limestone summit.
Far below the magnificent Ama Dablam peak struck me as trying to reach for the sky. But I had eyes only for the mysterious, grey and foreboding Everest massif. I recalled Mallory's words: "There was no complication for the eye. The highest of the world's mountains had to make but a single gesture of magnificence to be lord of all, vast in unchallenged and isolated supremacy.
The peaks Lhotse, Chamlang and Makalu continued to fascinate me. I felt thrilled to my marrow as the knowledge that we were flying over the highest mountains in the world sank into my head. I noticed that the Himalayas occurred as narrow ranges, prominently longitudinal and that the highest Himalayan chains below us were not massive elevations but narrow ridges.
Towards the north, as far as the eye could see, was the barren Tibetan Plateau: rightly dubbed the Roof of the World. I was astonished to note that beyond the Everest massif's central chain there were no Himalayan ranges. It was the limit--the last frontier. The bleak Tibetan Plateau seemed to blend with the horizon towards the north.
Towards the north, as far as the eye could see, was the barren Tibetan Plateau: rightly dubbed the Roof of the World. I was astonished to note that beyond the Everest massif's central chain there were no Himalayan ranges. It was the limit--the last frontier. The bleak Tibetan Plateau seemed to blend with the horizon towards the north.
I could not help feeling nostalgic as the jet turned for the homeward flight. I peered at the blue Mahabharat Mountains below and the Siwalik Hills a little further south--and the extensive, fertile Terai, which blended with the azure sky. While the major 'snows' were still visible on the starboard , it was fascinating to see the hanging-valleys, aretes, cwms and magnificent glaciers directly beneath the port windows. It reminded me of a trip I had made to the Swiss alpine town of Grindelwald, where the tongue of the glacier licks almost the town. Occasionally, as the jetliner sped by, the mountain-tarns would catch the sun's rays on their crystalline surface, thereby imparting blinding flashes of reflected light.
It must have snowed the previous night, since the neighbouring hills, which were normally beyond the zone of perpetual snow, were also covered in varying degrees with fluffy blankets of virgin snow. One couldn't help being overwhelmed by the ecstatic and exotic beauty of these high snowbound wilderness areas that we were over-flying.
It must have snowed the previous night, since the neighbouring hills, which were normally beyond the zone of perpetual snow, were also covered in varying degrees with fluffy blankets of virgin snow. One couldn't help being overwhelmed by the ecstatic and exotic beauty of these high snowbound wilderness areas that we were over-flying.
Continental music began to seep into the pressurised cabin and the lithe and beautifully swarthy air-hostess came down the aisle gracefully handing the passengers miniature khurkis (curved Gurkha knives) as souvenirs, with the usual compliment of sweets.
I could feel the captain easing off the throttles and saw the spoilers on the top surface of the port wind rising up slowly, in a row inducing a drag and causing the jet to slow as it touched town at Kathmandu's Tribhuvan Airport.
About the Author:
You can find his books on: www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle.
Satis Shroff has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems inwww.nepalforum.com. Please read more articles, book-reviews and poems in www.google.com & www.yahoo.com under search: satis shroff.
You can find his books on: www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle.
Satis Shroff has written many articles in The Rising Nepal, The Christian Science Monitor, the Independent, the Fryburger, Swatantra Biswa (USIS publication, Himal Asia, 3Journal Freiburg, top ten rated poems inwww.nepalforum.com. Please read more articles, book-reviews and poems in www.google.com & www.yahoo.com under search: satis shroff.
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| German champagne and roses for the two poets & musician at a Lesung (reading) under the aegis of the Kunst und Kultur Verein-Kappel. |
What others have said about the author:
„Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich).Since 1974 I have been living on and off in Nepal, writing articles and publishing books about Nepal-- this beautiful Himalayan country. Even before I knew Satis Shroff personally (later) I was deeply impressed by his articles, which helped me very much to deepen my knowledge about Nepal. Satis Shroff is one of the very few Nepalese writers being able to compare ecology, development and modernisation in the ‘Third’ and ‘First’ World. He is doing this with great enthusiasm, competence and intelligence, showing his great concern for the development of his own country. (Ludmilla Tüting, journalist and publisher, Berlin).
Due to his very pleasant personality and in-depth experience in both South Asian, as well as Western workstyles and living, Satis Shroff brings with him a cultural sensitivity that is refined. His writings have always reflected the positive attributes of optimism, tolerance, and a need to explain and to describe without looking down on either his subject or his reader. (Kanak Mani Dixit, Himal Southasia)
*****
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| Daffodils (German: Osterglocken) |
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon.
(Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Too fine to stoop,
Too busy with Brexit;
The daffodils rot and die in the fields.
O, Brexit thou art a vain monster.
Unskilled migrant workers
From Bulgaria to Romania,
Were hired to pick the Cornish crop.
Alas, the wilting daffodils
Mean a loss of Sterling pounds.
With no migrants to do the menial work,
Why, there’s no grocery in the market.
The British can’t eat daffodils.
Cornwall sans migrant labourers.
Too fine to stoop,
Too busy with populistic slogans,
The daffodils die in the fields.
The British can’t eat daffodils.
Britain slept till it was too late.
©2019, satisshroff,all right reserved
* * *
ON MEDITATION
When meditation is mastered,
The mind is unwavering like the
Flame of a lamp in a windless place.
In the still mind,
In the depths of meditation,
The Self reveals itself.
Beholding the Self
By means of the Self,
An aspirant knows the
Joy and peace of complete fulfillment.
Having attained that
Abiding joy beyond the senses,
Revealed in the stilled mind,
He never swerves from the eternal truth.
(Bhagavad Gita)
* * *
 |
| Foto courtesy: Il Presidente Prof. Saverio Sinopoli e Il Sindaco Egidio Ippolito. The organisers and recipients of the literary Neruda Award in Crispiano (Italy) |
Come with me to Crispiano, a lovely town with fragrances and flowers from the vineyards and olive trees in the Masseria, where the sun smiles all day. I never met such amiable people as the people in Crispiano and Taranto. Dolche vita and amore mio, Crispano.
It lies in the region Ampulia in the province of Tarato in the Southern Italian Zone, and has a population of 13,809 . The people are called Crispianesi and the saint of the town is: Madonna della Neve.
The flight from Zürich to Brindisi was pleasant, even though the jet was full. I had a window seat on the left side of the Finnish jet and the personnel spoke German with a distinctly Swiss accent. It was fascinating to see Lake Constance (Bodensee) and the Swiss lakes reveal themselves only to be hidden by clouds, akin to those I’d often seen on Tibetan thankas.
Clouds of all shapes and sizes marked the journey and suddenly you noticed, as we left Venice behind, we were flying over the Adriatic Sea. The islands strewn along the Adriatic coast looked lovely. The endless blue of the sea, and beyond, towards the east lay the Dalmatian Alps and to the south Albania, Greece and Crete in the Mediterranean Sea.
Flying over Lake Zurich, past the Canton Schwyz and Klöntaler lake over the Glaner Alps. To the east the Albula Alps and Engadin, overflying St. Moritz and the bernine mountains to the east and Oberhalbstein to the west.
Crossing Bellinzona and over Lake Como and the town of Chiasso on our way to Italy. We left Lake Maggiore, with its lakeside towns Ascona and Locarno, behind. It was fascinating to note that the jet took course over the Adriatic Sea, where you could see myriads of islets. The water was glistening like diamonds caused by the reflection of light on the blue water surface. An amazing natural phenomenon as the jet descended on its way to the airport of Brindisi on the east coast of the Italian boot, behind Sicily.
* * *
Here I am on my way to Crispiano to attend the Neruda Awards 2017. How did it happen? I was happily writing articles and when I didn’t have much time I’d write poems or prose poems. I’ve been writing for internet websites since decades. Some websites exist still and some like the American Chronicle and gather.com have been sold and gone commercial. However, Blogspot.com and Wordpress.com are still marching on and now you have Facebook, Twitter, Tumbler, Boloji.com and a host of others. My experience is not to put all your eggs in one basket so that if one goes defunct, the others are still there.
One day an Irish poetess, Amy Barry, chatted on FB and she introduced me to Maria Miraglia from the Neruda Associazione Lit Club and soon I asked to be the Director for Germany of the Writers International Foundation under the leadership of Preeth nambiar, based in South India. Two German newspapers Freiburg’s Badische Zeitung and Kirchzarten’s Dreisamtäler picked up the story and I was interviewed by Anja Bochtel and Christine van Herk regarding the nomination for the Pablo Neruda Award 2017.
German reporters re very critical and sceptical about prizes for literature other countries and Ms. Bochtel asked particularly about the standard of the poems in the internet. Sometimes, I do admit the standard of the poems aren’t up to the mark because some poets don’t bother to double-check their poems and are poorly edited at times. At other times, there are painstakingly edited and re-edited verses which are a delight to read. Didn’t someone says journalism was literature in a big hurry? Hope this doesn’t hold for poetry in general.
I appreciate the work that is involved in organising such a big poetry and cultural festival in Crispiano this year, and in Taranto last year. This time there are five international poets and poetesses and the others protagonist, as they are called in Italian, are from Italy itself. Behind the scenes there are a lot of translations being done, which is a great contribution to world literature. The world literature has gone digital and it’s time that internet writers are taken seriously. Whether you publish on Amazon, Neobooks, Lulu.com, Kindle or any standard publisher, the books are now offered online as cheaper e-books or standard paperbacks. Not only the internet publishers do it but also the traditional publishers to reach more people. Much like Neruda Lit Club, Pentasi B based in Manila and others like Roula Pollard and Dimitris Krakaitos based in Larissa (Greece), there are a good many websites that have been contributing towards the dissemination, popularity and popularity of literature around the world.
* * *
Here was I, a German of Nepalese descent, resident in the Schwarzwald town of Freiburg, on my way to Italy at the invitation of the Assoziazione Pablo Neruda in Crispiano to be presented the Neruda Award 2017. What an honour and delight after all those years of teaching Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg (ZfS) and poetry at the University of Education as well as the Volkshochschule in Freiburg and Dreisamtal and other workshops on Creative Writing for International Writers in Zähringen.
It’s really amazing how it really began. At school in the foothills of the Himalayas, I’d had English language and literature taught by the Christian Brothers of Ireland. It was a boarding school and was like a fortress, a state within a state, with the principal as the chief. The Brothers never told us which part of Ireland they were from though they’d make jokes about the Protestants and say: ‘What are they protesting about anyway.’ The Brothers knew everything about us school-kids but never talked about themselves. You couldn’t be warm with them and they wanted to keep it that way. In the days of the East India Company it was master-and-servants and in the school it was masters-and-charges, who paid for their schooling. No protests were tolerated and the school-kids had to stand like soldiers during the early morning inspection in impeccable school uniforms a hand stretched out with a clean, ironed handkerchief. If someone didn’t come up to the standards set the Irish principle could say to him in a gruffy, whiskey-driven voice and beef-red face: ‘Come to the office!’ That meant benders: whacks on his bottom with a leather strap. If you went out of bounds for even a second you were obliged to get benders. I had my share of it.
All the books we used came from England, even the science books. In the lower classes we did adventure stories like Robinson Crusoe and Moby Dick, King Solomon’s Mines and the Lake District poets.
At home my Mom used to recite and read from the Ramayana and Bhagavad Gita and in school we did ‘Tess’ by Thomas Hardy and ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ by Charles Dickens, Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Julius Caesar’ and ‘As you like it’ and lots of poems by British and a few American authors.
The Christian Brothers expected us to recite poems, which was actually a good thing. I loved reading and reciting and doing questions from the context, writing essays, précis and analysis of stories. The final years at school went fast and suddenly there I was with a certificate from the University of Cambridge (and an Indian equivalent) in the hand and no more sitting on the hard old bench, do-da-do-da-day.
After school I went to Kathmandu for my further studies. I’d applied to the Amrit Science College in Thamel, and one fine day I received a positive reply letter from the principal of the college, a certain Mr. Joshi, with a PhD in Physics. We had to do a subject called ‘Panchayat’ which was mostly about the glorification of the Nepalese Royal family and how the Panchayat system from the Vedic times suited Nepal in every way, because Nepal was made up mostly of villages. It was a system about the five elders of each village in Nepal and the national religion was Hinduism, with the King and Queen holding the executive, legislative and judiciary powers.
At my second school St. Joseph’s, North Point, I met Prince Dhirendra Shah and he was in my batch. I and my friend Tek were doing our Bachelors in Zoology, Botany and Geology and Prince Dhirendra his BA in Geography at the Tri Chandra College.
Later, I went to Germany for higher studies and Prince Dhirendra moved to the Britain. His elder brother Birendra Shah became the King of Nepal after the demise of his father King Mahendra. King Birendra had a tough time with the Congress at the beginning of his reign and later the Maoists began overrunning the police and government check-posts. The movement started in western Nepal, later moving to central and eastern Nepal. Demonstrations and strikes were staged in all parts of of the Nepalese Kingdom.
After I’d done my Bachelors I worked in a so-called English Medium School. In the prospectus they mentioned a lake but it was jsut a greenish, dirty pond with algae. The two headmasters were out to make money and I pitied the students. Some of them were Gurkha children and their fathers were doing service as soldiers and guarding the Sultan’s palace in Brunei, Malaysia fighting against the communists in the jungles of Kalimantan and in North Borneo. But the kids made the best out of the situation.
One day a dear friend’s father advised me to go over to The Rising Nepal’s editorial department. I went and was met by a guy named Josse who also had a public school background. He asked me which school I’d attended. The language was English and not the lingua franca of Nepal, which is Nepali.
He said he’d gone to St. Augustine in K’pong. Then he stared me in the eyes for a few seconds. I didn’t blink because this was a game I’d played often with my neighbour’s lovely daughter. We’d just play this staring game. And I’d always win. She’d either lower her eyes or blink. I remember a similar situation in Doris Lessing’s ‘The Second Hut’ in which a Major Carruthers hires an Afrikander named Van Herdeen. Did the editor like at the width of my eyes, the shape of my skull and how my legs were apart? How I stood there, a young guy fresh from college and stared at him in his eyes. He must have thought: this bloke’s okay, good character, gentleman.
‘Okay, you can start tomorrow,’ he said.
So I started working with the Rising Nepal, writing the second editorial and letters to the editor when there weren’t any, correcting articles written and submitted by Nepalese and foreign residents of Catmandu Valley.
Josse had said: ‘You’ll reach more readers that your school class.’
He was right.
I started writing a regular science spot column every Thursday and one day a Mr. Pandey from the External Service of Radio Nepal came to the office and said:
‘I read your ‘Bustle of Basantapur’ article and really enjoyed it. Would you like to write commentaries for Radio Nepal?’
I felt delighted. I thought for a second about the development issues but you really didn’t have much choice but to give the Royal Palace’s views in the editorials. Can I make it different with culture, perhaps?
So I started writing commentaries on Nepal’s development and culture which were read by Gauri KC in the evening programme.
You can imagine my surprise when I met Gauri KC, Shyam KC and other journalists at the Graf Zeppelin Hotel in Stuttgart. They’d accompanied King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya on a state visit to Germany. I’d received an invitation for the official reception at La Redoute in Bonn and also in Stuttgart. Frau Margot Busak was so kind to drive with me in her black Mercedes car. She died shortly thereafter.
In Freiburg I started learning at the Goethe Institute and reading Medicine. It was at the university that I attended Prof. Bruce Dobler’s Creative Writing semester. We did poems and Bruce was the one who got me interested in poems. At school poems were the works of exalted literary personalities, almost gods. Nobody taught us to write poems. We were obliged to learn English poems by heart. That was all to literature. No Irish Brother was interested in Creative Writing. It didn’t exist in their minds. We did write a good many letters, essays and précis though. There was a prize for performance in science but none for literature. It heartens me to note that in the German Gymnasiums the school-kids learn Creative Writing and prizes are given not only for science but also for music and literature.
Creative Writing has come to the Continent from the USA. British universities have also introduced Creative Writing in their syllabus. In Germany you can do Kreatives Schreiben in a few universities in Hildesheim and Saxony. The Frankfurter and Leipziger Book Fairs attract thousands of authors, readers and publishers from all over the world.
* * *
Since the sea is a bit far away from Crispiano its inhabitants cannot gather the frutti de mare, they have made use of the fruits of labour of the earth. The people of Crispiano grow wheat, grapes, vegetables, olives and make bread, wine and paste with their hands as ‘chiangaredd’ or ‘frucidd.’ The vegetables and fresh seasonal fruits are brought to the Italian table. There are many kinds of bread to be found in the Italian table. Bread could also replaced by legumes like peas and beans, which developed into excellent food in various dishes such as ‘ncapriata’ together with other vegetables boiled and sautéed with stir-fried onions.
On festive occasions the dishes are richer as ‘tien,’ meat and potatoes and, of course, ‘fecha scchet.’ This involves baking figs in the oven, additionally with toasted almonds and laurel. A typical speciality from Crispiano is the liver called ‘gnummredde,’ which is made from the entrails of lamb such as liver, heart and lungs, wrapped in a net and tied with guts, strewn with salt.
It reminded me of the time I was invited by a family Moosmann in the Black Forest to a Schweineschlacht. In this case also, nothing was thrown away and big boxes of spices were used to make the meat tasty. The smell of clover, cardamom, paprika and salt emanated from the schlachthaus (butchery) to our nostrils. Even the blood was cooked with the bacon to make Blutwurst. The person who kills the animal is called the ‘Schlächter’ and the butcher, who has a Meisterbrief and many years of training in his trade and an examination behind him.
‘The Agrigentiner (farmers) eat as though they would die the next day, and they build as they would live forever’ said Empedokles.
But when it comes to the fancies of our palate, we must leave it to Hippocrates, who said: ‘The tongue tastes the food, as though it were music.’
No question is more popular than that of Marco Polo (1254-1324): did the Venetian bring the noodles from China to Italy or was it the other way round?
The spices come from the countries of the four currents of Paradise: the Nile, Ganges, Euphrates and Tigris. Legends tell us the bird phoenix burns in a cinnamon (zimt)-nest, and one promises oneself that the balsam-spices have life-extending qualities.
‘I think, one finds in people who’re born near good wine are much happier,’ said Leonardo da Vinci.
This is the impression I had of Saverio, Ariel, Egidio and Adriano. All jolly men in the middle of their lives, which they lives with gusto.
It was no other than Nietzsche (Ecce Homo) who said: ‘The best cuisine belongs to Piemont. I’d say the Italian cuisine in Crispiano and Taranto was second to none.
This was a place where they love music, food and wine. The olive is reaped later in Autumn but you coud, neverthelsss, eat olives and tartufi (truffles) served with tasty risotto rice and delicate sea-food. You felt like a god, waking up in the beautiful ambient of Villa Marina in Crispiano, a short drive away from the town. You could bathe in the history of lovely Crispiano and the harbour town of Taranto, as told by my dear friends Maria and Saverio.
Saverio Sinapoli grew up in Taranto, a town with big mansions and two bridges and a seaside restaurant with a magnificent backdrop of the Adriatic Sea. The sun was going down under the horizon of the golden sea and the Gulf of Taranto when we went for dinner and a promenade. Further southwards below Italy’s boot lay the Ionian Sea.
The mayor is Egidio Ippolito, a burly, friendly, sympathetic gentleman who not only manages the administration of the town but indulges successfully in creative design. He invited us to try out his fantasy costume in the town council of Crispano.
* * *
I am the father and mother of this universe, and its grandfather too; I am its entire support. I am the sum of all knowledge, the purifier, the syllable Om; I am the sacred scriptures, the Rig, Yajur, and Sama Vedas. I am the goal of life, the Lord and support of all, the inner witness, the abode of all. I am the only refuge, the one true friend; I am the beginning, the staying, and the end of creation; I am the womb and the eternal seed. I am heat; I give and withhold the rain. I am immortality and I am death; I am what is and what is not. (Bhagwad Gita)
It lies in the region Ampulia in the province of Tarato in the Southern Italian Zone, and has a population of 13,809 . The people are called Crispianesi and the saint of the town is: Madonna della Neve.
The flight from Zürich to Brindisi was pleasant, even though the jet was full. I had a window seat on the left side of the Finnish jet and the personnel spoke German with a distinctly Swiss accent. It was fascinating to see Lake Constance (Bodensee) and the Swiss lakes reveal themselves only to be hidden by clouds, akin to those I’d often seen on Tibetan thankas.
Clouds of all shapes and sizes marked the journey and suddenly you noticed, as we left Venice behind, we were flying over the Adriatic Sea. The islands strewn along the Adriatic coast looked lovely. The endless blue of the sea, and beyond, towards the east lay the Dalmatian Alps and to the south Albania, Greece and Crete in the Mediterranean Sea.
Flying over Lake Zurich, past the Canton Schwyz and Klöntaler lake over the Glaner Alps. To the east the Albula Alps and Engadin, overflying St. Moritz and the bernine mountains to the east and Oberhalbstein to the west.
Crossing Bellinzona and over Lake Como and the town of Chiasso on our way to Italy. We left Lake Maggiore, with its lakeside towns Ascona and Locarno, behind. It was fascinating to note that the jet took course over the Adriatic Sea, where you could see myriads of islets. The water was glistening like diamonds caused by the reflection of light on the blue water surface. An amazing natural phenomenon as the jet descended on its way to the airport of Brindisi on the east coast of the Italian boot, behind Sicily.
* * *
Here I am on my way to Crispiano to attend the Neruda Awards 2017. How did it happen? I was happily writing articles and when I didn’t have much time I’d write poems or prose poems. I’ve been writing for internet websites since decades. Some websites exist still and some like the American Chronicle and gather.com have been sold and gone commercial. However, Blogspot.com and Wordpress.com are still marching on and now you have Facebook, Twitter, Tumbler, Boloji.com and a host of others. My experience is not to put all your eggs in one basket so that if one goes defunct, the others are still there.
One day an Irish poetess, Amy Barry, chatted on FB and she introduced me to Maria Miraglia from the Neruda Associazione Lit Club and soon I asked to be the Director for Germany of the Writers International Foundation under the leadership of Preeth nambiar, based in South India. Two German newspapers Freiburg’s Badische Zeitung and Kirchzarten’s Dreisamtäler picked up the story and I was interviewed by Anja Bochtel and Christine van Herk regarding the nomination for the Pablo Neruda Award 2017.
German reporters re very critical and sceptical about prizes for literature other countries and Ms. Bochtel asked particularly about the standard of the poems in the internet. Sometimes, I do admit the standard of the poems aren’t up to the mark because some poets don’t bother to double-check their poems and are poorly edited at times. At other times, there are painstakingly edited and re-edited verses which are a delight to read. Didn’t someone says journalism was literature in a big hurry? Hope this doesn’t hold for poetry in general.
I appreciate the work that is involved in organising such a big poetry and cultural festival in Crispiano this year, and in Taranto last year. This time there are five international poets and poetesses and the others protagonist, as they are called in Italian, are from Italy itself. Behind the scenes there are a lot of translations being done, which is a great contribution to world literature. The world literature has gone digital and it’s time that internet writers are taken seriously. Whether you publish on Amazon, Neobooks, Lulu.com, Kindle or any standard publisher, the books are now offered online as cheaper e-books or standard paperbacks. Not only the internet publishers do it but also the traditional publishers to reach more people. Much like Neruda Lit Club, Pentasi B based in Manila and others like Roula Pollard and Dimitris Krakaitos based in Larissa (Greece), there are a good many websites that have been contributing towards the dissemination, popularity and popularity of literature around the world.
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Here was I, a German of Nepalese descent, resident in the Schwarzwald town of Freiburg, on my way to Italy at the invitation of the Assoziazione Pablo Neruda in Crispiano to be presented the Neruda Award 2017. What an honour and delight after all those years of teaching Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg (ZfS) and poetry at the University of Education as well as the Volkshochschule in Freiburg and Dreisamtal and other workshops on Creative Writing for International Writers in Zähringen.
It’s really amazing how it really began. At school in the foothills of the Himalayas, I’d had English language and literature taught by the Christian Brothers of Ireland. It was a boarding school and was like a fortress, a state within a state, with the principal as the chief. The Brothers never told us which part of Ireland they were from though they’d make jokes about the Protestants and say: ‘What are they protesting about anyway.’ The Brothers knew everything about us school-kids but never talked about themselves. You couldn’t be warm with them and they wanted to keep it that way. In the days of the East India Company it was master-and-servants and in the school it was masters-and-charges, who paid for their schooling. No protests were tolerated and the school-kids had to stand like soldiers during the early morning inspection in impeccable school uniforms a hand stretched out with a clean, ironed handkerchief. If someone didn’t come up to the standards set the Irish principle could say to him in a gruffy, whiskey-driven voice and beef-red face: ‘Come to the office!’ That meant benders: whacks on his bottom with a leather strap. If you went out of bounds for even a second you were obliged to get benders. I had my share of it.
All the books we used came from England, even the science books. In the lower classes we did adventure stories like Robinson Crusoe and Moby Dick, King Solomon’s Mines and the Lake District poets.
At home my Mom used to recite and read from the Ramayana and Bhagavad Gita and in school we did ‘Tess’ by Thomas Hardy and ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ by Charles Dickens, Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Julius Caesar’ and ‘As you like it’ and lots of poems by British and a few American authors.
The Christian Brothers expected us to recite poems, which was actually a good thing. I loved reading and reciting and doing questions from the context, writing essays, précis and analysis of stories. The final years at school went fast and suddenly there I was with a certificate from the University of Cambridge (and an Indian equivalent) in the hand and no more sitting on the hard old bench, do-da-do-da-day.
After school I went to Kathmandu for my further studies. I’d applied to the Amrit Science College in Thamel, and one fine day I received a positive reply letter from the principal of the college, a certain Mr. Joshi, with a PhD in Physics. We had to do a subject called ‘Panchayat’ which was mostly about the glorification of the Nepalese Royal family and how the Panchayat system from the Vedic times suited Nepal in every way, because Nepal was made up mostly of villages. It was a system about the five elders of each village in Nepal and the national religion was Hinduism, with the King and Queen holding the executive, legislative and judiciary powers.
At my second school St. Joseph’s, North Point, I met Prince Dhirendra Shah and he was in my batch. I and my friend Tek were doing our Bachelors in Zoology, Botany and Geology and Prince Dhirendra his BA in Geography at the Tri Chandra College.
Later, I went to Germany for higher studies and Prince Dhirendra moved to the Britain. His elder brother Birendra Shah became the King of Nepal after the demise of his father King Mahendra. King Birendra had a tough time with the Congress at the beginning of his reign and later the Maoists began overrunning the police and government check-posts. The movement started in western Nepal, later moving to central and eastern Nepal. Demonstrations and strikes were staged in all parts of of the Nepalese Kingdom.
After I’d done my Bachelors I worked in a so-called English Medium School. In the prospectus they mentioned a lake but it was jsut a greenish, dirty pond with algae. The two headmasters were out to make money and I pitied the students. Some of them were Gurkha children and their fathers were doing service as soldiers and guarding the Sultan’s palace in Brunei, Malaysia fighting against the communists in the jungles of Kalimantan and in North Borneo. But the kids made the best out of the situation.
One day a dear friend’s father advised me to go over to The Rising Nepal’s editorial department. I went and was met by a guy named Josse who also had a public school background. He asked me which school I’d attended. The language was English and not the lingua franca of Nepal, which is Nepali.
He said he’d gone to St. Augustine in K’pong. Then he stared me in the eyes for a few seconds. I didn’t blink because this was a game I’d played often with my neighbour’s lovely daughter. We’d just play this staring game. And I’d always win. She’d either lower her eyes or blink. I remember a similar situation in Doris Lessing’s ‘The Second Hut’ in which a Major Carruthers hires an Afrikander named Van Herdeen. Did the editor like at the width of my eyes, the shape of my skull and how my legs were apart? How I stood there, a young guy fresh from college and stared at him in his eyes. He must have thought: this bloke’s okay, good character, gentleman.
‘Okay, you can start tomorrow,’ he said.
So I started working with the Rising Nepal, writing the second editorial and letters to the editor when there weren’t any, correcting articles written and submitted by Nepalese and foreign residents of Catmandu Valley.
Josse had said: ‘You’ll reach more readers that your school class.’
He was right.
I started writing a regular science spot column every Thursday and one day a Mr. Pandey from the External Service of Radio Nepal came to the office and said:
‘I read your ‘Bustle of Basantapur’ article and really enjoyed it. Would you like to write commentaries for Radio Nepal?’
I felt delighted. I thought for a second about the development issues but you really didn’t have much choice but to give the Royal Palace’s views in the editorials. Can I make it different with culture, perhaps?
So I started writing commentaries on Nepal’s development and culture which were read by Gauri KC in the evening programme.
You can imagine my surprise when I met Gauri KC, Shyam KC and other journalists at the Graf Zeppelin Hotel in Stuttgart. They’d accompanied King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya on a state visit to Germany. I’d received an invitation for the official reception at La Redoute in Bonn and also in Stuttgart. Frau Margot Busak was so kind to drive with me in her black Mercedes car. She died shortly thereafter.
In Freiburg I started learning at the Goethe Institute and reading Medicine. It was at the university that I attended Prof. Bruce Dobler’s Creative Writing semester. We did poems and Bruce was the one who got me interested in poems. At school poems were the works of exalted literary personalities, almost gods. Nobody taught us to write poems. We were obliged to learn English poems by heart. That was all to literature. No Irish Brother was interested in Creative Writing. It didn’t exist in their minds. We did write a good many letters, essays and précis though. There was a prize for performance in science but none for literature. It heartens me to note that in the German Gymnasiums the school-kids learn Creative Writing and prizes are given not only for science but also for music and literature.
Creative Writing has come to the Continent from the USA. British universities have also introduced Creative Writing in their syllabus. In Germany you can do Kreatives Schreiben in a few universities in Hildesheim and Saxony. The Frankfurter and Leipziger Book Fairs attract thousands of authors, readers and publishers from all over the world.
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Since the sea is a bit far away from Crispiano its inhabitants cannot gather the frutti de mare, they have made use of the fruits of labour of the earth. The people of Crispiano grow wheat, grapes, vegetables, olives and make bread, wine and paste with their hands as ‘chiangaredd’ or ‘frucidd.’ The vegetables and fresh seasonal fruits are brought to the Italian table. There are many kinds of bread to be found in the Italian table. Bread could also replaced by legumes like peas and beans, which developed into excellent food in various dishes such as ‘ncapriata’ together with other vegetables boiled and sautéed with stir-fried onions.
On festive occasions the dishes are richer as ‘tien,’ meat and potatoes and, of course, ‘fecha scchet.’ This involves baking figs in the oven, additionally with toasted almonds and laurel. A typical speciality from Crispiano is the liver called ‘gnummredde,’ which is made from the entrails of lamb such as liver, heart and lungs, wrapped in a net and tied with guts, strewn with salt.
It reminded me of the time I was invited by a family Moosmann in the Black Forest to a Schweineschlacht. In this case also, nothing was thrown away and big boxes of spices were used to make the meat tasty. The smell of clover, cardamom, paprika and salt emanated from the schlachthaus (butchery) to our nostrils. Even the blood was cooked with the bacon to make Blutwurst. The person who kills the animal is called the ‘Schlächter’ and the butcher, who has a Meisterbrief and many years of training in his trade and an examination behind him.
‘The Agrigentiner (farmers) eat as though they would die the next day, and they build as they would live forever’ said Empedokles.
But when it comes to the fancies of our palate, we must leave it to Hippocrates, who said: ‘The tongue tastes the food, as though it were music.’
No question is more popular than that of Marco Polo (1254-1324): did the Venetian bring the noodles from China to Italy or was it the other way round?
The spices come from the countries of the four currents of Paradise: the Nile, Ganges, Euphrates and Tigris. Legends tell us the bird phoenix burns in a cinnamon (zimt)-nest, and one promises oneself that the balsam-spices have life-extending qualities.
‘I think, one finds in people who’re born near good wine are much happier,’ said Leonardo da Vinci.
This is the impression I had of Saverio, Ariel, Egidio and Adriano. All jolly men in the middle of their lives, which they lives with gusto.
It was no other than Nietzsche (Ecce Homo) who said: ‘The best cuisine belongs to Piemont. I’d say the Italian cuisine in Crispiano and Taranto was second to none.
This was a place where they love music, food and wine. The olive is reaped later in Autumn but you coud, neverthelsss, eat olives and tartufi (truffles) served with tasty risotto rice and delicate sea-food. You felt like a god, waking up in the beautiful ambient of Villa Marina in Crispiano, a short drive away from the town. You could bathe in the history of lovely Crispiano and the harbour town of Taranto, as told by my dear friends Maria and Saverio.
Saverio Sinapoli grew up in Taranto, a town with big mansions and two bridges and a seaside restaurant with a magnificent backdrop of the Adriatic Sea. The sun was going down under the horizon of the golden sea and the Gulf of Taranto when we went for dinner and a promenade. Further southwards below Italy’s boot lay the Ionian Sea.
The mayor is Egidio Ippolito, a burly, friendly, sympathetic gentleman who not only manages the administration of the town but indulges successfully in creative design. He invited us to try out his fantasy costume in the town council of Crispano.
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I am the father and mother of this universe, and its grandfather too; I am its entire support. I am the sum of all knowledge, the purifier, the syllable Om; I am the sacred scriptures, the Rig, Yajur, and Sama Vedas. I am the goal of life, the Lord and support of all, the inner witness, the abode of all. I am the only refuge, the one true friend; I am the beginning, the staying, and the end of creation; I am the womb and the eternal seed. I am heat; I give and withhold the rain. I am immortality and I am death; I am what is and what is not. (Bhagwad Gita)
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