Lyrik: A GURKHA MOTHER (Satis Shroff)
(Subtitle: Death of a Precious Jewel)
The gurkha with a khukri
But no enemy
Works for the Queen of England,
Yet gets shot at
In missions he doesn't comprehend.
Order is hukum,
Hukum is life
Johnny Gurkha still dies
Under foreign skies.
He never asks why
Politics isn't his style
He's fought against all and sundry:
Turks, Tibetans, Italians and Indians
Germans, Japanese, Chinese
Argentineans and Vietnamese.
Indonesians and Iraqis.
Loyalty to the utmost
Never fearing a loss.
The loss of a mother's son
From the mountains of Nepal.
Her grandpa died in Burma
For the glory of the British.
Her husband in Mesopotemia
She knows not against whom
No one did tell her.
Her brother fell in France,
Against the Teutonic hordes.
She prays to Shiva of the Snows for peace
And her son's safety.
Her joy and her hope
Farming on a terraced slope.
A son who helped wipe her tears
And ease the pain in her mother's heart.
A frugal mother who lives by the seasons
And peers down to the valleys
Year in and year out
In expectation of her soldier son.
A smart Gurkha is underway
Heard from across the hill with a shout
'It’s an officer from his brigade.
A letter with a seal and a poker-face
"Your son died on duty," he says,
"Keeping peace for the Queen of England,
And the United Kingdom."
A world crumbles down
The Nepalese mother cannot utter a word
Gone is her son,
Her precious jewel.
Her only insurance and sunshine
In the craggy hills of Nepal.
And with him her dreams
A spartan life that kills.
Glossary:
gurkha: soldier from Nepal
khukri: curved knife used in hand-to-hand combat
hukum: Befehl/command/order
shiva: a god in Hinduism
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Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter (Satis Shroff)
Der Gurkha
Mit einem gefährlichen Khukri
Aber kein Feind in Sicht,
Arbeitet für die Königin von England,
Und wird erschossen
Für Einsätze,
Die er nicht begreift.
Befehl ist Hukum,
Hukum ist sein Leben
Johnny Gurkha stirbt noch
Unter fremdem Himmel.
Er fragt nie warum
Die Politik ist nicht seine Stärke.
Er hat gegen alle gekämpft:
Türken, Tibeter, Italiener, und Inder
Deutsche, Japaner, Chinesen,
Vietnamesen und Argentinier.
Loyal bis ans Ende,
Er trauert keinem Verlust nach.
Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter,
Von den Bergen Nepals.
Ihr Großvater starb in Birmas Dschungel
Für die glorreichen Engländer.
Ihr Mann fiel in Mesopotamien,
Sie weiß nicht gegen wen,
Keiner hat es ihr gesagt.
Ihr Bruder ist in Frankreich gefallen,
Gegen die teutonische Reichsarmee.
Sie betet Shiva von den Schneegipfeln an
Für Frieden auf Erden, und ihres Sohnes Wohlbefinden.
Ihr einzige Freude, ihre letzte Hoffnung,
Während sie den Terrassenacker
Auf einem schroffen Hang bestellt.
Ein Sohn, der ihr half,
Ihre Tränen zu wischen
Und den Schmerz in ihrem mütterlichen Herz
zu lindern.
Eine arme Mutter, die mit den Jahreszeiten lebt,
Jahr ein und Jahr aus, hinunter in die Täler schaut
Mit Sehnsucht auf ihren Soldatensohn.
Ein Gurkha ist endlich unterwegs
Man hört es über den Bergen mit einem Geschrei.
Es ist ein Offizier von seiner Brigade.
Ein Brief mit Siegel und ein Pokergesicht
„Ihren Sohn starb im Dienst,“
sagt er lakonisch:
„Er kämpfte für die Königin von England
Und für den Vereinigten Königreich.“
Eine Welt bricht zusammen
Und kommt zu einem Ende.
Ein Kloß im Hals der Nepali Mutter.
Nicht ein Wort kann sie herausbringen.
Weg ist ihr Sohn, ihr kostbares Juwel.
Ihr einzige Versicherung und ihr Sonnenschein.
In den unfruchtbaren, kargen Bergen,
Und mit ihm ihre Träume
Ein spartanisches Leben,
Das den Tod bringt.
German Academic Prize Winner, Heimatmedaille Baden-Württemberg 2018, Neruda Award 2017 Satis Shroff has worked as a lecturer in Creative Writing at the elite Albert Ludwigs University Freiburg, workshop at the Pedagogische Hochschule, and the Akademie für medizinische Berufe Uniklinik Freiburg in addition to lectures in Clara and Bethesda (Switzerland). The author and lecturer lives in Freiburg and writes about themes like longing, love, the agony of war, the discrimination against Gurkhas, togetherness, dignity of humans, tolerance and one-world in his poems, articles and books: www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle.
THE NAKED HILLS (Satis Shroff)
A young Nepalese woman
Sits in front of her parents’ thatched home
In the Middle Hills of Nepal.
Her two hands caress her shoulders.
It’s cold in the hills of Nepal,
Where the hills are naked
And its sons have left
In search of better pastures,
For the hills are barren.
Governments and kings
Have come and gone,
But the poverty has remained.
There’s no flour to bake one’s bread.
The mothers seek and pluck Brennessel,
And call it sisnu,
To make a soup
In the frugal hills of Nepal.
In Maghey Sankrati we eat
Stems and roots,
Tarul and sweet-potatoes.
There’s no wheat, maize, rice or mustard
In these naked hills.
Everything has become bitter.
What remains is love and attachment.
A Nepalese bird still sings:
Kafal pakyo.
Kafal pakyo.
The berry’s ripe
Glossary:
Brennessel (Ger.): sisnu (Nepali), stinging nettle
Maghey Sankrati: festival in Nepal
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THE GODS HAVE LEFT (Satis Shroff)
I walk at a snail’s pace
Watch the statues and works of art
From my homeland in the Himalayas.
I discover the Hindu pantheon
The bodhisattvas and exquisite tantric figures
Meditating in ecstatic poses.
Such a long journey have they made,
From the Himalayas to Heidelberg,
Brought by Hippie hagglers out to make a buck.
Incense sticks, temple bells,
Printed Tibetan and Hindu prayers
On fine cotton cloth.
Stacks of vedic verses, sutras
And upanishads.
Is it a museum?
A monastery?
Or a temple in Europe?
No, it’s a stall at Freiburg’s potato-market.
The Gods have left Kathmandu Valley forever.
To decorate the living rooms of Europeans.
For them they are conversation pieces,
For us they are Gods and Goddesses,
To be revered and worshipped.
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SHAME (Satis Shroff)
Should I be shamed
To have fallen in love,
With a lady outside my caste,
Outside my religion?
Do I have to apologise
For my intercultural adventure?
To whom shall I apologise?
To my dear old mother
Who lost her status in society
Since she became a widow,
And now emits groans of emptiness?
To my sister who prefers
A life as a virgin,
Than under the yoke
Of a man-of-letters,
Foreign-educated
But no manners
Towards ladies?
To my motherland,
Where school children
Are abducted and indoctrinated,
To work for collective farms?
Times have changed even in Nepal.
The Maoists have usurped the land
And are now a power
To be reckoned with.
Your sons have left
For better chances and homes.
Nepal’s proverbial hospitality is no more
The people have more than their share of grief.
The cheerful ghasi geet has gone,
Women and children wear camouflage attires.
The sickle and khukri have disappeared
And now they hold modern guns.
How many widows, fatherless children
Have these weapons cost?
In Nepal children have to play
With luxurious toys.
Toys that kill
Or be killed.
All Nepalese are equal
Some Nepalese are always
More equal than the others.
That is the shame of my land.
Centuries of corruption,
Nepotism and misrule.
A bonded people in isolation.
A once forbidden kingdom
Has become a terror state.
Throw down the weapons,
Gurkhas or Maoists,
Royalists, democrats,
Communists or terrorists.
Use your cerebral cells
Not lethal guns.
Glossary:
Ghasi geet: grass-cutter’s song
Kuukri: curved Nepalese multipurpose knife
Gurkhas: The King’s soldiers
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SUMMERTIME (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 no where.
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 house with character in Zähringen,
An Allemanic stronghold.
Once the subject of dispute
Between Austria and France,
Now a sleepy residential area of Freiburg.
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WHAT IS LIFE? (Satis Shroff)
Life is the warmth
Of our kisses
In moments of passion
And sensuality.
Life is not only our kisses
But also those of our lovely children.
Life is the helplessness and injustice
In the lives of people living,
Under the shadow of the far-off Himalayas.
Life isn’t helplessness and injustice alone
We have to ask how it happened
To avoid them in the future.
Seek and find a solution,
And not let it happen again.
Life is five million Germans
Who are officially jobless
And the other millions
Who tighten their belts.
Life is to choose better politicians
And not let the rightists come again.
That’s life.
Tags: agony of war, gurkha mother, necessity of world peace, nepal, himalaya,soldier son,
Migration Story: From Bhutan, Nepal to the USA (Satis Shroff)
In the month of April 2010: The Bhutanese of Nepali origin have been living in the Dragon Country since a long time but the Dragon King of this mountain kingdom gave his Nepalese subjects an ultimatum: either adopt the Bhutanese way of life and marry Bhutanese women or leave the country. So a long journey began for a lot of Nepalese who wanted to maintain and practice their Nepali Himalayan culture and traditions. They were obliged to leave Bhutan and head for neighbouring, poor and troubled Nepal where a king also ruled the land, but this was a Hindu king and the Nepalese are Hindus to some great extent but Buddhists and animists (Bon-religion) too.
Life as a refugee in Nepal, near the Indian border, was not a bed of roses and they longed to return to Bhutan which was impossible under the circumstances, and when the International Migration authorities asked them if they’d like to go to the USA they replied in the affirmative unanimously. And the video film is about this migration.
The younger generation of Bhutanese, sorry Nepalis, who are interviewed are optimistic but the older generation in a foreign country (like the Turks, Kurds, Italians, Albanians in European refugee camps) had pangs of nostalgia, sehnsucht, longing for their old surroundings. But there was also hope for the younger and forthcoming generations. Yes, hope, we call it ‘asha’ in Nepali is a wonderful, magical word. Hope of a life in freedom, peace, tolerance, dignity and respect. Ain’t that worth striving for. I found the film very touching…
How did you find it? Comments invited…
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LOVE SONGS ON A MISTY MORNING (Satis Shroff)
Do You Remember?
On a misty morning at Pokhara,
We sat in a dugout canoe
With our college friends.
The misty veil slowly disappeared.
Mirrored on the torquoise waters
Of the lake Phewa
Were the virgin white peaks
Crowned by Machhapuchare,
The fish-tailed one.
Placid, serene, majestic,
A moment of magic.
Do you remember?
The love songs I sang from our canoe,
Strumming on my guitar
Were meant for you.
For you alone.
Even the Himalayan birds
Stopped chirping
To eavesdrop at our wondrous melodies,
Like at a Rodighar.
Our friends sang in chorus:
Nepalese folk-songs,
Bollywood, Urdu
And English lyrics
On that misty morning.
Songs sung in chorus
To share our feelings
Of the beauty of Nature
And human attachments.
Breaking the tranquillity
Of the misty morning in the Lake Phewa.
A motley symphony in the morning.
The elderly Phewa-fisher smiled,
As he rowed the long canoe.
A knowing smile,
For he too had sung love lyrics
When he was young.
The jhaurey and ghasi songs
A frugal life in the Annapurna hills,
Trying hard to make ends meet.
He had his life behind him,
We had ours before us.
Life was cruel,
But love was everywhere.
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 discern 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.
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THE LURE OF THE HIMALAYAS (Satis Shroff)
ONCE upon a time near the town of Kashgar,
I, a stranger in local clothes was captured
By the sturdy riders of Vali Khan.
What was a stranger
With fair skin and blue eyes,
Looking for in Vali Khan’s terrain?
I, the stranger spoke a strange tongue.
‘He’s a spy sent by China.
Behead him,’ barked the Khan’s officer.
I pleaded and tried to explain
My mission in their country.
It was all in vain.
On August 26, 1857
I, Adolph Schlagintweit,
a German traveler, 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.
The mission of the 29000km journey
Was to make an exact cartography
Of the little known countries,
Sans invitation, I must admit.
In Kamet we reached a 6785m peak,
An elevation record in those days.
We measured the altitudes,
Gathered magnetic, meteorological,
And anthropological data.
We even collected extensive
Botanical, zoological and ethnographic gems.
Hermann and I made 751 sketches,
Drawings, water-colour and oil paintings.
The motifs were Himalayan panoramas,
Single summits, glacier formations,
Himalayan rivers and houses of the natives.
I still see myself and Hermann working
With our pencils, brushes daubed in water-colours and oil,
Trying to capture the colours and perspectives
Of the Himalayas.
Fond memories of Padam valley, near the old moraine
Of the main glacier at Zanskar in pencil and pen.
A view from Gunshankar peak 6023 metres,
From the Trans-Sutlej chain in aquarelle.
A European female in oriental dress in Calcutta 1855.
Brahmin, Rajput and Sudra women draped in saris.
Kristo Prasad, a 35 year old Rajput
Photographed in Benaras.
An old Hindu fakir with knee-long rasta braids,
Bhot women from Ladakh, snapped in Simla.
Kahars, Palki-porters from Bihar,
Hindus of the Sudra caste.
A Lepcha armed with bow and arrows,
In traditional dress up to his calves
And a hat with plume.
Kistositta, a 25 year old Brahmin from Bengal,
Combing the hair of Mungia,
A 43 year old Vaisa woman.
A wandering Muslim minstrel Manglu at Agra,
With his sarangi.
A 31 year old Ram Singh, a Sudra from Benaras,
Playing his Kolebassen flute.
The monsoon,
And thatched Khasi houses at Cherrapunji,
The rainiest place on earth.
The precious documents of our long journey
Can be seen at the Alpine Museum Munich.
Even a letter,
Sent by Robert to our sister Matilde,
Written on November 2, 1866 from Srinagar:
‘We travelled a 200 English mile route,
Without seeing a human being,
Who didn’t belong to our caravan.
Besides our horses, we had camels,
The right ones with two humps,
Which you don’t find in India.
We crossed high glacier passes at 5500m
And crossed treacherous mountain streams.’
My fascination for the Himalayas
Got the better of me.
I had breathed the rare Himalayan air,
And felt like Icarus.
I wanted to fly higher and higher,
Forgetting where I was.
My brothers Hermann and Robert left India
By ship and reached Berlin in June,1857.
I wanted to traverse the continent
Disregarding the dangers,
For von Humboldt was my hero.
Instead of honour and fame,
My body was dragged by fierce riders in the dust,
Although I had long left the world.
My soul had raced with the speed of light to Heaven
A Persian traveller, a Muslim with a heart
Found my headless body.
He brought my remains all the way to India,
Where he handed it to a British colonial officer.
It was a fatal fascination,
But had I the chance,
I’d do it again.
Thelma Zaracostas Hi Satis another read of this wonderful poem,great to see you again. Australia
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Fanfare2000 Beautiful words, though it would be great book to write about, you should expand this and create a novel, it would be a big time seller, I'm sure there is more to this story than you have told so far. USA
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thelma I love this poem Satis that is why I am reading it again and again all will enjoy this very educational and very colourful write! australia
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thelma Hi Satis waiting for some more of your great poems in the meantime back to read again one my favourites. australia
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Satis Shroff : Dear Thelma, Glad to know that you found The Lure of the Himalayas colourful and educational. There was a big exhibition about the three German Schlagintweit brothers. And what I found even interesting was that a teacher from Freiburg, named Joseph Sartorius, did the same journey with his camera and photographed the sites of the paintings by the three brothers mentioned in the poem. It was great to compare the modern photographs with the original paintings.I want to bring out my poems with the Himalayan photographs of Joseph Sartorius. Have a nice day.
Regards, Satis Shroff, Germany
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thelma zaracostas: This is a wonderful read thank you for the journey into the life and adventures of this amazing person up until now I had never heard of him. Very colourful and educational.
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BOOK REVIEWS BY SATIS SHROFF:
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The Interitance of Loss and Cultural Incompetence: Satis Shroff
'My characters are purely fictional,' says Kiran Desai. In her book (The Inheritance of Loss) she has tried to do exactly that, namely to capture her own knowledge about what it means to travel between East and West, and to examine the lives of migrants who are forced to hypocrisy, angst of being nabbed, and have biographies that have gaps, and whose lives are constructed with lies, where trust and faith in someone is impossible, as in the case of Sai and Gyan.
Migration is a sword with sharp blades on both sides. The feeling of loss when one leaves one'smatribhumi is just as intensive and dreadful as having to leave a foreign home, due to deportation, when one doesn't have the green-card or Aufenthaltserlaubnis. Everyone copes with such situations differently. Some don't have coping solutions and it becomes a traumatic experience for the rest of one's life. Some pull up their socks, keep a stiff upper-lip and begin elsewhere.
The problem of illegal migration hasn't been solved in the USA, Britain, France, Germany and other European countries. It is an open secret that the illegal migrants are used as cheap laborers according to the hire-and-fire principle, for these people belong to the underclass. In the USA it's chic to have Hispanics as baby-sitters, just as Eastern Bloc women are used by German families to do the household chores. Nepalis work under miserable conditions in India as darwans, chowkidars, cheap security personnel and the Indians have the same arrogance as the British colonialists. The judge, Lola and Noni are stereotypes, but such people do exist. It's not all fantasy. I'm sure the Gurkhas looking after photo-model Claudia Schiffer and singer Seal's house and guarding the palace of the Sultan of Brunei are well paid and contented, in comparison to other people in Nepal and the Indian sub-continent.
What does a person feel and think when he or she goes from a rich western country to the East? And what happens when a poor Indian comes to the USA (land of plenty) or Germany (Schlaraffenland)? Is there always a feeling of loss? I've been living thirty years in Germany and I have met and seen and worked with migrants with biographies from Irak, Iran, Turkey, Nepal, India, Pakistan, Vietnam, Kosovo, Albania, Croatia and East Bloc countries. The worst part of it is that the Germans ignored the fact that it had already become, what they call 'ein Einwanderungsland.' They thought they'd invited only guest workers after World War II, with limited stay-permits, not realizing that they'd encouraged human beings with families and emotional ties, hopes and desires of a better future in the new Heimat with for their children and their grand-children.
Kiran Desai flashes back and forth, between Kalimpong and New York, and she uses typical clich's and Indian stereotypes that have also been promoted by Bollywood. She's just as cynical and hilarious with her descriptions of fellow Indians in the diaspora, as she is when she describes the Gorkhalis in Darjeeling. Her portrait of the Nepalis in Darjeeling is rather biased, but what can one expect from a thirty-six year old Indian woman who has been pampered in India, England and the USA? Her knowledge of Kalimpong and Darjeeling sounds theoretical and her characters don't speak Nepali. She lets them speak Hindi, because she herself didn't bother to learn Nepali during her stay in Kalimpong. The depiction of a Gorkhali world might be true, as far as poverty is concerned, but she has no idea of the rich Nepali literature (Indra Bahadur Rai, Shiva Kumar Rai, Banira Giri to name a few), and folks music in the diaspora.
Gyan's role was overdone, especially when Sai demands that he should feel ashamed of his and his family's poverty and so-called low descent. What is Gyan? Is he a Chettri, Bahun, Rai Tamang, or even a Newar? Describing a country, landscape is one thing, but creeping into the skins of the characters is another. The Gorkha characters remain shallow, like caricatures in Bollywood films, and she overdoes it with the dialogue between Sai and Gyan.
For someone like me, who also went to school in Darjeeling, Kiran Desai's book was a pleasant journey into the past, where I still have fond memories of the Darjeeling Nepalis, their struggle for recognition and dignity among the peoples of the vast Indian subcontinent. I'm glad that peace prevails in the Darjeeling district, although I wish Subash Ghising had negotiated more funds from the central Indian government, and a university in Darjeeling. Gangtok (Sikkim) also does not have a university. The recognition of Nepali was a positive factor, but a university each for Darjeeling, Kalimpong and Kurseong would have given more Nepalis (pardon, Gorkhalis) the opportunity for higher education and better jobs, if not in the country, then abroad. To eat dal-bhat-tarkari at home and acquire MAs and PhDs within one's familiar confines would have immensely helped the Gorkhali men and women, even more than the recognition of Nepali. We can regard it as a small step towards progress.
The description of Gyan's visit to Kathmandu was extremely superficial. Kathmandu is a world, a cosmos in itself, with its exquisite temples and pagodas and stupas and the culturally rich Newaris families from Lalitpur, Bhadgaon and Kathmandu.
Kiran is, and remains, a supercilious brown-memsahib, like the made-over English characters of Varindra Tarzie Vittachi's fiercely satirical book 'The Brown Sahibs' in her attitude towards Gorkhalis and the downtrodden of her own country. I can imagine that the Nepali author D.B. Gurung is piqued about Desai's portrayal of the Nepalis in Kalimpong as 'crook, dupe, cheat and lesser humans' and his own emotional rejoinder regarding the Bengalis as 'the hungry jackals from the plains of Calcutta.' Since D.B. Gurung is known for his poetic vein, perhaps he can treat the long standing problems between Indians and Nepalis, or as Desai puts it, Bengis and Neps, in his lyrical verses. But please, less of the vitriol and more of tolerance, because even a poet and novelist can make or break human relations. I, for my part, am for living together, despite our differences, for variety is the spice of life in these days of globalization. Vive la difference.
The story is served like a MacDonald's Big Mac for the modern reader, who has not much time, and there are multi-media distractions craving for his or her attention. As small morsels of information, like in a sit-com. I found the story-pace well timed and interesting, and she has a broad palette of problems that migrants face when they leave their homes, and when they return home. You can feel with Bijhu when he embraces his Papa in the end. A foreign-returned son, stripped of all his belongings. It was a terrific metaphor. I'm glad that there are women like Kiran Desai and Monica Ali (Brick Lane) who've traveled and experienced what it is like to be in the diaspora and try to capture the emotional and historical patterns in their lives as migrants.
When you read the last page of the Desai's book you feel a bit dissatisfied because you wish that the unequal love affair between Gyan and Sai will go on and take a positive turn. There are so many Nepali-Indian couples who live happy conjugal lives with their families. I know at least three cases of Nepali women who're married to Bengalis. The Nepali women speak perfect Bengali, but their husbands don't speak Nepali, even though they live in Gorkhaland. They are proud that they can speak English instead. Nepali (Gorkhali or Khas Kura) is such a colorful and melodious language and we ought to listen to Sir Ralph Turner's when he says: 'Do not let your lovely language become the pale reflexion of a sanskritised Hindi.'
Dinesh Kafle calls Desai 'schizophrenic.' Well, when you talk with an Indian he always praises the achievements of India in terms of the second Silicon Valley (Bangalore), the Agni and Prithvi missiles, the increasing nuclear arsenal, the expanding armed forces etcetera. But, Gott sei dank, there are Indians, who like Gandhi, are humble, religious, practice humility, are poor, deprived, castless, untouchables and, nevertheless, human and full of empathy, clean in their souls and hearts, and regard this world as merely a maya, an illusion, an earthly spectacle to be seen and felt---without being attached. D. B. Gurung is wrong when he assumes that Desai seems 'unable to acclimatize herself to either the western milieu or her own home.' But where is her home? She's a rootless, creative jet-set gypsy, who calls India, England and USA her home. The gypsies (Sintis and Romas) were originally from India (Rajasthan), weren't they?
Even V.S.Naipaul (Half a Life, The Mimic Men), J. M. Croatzee (Youth), Isabel Allende (The Stories of Eva Luna) and Prafulla Mohanti (Through Brown Eyes) haven't gone so far in their description of a race or nation the way Desai has in her book. What is missing in her writing is the intercultural competence. Instead of taking the trouble to learn Nepali and acquiring background knowledge about the tradition, religion, norms and values, culture and living style of the Gorkhalis in Darjeeling and the Nepalese in Nepal, and comparing it with her own Indian culture, and trying to seek what is common between the two cultures and moving towards peace, tolerance, reconciliation---she just remains adamant , like her protagonist Sai. She does not make an ethnic reflection, but goes on and on, with a jaundiced view, till the bitter end. The dialogue between Neps and Bengis, between Neps and other Indians (Beharis and Marwaris and others from the plains) or between the British and Indians cannot be described as successful intercultural dialogues. The dialogues are carried out the way it should not, because there's always a fear that one is different in terms of social and ethnic status, even between her two main protagonists: Sai and Gyan. There is no attempt to reveal the facts behind an alien in a new cultural environment, no accepting of the problems of identity and no engagement for equality and against discrimination.
If you're looking for frustrations-tolerance, empathy and solidarity with the Gorkhalis in the book, it's just not there. The characters necessary for intercultural interaction are joy in interaction with foreign cultures (not arrogance and egoism), consciousness of one's own culture, stress tolerance, tolerance of ambiguity, and bucketfuls of empathy. Had she shown empathy towards the Nepalis from Darjeeling and Kalimpong and made a happy-end love story between Gyan and Sai, the Nepalese would have greeted her with khadas and marigold malas. The way it is, she has only stirred a hornet's nest. Kiran just doesn't have empathy for Neps, despite the Booker Prize. Great women are judged by the way they treat the underprivileged and downtrodden. It's time for meditation and self-searching in Rishikesh, like the Beatles, I suppose.
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Creative Writing Critique - Satis Shroff: Chicken of India Unite!
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 Gnter 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 Grnfelder hat Sinologie und Germanistik studiert, lebte zwei Jahre in China und arbeitet gegenwrtig als freie Lektorin und Literaturvermittlerin in Berlin. Dieses Buch ist vergleichbar mit einem Strauss zusammengestellter Blumen aus dem Himalaya, die die Herausgeberin gepflckt hat. Es handelt von den Menschen und deren Problemen im 450 km langen Himalaya Gebirge. Das Buch orientiert sich, an englischen bersetzungen 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 Fremdenfhrer Shankar Lamichane, dem Dichter Pallav Ranjan und dem Entwicklungsspezialisten Harka Gurung. Manche Geschichten sind nicht neu fr Nepal-Kenner, aber das Buch ist fr Leser, die in Deutschland, sterreich, Sdtirol und die Schweiz leben, bestimmt. Auer 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 fr den Fremden sozusagen geffnet wurde. Kanak Dixit erzhlt dies deutlich in Welchen Himalaya htten Sie gern?". In einer anderen liebenswerten Gesichte erzhlt er ber die Reise von einem Nepali Frosch namens Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, ein umweltbewuter Bergsteiger, erzhlt ber 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 Hher als Everest", schlielich 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 Neuseelnder Edmund Hillary bestiegen war, erzhlt, dass er ein glcklicher Mensch" sei. Der Nepali Journalist Deepak Thapa beschreibt den berhmten Sherpa Bergsteiger Ang Rita als einen sozialen Aufsteiger.
Whrend 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 zufgen knnen, erzhlt uns Kanak Dixit von 100 000 Lhotshampas (nepalstmmige Einwohner), die von der bhutanesischen Regierung vertrieben worden sind und jetzt in Flchtlingslagern in Jhapa leben.
James Hilton hat das Wort Shangri-La fr 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 Kunsthndler Shanker Lamechane erzhlt, handelt von einem gelhmten Jungen. Sein Karma wird in Dialogform zwischen ein Nepali Reiseleiter und einem berschwenglichen Tourist erzhlt. Das hilflose Kind bringt uns dazu, ber die Freude in Alltag nachzudenken, was wir meistens nicht tun knnen, weil wir mit dem Alltag so beschftigt sind. Whrend Harka Gurung Fakten und Fiktionen ber den Schneemensch" zusammenstellt, schildert uns Kunzang Choden, eine Psychologin aus Bhutan, ber 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 Einschern" lernen wir von dem tragischen Schicksal eines Mdchens namens Pem Doikar, die von einem Migoi entfhrt wurde.
Diese Anthologie versucht nicht die Himalaya Literatur als ganzes zu reprsentieren, 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 ber 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 unberhrt sind, sind immer noch ursprnglich, 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 Schriftstcken, Zeitschriften und Bcher geschrieben und verffentlicht 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 Bcher und 3500 verschiedene Zeitschriften wovon die westliche Welt noch nie gehrt oder gelesen hat.
Der englische Professor Michael Hutt machte einen Anfang. Er übersetzte zeitgenssische 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 Verstndnis für die nepali, indische, bhutanesische, tibetische, chinesische Psyche, Kultur, Religion. Es beschreibt die Lebensbedingungen und menschlichen Probleme in den drflichen und stdtischen Himalayagebieten und ist eine willkommene Ergnzung zu der langsam wachsenden Sammlung von literarische bersetzungen 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, Zrich 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 Grnfelder 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:
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| Satis Shroff at the Marathon Reading in Freiburg's Stadttheater |
He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of 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) on www.lulu.com/spotlight/satisle
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 fr medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize, the Neruda Award 2017 (Italy) and the Heimatmedaille Baden-Württemberg 2018.
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 Grnfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zrich).
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.
ONLY EVEREST KNOWS (Satis Shroff)
The Sherpa trudges in the snow
Wheezes and struggles
And paves the way
With fix-ropes, ladders
Crampons, hooks and spikes
And says:"Follow me, Sir".
Last season it was a Tiroler, a Tokyoter
And a gentleman from Vienna.
This time it's a sahib from Bolognia.
Insured for heath and life
Armed with credits cards and pride
Storming the Himalayan summits
With the help of the Nepalis.
Hillary took Tenzing's photo
Alas the times have changed.
For the sahib it's pure vanity
For the sherpa it's sheer existence.
By stormy weather and the trusty sherpa's
Competence and toil the previous day,
The sahib takes a stealthy whiff of oxygen.
And thinks:
"After all, the Sherpa cannot communicate
He's illiterate to the outside world".
And so the sahib feigns sickness and descends
Only to make a solo ascent the next day,
Stoned with amphetamine.
And so the legend grows
Of the sahib on the summit
A photo goes around the world.
Sans Sherpa,
Sans Sauerstoff.
Was it by fair means?
Only Sagarmatha knows
Only Sagarmatha knows.
Glossary:
Sauerstoff: German word for oxygen
Sagarmatha: Nepalese word for Mt.Everest, Chomolungma (Tib.)
sahib: European, Herrnmensch
Sherpa: a high-altitude porter and also a tribe-name
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