Prosepoem: SONGS OF LOVE & SORROW (Satis Shroff)

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This time Satis Shroff tells you in his prosepoem about Nepal’s Wandering Minstrels called Gaineys, who go from village to village throughout the country and beyong Northern India with their crude versions of the violin and sing about kings, princesses, love-stories..
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EcVBmaIkic

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

Go away, you maya. Disappear. Haunt me not in my dreams.. What has become of my country? My grandpa said: “In Nepal even a child Can walk the countryside alone.” It’s just not true, not for a Nepalese, born with a sarangi in his hand. I’m a musician, one of the lower caste in the Hindu hierarchy. I bring delight to my listeners, hope to touch the hearts of my spectators.

I sing about love, hate and evil, kings and queens, princes and princesses, The poor and the rich, and the fight for existence, in the craggy foothills and the towering heights of the Himalayas, the Abode of the Snows, where Buddhist and Hindu Gods and Goddesses reside, and look over mankind and his folly. I was born in Tanhau, a nondescript hamlet in Nepal, were it not for Bhanu Bhakta Acharya who was born here, the Nepalese poet who translated the Ramayana, from high-flown Sanskrit into simple Nepali for all to read.

I remember the first day my father handed me a sarangi. He taught me how to hold and swing the bow. I was delighted with the first squeaks it made, as I moved the bow on the taught horsetail strings. It was as though my small sarangi was talking with me in its baby-talk. I was so happy, I and my sarangi, my sarangi and me. Tears of joy ran down my cheeks. I was so thankful. I touched my Papa’s feet, as is the custom in the Himalayas. I could embrace the whole world. My father taught me the tones, and the songs to go with them, for we gaineys are minstrels who wander from place to place, like gypsies, like butterflies in Spring. We are a restless folk to be seen everywhere, where people dwell, for we live from their charity and our trade.

The voice of the gainey, the sad melody of the sarangi. A boon to those who love the lyrics, a nuisance to those who hate it. Many a time, we’ve been kicked and beaten by young people who prefer canned music, from their ghetto-blasters. Outlandish melodies, electronic beats you can’t catch up with. Spinning on their heads, hip-hopping like robots, not humans. It’s the techno, ecstasy generation. Where have all the old melodies gone? The Nepalese folksongs of yore? The song of the Gainey?

“This is globanisation,” they told me.

The grey-eyed visitors from abroad, ‘Quirays’ as we call them in Nepal. Or ‘gora-sahibs’ in Hindustan. The quirays took countless pictures of me, with their cameras, gave handsome tips. A grey-haired elderly didi with spectacles, and teeth in like a horse’s mouth, even gave me a polaroid-picture of me with my sarangi, my mountain violin. Sometimes, I look at my fading picture and wonder how fast time flows. My smile is disappearing, grey hair at the sides, the beginning of baldness. I’ve lost a lot of my molars, at the hands of the Barbier from Muzzafapur in the Indian lowlands; he gave me clove oil to ease my pain, as he pulled out my fouled teeth in an open-air-surgical salon, right near the Tribhuvan Highway.

I still have my voice and my sarangi, and love to sing my repertoire, even though many people sneer and jeer at me, and prefer Bollywood texts from my voice-box. To please their whims, I learned even Bollywood songs, against my will, eavesdropping behind cinema curtains, to please the western tourists and my country’s modern youth, I even learned some English songs.

Oh money, dear money. I’ve become a cultural prostitute. I’ve done my zunft, my trade, an injustice, but I did it to survive. I had to integrate myself and to assimilate in my changing society. Time has not stood still under the shadow of the Himalayas.

One day when I was much younger, I was resting under a Pipal tree which the tourists call Ficus religiosa, when I saw one beautiful tourist girl. I looked and smiled at her. She caressed her hair, And smiled back. For me it was love at first sight. All the while gazing at her, I took out my small sarangi, with bells on my fiddle bow and played a sad Nepali melody composed by Ambar Gurung, which I’d learned in my wanderings from Ilam to Darjeeling. I am the sky and you are the soil; even though we yearn a thousand times, we cannot come together. I was sentimental at that moment. Had tears in my eyes.

When I finished my song, the blonde woman sauntered up to me, and said in a smooth voice, ‘Thank you for the lovely song. Can you tell me what it means?’

I felt a lump on my throat and couldn’t speak for a while. Then, with a sigh, I said, ‘We have this caste system in Nepal. When I first saw you, I imagined you were a fair bahun girl. We aren’t allowed to fall in love with bahunis. It is a forbidden love, a love that can never come true. I love you but I can’t have you.’

‘But you haven’t even tried,’ said the blonde girl coyly.

‘I like your golden hair, Your blue eyes. It’s like watching the sky.’

‘Oh, thank you. Danyabad. She asked: ‘But why do you say: ‘We cannot be together?’

‘We are together now,’ I replied, ‘But the society does not like us gaineys from the lower caste. The bahuns, chettris castes are above us. They look down upon us.’

‘Why do they do that?’ asked the blonde girl.

I spat out: ‘Because they are high-born. We, kamis, damais and sarkis, are dalits. We are the downtrodden, the underdogs of this society in the foothills of the Himalayas.’

‘Who made you what you are?’ she asked.

I told her: ‘The Hindu society is formed this way: once upon a time there was a bahun, and from him came the Varnas. The Vernas are a division of society into four parts. Brahma created the bahuns from his mouth. The chettris, who are warriers came from his shoulder, the traders from his thigh and the servants from the sole of his feet.’

‘What about the poor dalits?’ quipped the blonde foreigner.

‘The dalits fell deeper in the Hindu society, And were not regarded as full members of the human race. We had to do the errands and menial jobs that were forbidden for the higher castes.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.

‘Like disposing dead animals, making leather by skinning hides of dead animals, cleaning toilets and latrines, clearing the sewage canals of the rich, high born Hindus. I am not allowed to touch a bahun, even with my shadow, you know.’

‘What a mean, ugly system,’ she commented, and shook her head. ‘May I touch you?’ she asked impulsively. She was daring and wanted to see how I’d react.

‘You may,’ I replied. She touched my hand, Then my cheeks with her two hands. I found it pleasant and a great honour.

I joined my hands and said sincerely, ‘Dhanyabad.’ I, a dalit, a no-name, a no-human, has been touched by a young, beautiful woman, a quiray tourist, from across the Black Waters we call the Kalapani.’

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

She, in her European mind, thought she’d brought the idea of human rights at least to the gainey, this wonderful wandering minstrel, with his quaint fiddle called sarangi.

She said in her melodious voice, ‘In my country all people are free and equal, have the same rights and dignity. All humans have common sense, a conscience, and we ought to meet each other as brothers and sisters.’

I tucked my sarangi in my armpit, Clapped my hands and said:

‘Namaste! That’s nice. Noble thoughts. It works for you here, perhaps. But it won’t work for me,’ Feeling a sense of remorse and nausea sweep over me.
© satisshroff, germany 3/3/2010

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Comments:
thelma zaracostas (australia): Hi Satis! Strong discriptive writing Satis, great poem.Nice to see you here at voices, once again great poem hope you stay awhile!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EcVBmaIkic

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Van Gogh: Nature is Beautiful Everywhere (Satis Shroff)

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A homage to van Gogh by Satis Shroff

Art by Satis Shroff: Landscape

Self-portrait: Vincent van Gogh

Views: 157

VAN GOGH: NATURE IS BEAUTIFUL EVERYWHERE (Satis Shroff)

If you love Nature truly,
you’ll find it beautiful everywhere
(Vincent van Gogh)

If you want to see Vincent van Gogh’s landscape paintings then Basle (Switzerland) is the place to go. The Kunstmuseum Basel has the world’s first showing of the landscape paintings, although in autumn-winter 2008-09 there was a major exhibition at Vienna’s Albertina on van Gogh’s paintings and drawings with 150 of the artist’s works, and his expressive use of the of the brush, prior to which the artist had done strong drawings with all the details. They were then coloured in his own distinctive way. The Harvest in Provence in oil was first drawn with brown and graphite sticks.

Vincent van Gogh was one of the most productive artists…

View original post 1,314 more words

Van Gogh: Nature is Beautiful Everywhere (Satis Shroff)

A homage to van Gogh by Satis Shroff

Art by Satis Shroff: Landscape

Self-portrait: Vincent van Gogh

Views: 157

VAN GOGH: NATURE IS BEAUTIFUL EVERYWHERE (Satis Shroff)

If you love Nature truly,
you’ll find it beautiful everywhere
(Vincent van Gogh)

If you want to see Vincent van Gogh’s landscape paintings then Basle (Switzerland) is the place to go. The Kunstmuseum Basel has the world’s first showing of the landscape paintings, although in autumn-winter 2008-09 there was a major exhibition at Vienna’s Albertina on van Gogh’s paintings and drawings with 150 of the artist’s works, and his expressive use of the of the brush, prior to which the artist had done strong drawings with all the details. They were then coloured in his own distinctive way. The Harvest in Provence in oil was first drawn with brown and graphite sticks.

Vincent van Gogh was one of the most productive artists. He painted 900 pictures and 1100 drawings and sketches on paper. He decided to be an artist when he was 27 years old. Ernest Hemingway and van Gogh have one thing in common: both used a gun to end their lives. Van Gogh lived only 37 years. He followed his brother Theo’s advice and went to live in Auvers near Paris, where he was medically treated by Dr. Paul Gachet, a neurologist with a penchant for art. Prior to that he had psychic disturbances and cut his ear, had himself treated at the hospital in Arles, and since 1889 moved to the psychiatric home at Saint Remy.

Van Gogh was born in 1853 in Holland’s Groot-Zundert, and his father was a Protestant preacher. He was influenced by the countryside environment. He felt a deep love for Nature and also nostalgia for his village. He didn’t have a good time at school and as a result he began working in the Art and Graphic business Groupik & Cie. Since he wasn’t motivated in his job, he was fired and worked as a teacher and assistant preacher in England. But the University rejected his theological ambitions.

After a crisis in the family his brother Theo recommended him to become an artist. Vincent van Gogh started learning to draw and paint the hard way as an autodidact. Good news for people who want to do it on their own. He loved to paint dark landscapes and farmers during their working hours. He got closer to a woman, who used to sew clothes and occasionally engaged in the oldest profession in the world. Her name was Sien but the relationship ended after one and a half years.

Vincent van Gogh wanted to understand the contemporary art Impressionism, so he went to Paris in 1886. It was Paul Gauguin, Emile Bernard, Paul Signac and the bright outdoor paintings of the Impressionists that brought a great change in van Gogh’s paintings. He started using brighter colours and the city and the countryside became his motifs: gardens, parks, fields, olive groves and yineyards. The outcome was wonderful paintings daubed in yellows, blues, greens. He was on his way to discover his own artistic language.

The Basler exhibition is a reconstruction of van Gogh’s cycles of Nature and forms, with which he experimented, that are to be seen in the expositions. Van Gogh celebrated the uniqueness and glory of creation, and his deep bond with Nature are revealed in his outstanding works. I love the cypresses tat appear in van Gogh’s paintings and the theme of the cycles of Nature. About his fascination for Cypresses, Vincent van Gogh said this:
‘The cypresses are in my mind again and again. It’s strange that no one has painted them, the way I see them. In the lines and proportions they’re as beautiful as an Egyptian obelisk. And the green has a such s fine tone. It is the dark spec on a sun basked landscape, but it’s one of the most interesting black tones, and I can’t think of anything that’s more difficult to paint.’

Even though he had psychic problems, he painted pictures that were reassuring with warm colours that create joy and optimism, if not exhilaration in the eyes of the viewer, friend, art-lover, connoisseur. How right he was when he said: ‘Art is man plus nature. The art historian Julius Meier-Graefe wrote his story of a seeker of God to help build a legend about Vincent van Gogh in1921. Irving Stone’s book ‘Lust for Life’ (1934) was filmed by Vincent Minelli in 1956. Don McLean’s song ‘Vincent’ is a wonderful homage to van Gogh’s painting ‘starry night’ in which the painter is depicted as a misunderstood, suffering soul who was too good for this world. The lyric goes:
Now I understand,
What you’re trying to say
To me.

Even though van Gogh did a lot of landscapes, for him art wasn’t imitating nature. It was the feelings and thoughts evoked by nature that an artist brings to the canvas. It isn’t perspective or anatomy that’s relevant but the authenticity of one’s artistic expression. Van Gogh did it personally with strong colour lines and drawings, making his works of art an expression of his inner feelings and of nature that he adored. Van Gogh’s essential period of work lasted only intensive years which were made eternal by his contemporaries. Like van Gogh aptly said: ‘Some people have a big fire in their soul, and nobody comes to warm himself or herself in it.’
© Copyright by Satis Shroff

About the Author:

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Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and the recipient of the Neruda Award 2017 in Crispiano, Italy. He has also taught Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg.

He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of five 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), and two language books on the Nepalese language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Academy for Medical Professions (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Center for Key Qualifications (University of Freiburg, where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
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What others have said about the author:
„Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich).

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).

‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).

“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division – Noble House U.K.

© Copyright by Satis Shroff. You may republish this article online provided you keep the byline, the author’s note, and the active hyperlinks.

Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter (Satis Shrofff)

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2017 Pablo Neruda Award recepient: Satis Shroff, Germany

Satis Shroff (Deutschland) ist Dozent, Schriftsteller, Dichter und Künstler. Er lebt in Freiburg und schreibt über ökologische, medizin-ethnologische und kultur-ethnische Themen und singt beim Männergesangverein-Kappel. Er hat Zoologie und Botanik in Nepal, Sozialarbeit und Medizin in Freiburg und Creative Writing in Freiburg und UK studiert. Ihm wurde der Neruda Award 2017 verliehen. Er hat auch den German Academic Exchange Prize erhalten.

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A poem in Deutsch-Nepali-English

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Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter (Satis Shroff)

 

Der Gurkha mit einem gefährlichen Khukuri

Aber kein Feind in Sicht,

Arbeitet für den UNO, und wird erschossen

für Einsätze, die er nicht begreif

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 Englände

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 wische

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 Batallion.

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.

 

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Grieving muse at the Albert Ludwigs University..

A Muse at the University of Freiburg, Germany

गोर्खाली आमा (Satis Shroff)

 
खुकुरी लिएको एउटा गोर्खा

तर उ कसैको सत्रुहोइन .

बेलायतको रनिकोनिम्ति काम गर्

अनि उ मारिने छ .

उदेश्यहरुका निम्ति जसको बारेमा

आज्ञ हुहुम हो

हुकुम जीवन हो.

 

विदेश मुलुकमा गइ तर पनि

उसले कहिले ‘किन’ सोध्दैन .

राजनीति उसको रिति होइन,

उअलय सबै अनि अनेक सित  गढ़ेय्को छ :

तुर्की, तिबेती, इतल्य्हरु अनि भारतीय ,

जर्मनहरु, जापानी हरु ,चिनियाहरु,

बलायात्को सेना सित फल्क्लान्द्मा ,

अंग्रेजी सित इराक र हिन्दुकुश्मा ,

इन्दोनेसिअक बसी हरुसित कलिमंतन मा,

बफादारी जति सक्दो

 

कहिले हारको डर अभाएको

एउटा आमाले पुत्र हराएको,

नेपालको हिमालबाट .

 

तिनको  बाजे बर्मामा मरे

ब्रिटिश गोर्खा को निम्ति

तिनको पति मेसोपोतेमिया ,

तिनले जान्दैनन् कसको बिरोधमा ,

तिनीलाई कसैले भनेय्नन.

तिनको दाजु फ्रंचेमा लडे ,

जर्मन सेनाको बिरोधमा .

 

तिनी हिउमा तपस्या गर्ने शिवलाई प्राथना गर्दछन.

अनि तिनको चोरको सुरक्श्यको निम्ति.

तिनको खुशी अनि तिनको आशा

भिरालो चौतारामा खेति गर्दै.

 

एउटा छोरो जसले आमाको आसु पुछन सहायता गरेथे.

आमाको हृदयको व्यथा कम्ति गरेका

एउटा आमा जसले ऋतुहरु बाट  कमैगर छन्

अनि पहाडकोपरी हेर्छन,

सालभित र सालबाहिर

आफ्नो सिपाही चोरको प्रतिक्स्च्यामा.

 

 

एउटा  फुर्तिलो गोर्खा बाटोमा छ,

पहाडमा खबर आयो भनि मानिस चिच्यौञ्छ.

उसको बत्तलिलियन को एउटा समाचार  पधाधिकारी

एउटा पत्र र उदाश मुहार :

‘ तिम्रो छ्रोरो को कार्यकालमा मृतु भयो ‘  भान्छा उस गोर्खाले,

‘देशको निम्ति शान्ति सुरक्ष्या गर्दा

अनि ब्रिटेनको रानीको निम्ति

 

 

एउटा संसार भात्कंछा,

नेपाली आमाले एक सब्द पनि बोल्न सक्दैन.

हरियिकय छे तिनका आफ्नो छोरो,

उनकी बहुमुल्य रत्न.

मात्र उसको बिमाको अनि सर्योध्य

नेपालको दुखः हिमालमा

उसको साथमा आमाका सपनाहरु,

एउटा लाहुरे जीवन जसले मार्छ

र मरिन्छा.

* * *

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A Letter from Nepal

A GORKHA MOTHER’S WOES (Satis Shroff)

The gurkha with a khukri
But no enemy
Works for the United Nations
And 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
Argentenians 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 Mesopotamia
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 Gurkha battalion.
A letter with a seal and a poker-face
“Your son died on duty”, he says,
“Keeping peace for the country
And the Queen of England.”

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.

Publications: Satis Shroff

Satis Shroff's Social Engagement: Kultur Bürgermeister von Kirchbach mit ehrenamtlich Freiburger Bürger die ausgezeichnet wurden

Social Engagement Prize of Freiburg City: Satis Shroff

 

GORKHALI AMA (Mother) By Satis Shroff

 

Satis Shroff (Deutschland) ist Dozent, Schriftsteller, Dichter und Künstler. Er lebt in Freiburg und schreibt über ökologische, medizin-ethnologische und kultur-ethnische Themen und singt beim Männergesangverein-Kappel. Er hat Zoologie und Botanik in Nepal, Sozialarbeit und Medizin in Freiburg und Creative Writing in Freiburg und UK studiert. Ihm wurde der Neruda Award 2017 verliehen.

 

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Deutsch- Nepali Gedicht: zeitgeistlyrik (Satis Shroff)

Impressions from Journey to Crispiano via Brindisi (satisshroff)

Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter (Satis Shroff)

 

Der Gurkha mit einem gefährlichen Khukuri

Aber kein Feind in Sicht,

Arbeitet für den UNO, und wird erschossen

für Einsätze, die er nicht begreif

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 Englände

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 wische

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 Batallion.

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.

 

* * *

Satis Shroff's Social Engagement: Kultur Bürgermeister von Kirchbach mit ehrenamtlich Freiburger Bürger die ausgezeichnet wurden

 गोर्खाली आमा 

 

खुकुरी लिएको एउटा गोर्खा

तर उ कसैको सत्रुहोइन .

बेलायतको रनिकोनिम्ति काम गर्

अनि उ मारिने छ .

उदेश्यहरुका निम्ति जसको बारेमा

आज्ञ हुहुम हो

हुकुम जीवन हो.

 

विदेश मुलुकमा गइ तर पनि

उसले कहिले ‘किन’ सोध्दैन .

राजनीति उसको रिति होइन,

उअलय सबै अनि अनेक सित  गढ़ेय्को छ :

तुर्की, तिबेती, इतल्य्हरु अनि भारतीय ,

जर्मनहरु, जापानी हरु ,चिनियाहरु,

बलायात्को सेना सित फल्क्लान्द्मा ,

अंग्रेजी सित इराक र हिन्दुकुश्मा ,

इन्दोनेसिअक बसी हरुसित कलिमंतन मा,

बफादारी जति सक्दो

 

कहिले हारको डर अभाएको

एउटा आमाले पुत्र हराएको,

नेपालको हिमालबाट .

 

तिनको  बाजे बर्मामा मरे

ब्रिटिश गोर्खा को निम्ति

तिनको पति मेसोपोतेमिया ,

तिनले जान्दैनन् कसको बिरोधमा ,

तिनीलाई कसैले भनेय्नन.

तिनको दाजु फ्रंचेमा लडे ,

जर्मन सेनाको बिरोधमा .

 

तिनी हिउमा तपस्या गर्ने शिवलाई प्राथना गर्दछन.

अनि तिनको चोरको सुरक्श्यको निम्ति.

तिनको खुशी अनि तिनको आशा

भिरालो चौतारामा खेति गर्दै.

 

एउटा छोरो जसले आमाको आसु पुछन सहायता गरेथे.

आमाको हृदयको व्यथा कम्ति गरेका

एउटा आमा जसले ऋतुहरु बाट  कमैगर छन्

अनि पहाडकोपरी हेर्छन,

सालभित र सालबाहिर

आफ्नो सिपाही चोरको प्रतिक्स्च्यामा.

 

 

एउटा  फुर्तिलो गोर्खा बाटोमा छ,

पहाडमा खबर आयो भनि मानिस चिच्यौञ्छ.

उसको बत्तलिलियन को एउटा समाचार  पधाधिकारी

एउटा पत्र र उदाश मुहार :

‘ तिम्रो छ्रोरो को कार्यकालमा मृतु भयो ‘  भान्छा उस गोर्खाले,

‘देशको निम्ति शान्ति सुरक्ष्या गर्दा

अनि ब्रिटेनको रानीको निम्ति

 

 

एउटा संसार भात्कंछा,

नेपाली आमाले एक सब्द पनि बोल्न सक्दैन.

हरियिकय छे तिनका आफ्नो छोरो,

उनकी बहुमुल्य रत्न.

मात्र उसको बिमाको अनि सर्योध्य

नेपालको दुखः हिमालमा

उसको साथमा आमाका सपनाहरु,

एउटा लाहुरे जीवन जसले मार्छ

र मरिन्छा.

LIFE IS A COSMIC DANCE (Satis Shroff)

Savvy ‘Life is a Cosmic Dance?’

Satis Shroff's ZEITGEISTLITERATURE | Just another WordPress.com ... https://satisshroff.wordpress.com/

Bildergebnis für free pic of flamenco guitar,danceLIFE IS A COSMIC DANCE (Satis Shroff)

My soul is a passionate dancer.
I hear music where ever I am,
Whatever I do.
I hear the lively rhythm
Beckoning me to dance.

Sometimes it violins and Vienna waltz.
At other times a fiery salsa.
A Punjabi bhangra or a slow fox.
Life is a cosmic dance.
With its kampfmuster
And its own choreography.

We have people around us.
We look at each other,
Oblivious of the others.
Mesmerised,
Drawn together by an invisible force.

The Flamenco guitarist wails,
‘Life is an apple:
Pluck it,
Relish it,
And throw it away.’

Bildergebnis für free pic of flamenco guitar,dance

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