Prosepoem: SONGS OF LOVE & SORROW (Satis Shroff)

Featured

Tags

, ,

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

* * *
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

No automatic alt text available.
Advertisements

GORKHALAND BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Zeitgeistlyrik: GORKHALAND BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Nepalese Tales (c) satisshroff

Early in the misty morning monsoon morning

A Gorkhali meets a Bengali

Below the statue of Bhanubhakta Acharya,

At Darjeeling’s Chowrasta.

The Bengali doesn’t like the  Adi Kavi

The prime poet of the Gorkhalis there.

Why do you have your poet here,

Why not also Tagore?

 

The Gorkhali says,’ Tagore belongs to Shantiniketan.’

East Bengal belonged to ancient Bengal.

But it turned into East Bengal overnight in 1947.

You Bengalis had nothing in common with the Muslims of East Pakistan.

Freedom from Pakistan let to Bangladesh.

 

We in the hills of Darjeeling,

Want freedom from Bengal.

We want our own Gorkhaland.

‘But Gorkhaland lies in Bengal, ‘ says the Bengali.

What do you have in common with us Gorkhalis?

The Bengali replies: ‘We have the same religion.’

Ah, but nothing else. You eat fish, we eat dal-bhat-shikar.

We fought for our Nepali language.

It has been recognised as one of the languages of India.

The Bengali retorts with gleaming eyes:

 ‘Tagore got the Nobel Prize.’

 

We are fighting for our Gorkhali identity.

Neither do you speak our tongue nor do you read Nepali literature.

You read your own books and watch your own Bengali films.

We read Bhanubhakta, Lainsingh Bangdel and Devkota.

You have usurped our land,

And have become rich and arrogant in the process.

The monoculture Thea sinensis was planted

By the Nepalese migrants under the British Raj.

The plantations are not owned by Gorkhalis but Bengalis.

The migrants from Bengal have done in Darjeeling,

What the Han Chinese have done in Lhasa.

You have taken our jobs away: the teaching profession,

Administrative jobs all run by brown Bengali babus.

‘We are better qualified, perhaps, ‘ says the Bengali.

 

Qualification takes time and money.

The only legacy and pride left to us is our brawn,

As soldiers under foreign flags and India’s Gorkha regiments.

Where is the liberty, equality and fraternity

Guaranteed by the biggest democracy in the world?

Had Darjeeling been reverted to Sikkim we’d be well off,

As the Sikkimese are today under Central rule.

 

What have you Bengalis brought to us besides poverty and misery?

The railway and telecommunications were introduced by the Brits,

The three leaves and a bud were planted by the English.

The entire administrative jobs were kept by the Bengalis.

The Gorkhalis transferred to jobs in the plains.

How can you say Darjeeling belongs to Bengal?

The bespectacled Bengali Chief Minister Namata Mukerjee,

Warns the Gorkhalis with a raised index-finger,

Demands more troops from Delhi,

Instead of solving Gorkhaland’s people’s demands.

Please read the history of Sikkim and Darjeeling.

We never belonged to Bengal in history.

* * *

 

O, Kanchenzonga: Gorkhaland for Gorkhalis (Satis Shroff)

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

Darjeeling, Himalayan, Railway, Toy

O, Kanchenzonga: Gorkhaland for Gorkhalis (Satis Shroff)

Darjeeling sahar,

battiko lahar,

hernama dherai ramailo

Buddhist Monastery at Ghoom

Memoir:

O, Kanchenzonga: Gorkhaland for Gorkhalis (Satis Shroff)

A splash of the crimson rays of the sun appeared on the tip of the 8598m Kanchenjunga Range. Then it turned into orange and was gradually bathed in a yellowish tint, becoming extremely bright. You could discern the chirping of the Himalayan birds in the surrounding bushes and trees, amidst the clicking of cameras. I was on Tiger Hill. But my thoughts were elsewhere.

I was thinking about Kanchenjunga, my Hausberg as we are wont to call it in Germany, and the former memories of my school-days in the foothills of the Himalayas. These mountains had moulded and shaped me to overcome odds, like other thousands of other Gorkhalis, Nepalese, Lepchas, Bhutanese, Tibetans and Indians, from both sides of the Himalayas. I have watched…

View original post 2,258 more words

O, Kanchenzonga: Gorkhaland for Gorkhalis (Satis Shroff)

Darjeeling, Himalayan, Railway, Toy

O, Kanchenzonga: Gorkhaland for Gorkhalis (Satis Shroff)

Darjeeling sahar,

battiko lahar,

hernama dherai ramailo

Buddhist Monastery at Ghoom

Memoir:

O, Kanchenzonga: Gorkhaland for Gorkhalis (Satis Shroff)

A splash of the crimson rays of the sun appeared on the tip of the 8598m Kanchenjunga Range. Then it turned into orange and was gradually bathed in a yellowish tint, becoming extremely bright. You could discern the chirping of the Himalayan birds in the surrounding bushes and trees, amidst the clicking of cameras. I was on Tiger Hill. But my thoughts were elsewhere.

I was thinking about Kanchenjunga, my Hausberg as we are wont to call it in Germany, and the former memories of my school-days in the foothills of the Himalayas. These mountains had moulded and shaped me to overcome odds, like other thousands of other Gorkhalis, Nepalese, Lepchas, Bhutanese, Tibetans and Indians, from both sides of the Himalayas. I have watched the Kanchenjunga ever since I was a child in its different moods and seasonal changes. Cloud-watching over the Kanchenjunga was always a fascinating pastime whether from Ilam, Sikkim or Darjeeling´s Tiger Hill or even Sandakphu. To the Sikkimese the Kanchenjunga has always been a sacred mountain, and on its feet are precious stones, salt, holy sciptures, healing plants and cereals. It is a thousand year belief and tradition that the Himalayas, the abode of the Gods, should not be sullied by the feet of mortals.

Oh Kanchenjunga, you have taught us Gorkhalis and Nepalis to keep a stiff upper-lip in the face of adversity created by humans in this world and to light a candle, rather than to curse the darkness. To adapt, share and assimilate, rather than go under when the going gets tough in foreign shores. The Himalayas have taught us to be resilient and to bear pain without complaining, to search for solutions and to keep our ideals high, and not to forget our rich culture, tradition and religious beliefs.

After a brisk drive through pine-forested areas and blue mountains, I was rewarded by a vision of the Kanchenjunga Massif in all its majesty. At Ghoom, which is the highest point along the Hill Cart road, we went to the 19th century Buddhist monastery, about 8km from Darjeeling. In the massive, pompous pagoda-like building with a yellow rooftop, was a shrine of the Maitree Buddha, with butter lamps and Buddhist scarves in gaudy scarlet, white and gold.

It was a feast for the eyes. Tibetan art in exile. You go through the rooms of the museum which has precious Buddhist literature, traditional Himalayan ritual masks and a numismatic collection in the centre of the room, with coins and currency from Tibet that were in circulation till 1959. A small friendly lama-apprentice posed for a photograph of the tourists. And another little Buddha,with jet-black hair, suddenly came up, behind a mask of a Tibetan demon with ferocious-looking teeth, and sprang in front of us to get photographed for posterity.

A blue coloured Darjeeling Himalayan train built in 1881 by Sharp, Steward & Co, Glasgow, chugged along on its way to Kurseong (Khar-sang), another hill station along the route from Darjeeling to Siliguri in the plains of India. There were young Gorkhali boys from Ghoom, having a jolly time, jumping in and out of the running toy-train, with the conductor shouting at them and doing likewise, and trying to nab one of them. But the Ghoom boys were far better and faster than the ageing, panting train-conductor, whose tongue almost hanged out of his red face. It was a jolly tamasha indeed. A spectacle for the passengers amidst the breath-taking scenery in tea-country.

I thought about my friend Harka, who used to live in Ghoom, and who was one of those boys during my school-days. The last I heard of him was when he and his dear wife invited yours truly and a student friend named Tekendra Karki, now a physician in Katmandu, to have excellent Ilam tea with Soaltee Oberoi sandwiches. Tek and I were doing our BSc then at Tri Chandra college in Katmandu.

Along the side of the mini railway track, reminiscent of the Schwabian Eisenbahn from Biberach , were groups of vendors of Tibetan origin selling used clothes, trinkets, belts, bags and most other accessoirs that you find being sold along the Laden La road, leading to Chowrasta in Darjeeling.

A short drive to the Batasia loop, where the blue train made a couple of loops during its descent to Darjeeling, and suddenly you saw the clouds above the silvery massif, rising languidly in the morning.

The families of the British officers used to retreat to the hills of Darjeeling, Simla, Naini Tal to escape from the scorching heat of the India summer, and carried out their social lives and sport under the shadow of the Himalayas. Cricket, polo, pony-riding,soccer. You can still go to the Gymkhana and do roller-skating, try out a Planter’s Punch and, of course, a First Flush or dust Darjeeling tea to suit your pocket. The Chogyal of Sikkim gave the hill-station Darjeeling to the British as a gesture of Friendship, for the Sikkimese fought with the British troops against the Nepalese in the Anglo-Nepalese Wat (1814-15). The British government thanked the Chogyal of Sikkim and rewarded him with a handsome annual British pension.Didn’t he become a vassal of Great Britian after this act?

I went with my burly Gorkha school-friend to Dow Hill via Kurseong, past the Tuberculosis sanatorium, in a World War II vintage jeep driven by a Gorkha named Norden Lama, who had blood-shot eyes and a whiff of raksi. There´s no promillen control (alcohol-on-wheels) in Darjeeling, and in the cold winter and rainy monsoon months it isn´t unusual to find jeep and truck-drivers stopping to take a swig of raksi, one for the road, to keep themselves warm. I must admit, I felt relieved when we reached our destination in one piece.

Driving along the left track of the autobahn at 150 km per hour is safe compared to all the curves that one has to negotiate along the Darjeeling trail on misty days. We were rewarded with excellent ethnic Rai-cuisine comprising dal-bhat-shikar cooked with coriander, cumin, salt, chillies, garlic, ginger and love. My school friend who´s a Chettri, a high caste Hindu, known for the ritual purity and pollution thinking, had married a Rai lady, much to the chagrin of his parents, but unlike Amber Gurung´s sad song “Ma amber huh, timi dharti,” they were extremely happy and had come together after the principle: where there´s a will, there´s a way. Or “miya bibi raaji, to kya kareyga kaji.”

As is the custom among Gorkhalis, we ritually washed our hands, sat down cross-legged, put a little food symbolically for the Gods and Goddesses, and relished our meal without talking. Talking during meals is bad manners in the Land of the Gorkhas, Nepal and the diaspora where the Gorkhalis and Nepalese live.Gorkhaland is a dream of people who came from Nepal through migration to the British tea gardens, roads and toy-train workshops in Tindharia, and since the roads have gained importance after the British left and in the aftermath of the Indo-Chinese conflict in 1962, there was a need for the roads to be repaired by the Indian government and what better workers to hire in the foothills of the Himalayas than the sturdy, willing helpers of Nepalese origin who have lived in the area since generations.

Plane, Window, Window Seat View, View

Just as the government of Nepal under King Mahendra and Birendra carried out resettlement programms for the hill people who were eternally foraging for work in the plains (Terai) and India, the Bengal government did the same through its bureaucratic rules of transferring the Nepalese of Darjeeling district who had worked in the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway to the plains at Katihar and other places. It was a difficult transfer for the Gorkhalis, and they not only had to battle with the beastly and scorching sun of the the Indian plains but also had to learn to communicate in Hindi, Bihari, Bengali and English with the arrogant Bengalis.

On the other hand, the Bengali babus started coming in teeming numbers to the hills of Darjeeling fleeing from the plains of Calcutta, and delighted at the prospects of living in the hills of Darjeeling, Kurseong and Kalimpong with perks and enjoying the fresh air and Nature, especially Kanchanjunga. The mountain took a new meaning for the Bengalis and Satyajit Ray was inspired to produce and direct a film with the title ‘Kanchenjunga.’ It became „Amar Kanchanjunga” for the Bengalis. And thereby hangs a tale.

Beverage, Black Tea, India Darjeeling

Commentary: GORKHALAND FOR GORKHALIS (Satis Shroff)

Quo vadis PM Modi with his indecision and inaction? It’s a decision that must be made in Delhi, and not Kolkotta. It was the Gorkhali population of Sikkim who made it possible for Delhi to annect Sikkim, and now it has to make another big decision which will be painful for the ethnic Bengalis but it is also the right of the Gorkhalis.

Ahluwalia, a man with integrity and character speaks out what the Indian and Bengal governments have been hushing up and ignoring all these decades. He mentions the human rights violation in Darjeeling and hits the nail endlich on the head on the head.

The demand for Gorkhaland has been gathering momentum since 1980s and it has reached Sikkim, where a great many people of Nepalese descent live and call themselves Gorkhalis, and the demand is legitimate because they have been given a bad deal by the Calcutta (Kolkota) based Bengal government. The Gorkhalis no longer want to be a part of Bengal but are demanding a Gorkhaland, and they have the blessings and support of the Sikkimese of Gorkhali origin. The Bengalis have taken the choicest positions in the Darjeeling administration, government office and railways. The Gorkhalis have been given posts in the plains and the Bengalis have migrated systematically to the former Queen of the Hill Stations. Emotions are boiling among the Gorkhalis and the Bengal government talks only about using force against these demands of the hill people, which just goes to show that the Bengal government has no intention to negotiate about the issue and reach a compromising decision against the Bengalis and for the Gorkhaland demands.

A centrally governed hot spot like Darjeeling is the wish of the Gorkhali hill people of Darjeeling and this has to be respected. I am glad that a Sikh politician has taken the issue of the Gorkhas, for the Sikhs and Gorkhas have been fighting in the British and the Indian Armed forces, and know their problems. The Sikhs demanded a Khalistan but the uprising was crushed which ended in the shooting at the golden temple of  Amritsar.

I like Baba Ramdev’s statement: ‘If the Bengalis have their Bengal, the Gorkhalis should also have their Gorkhaland.’ How right he is. More and more Indians are speaking out for the Gorkhaland movement and the injustice meted out towards the Gorkhalis by the Bengal government, as well as the inaction and indecision on the part of the central government in Delhi over the decades. It would be a fine political chess move if Darjeeling district would be merged with Sikkim, because the Gorkhalis have a lot of things in common with the Nepalis of Sikkimese in terms of ethnicity, culture and literature than with the Bengalis.

Up with Gorkhali culture and literature. Enough of Bengali dominance in the lives and structure of the Gorkhalis.

Ah, Darjeeling: a Storm in a Teacup? (Satis Shroff)

Darjeeling tea has an excellent reputation and was introduced by the British when they colonised Indian. Darjeeling belongs to India after the British Raj ended but the people of Darjeeling don’t like the Bengalis and the government, and are demanding a merger with Sikkim, because Sikkim was annected by Delhi and enjoys a lot of financial and other privileges from the Central government in Delhi.
Darjeeling is ruled by a Bengali government from Kolkota, and the Bengalis are only interested in developing their own Bengali regions and have neglected the Darjeeling area. The best jobs are taken by the Bengalis because they have better qualifications. This is the reason why the Gorkhalis of Darjeeling hills are demanding a Gorkhaland. The Gorkhas form a sizeable part of the Indian Army.


The Indian government has been following the example set by the British in their heydays in India: divide and rule. It has till now done nothing to alleviate the problems of Darjeeling and other states.The PM of Sikkim Mr. Pavan Chamling has supported the Gorkhaland demand to the chagrin of the Chief Minister of West Bengal who seems not to look for a compromise in the Gorkhaland issue and insists on ‘punishing the hooligans of Darjeeling (sic)’ by demanding state police and military reinforcements from Delhi.

The demonstrations in Darjeeling are not what the Bengal PM Chatterjee calls “political hooliganism.” It just goes to show that this lady is incompetent to handle the Gorkhaland situation. The Bengali state is trying to supress the agitation that has been going on since decades and Chatterjee wants to use force to solve the Gorkhaland issue. combat it and restore normalcy. Sikkim’s Chamling is a strong supporter of Gorkhaland because he is an ethnic Gorkhani and understands the situation of the Gorkhalis who have received only intidimating m easures from the Kolkotta government. The Gorkhalis wish to bypass the Bengal government and want to deal directly with Union’s central government in Delhi.The Gorkhaland issue is not a soccer match and the Gorkhalis are not hooligans. This is a case of high handedness and arrogance on the part of the Bengalis governments–ever since the British left the Raj.

Currently six companies of central forces and two columns of the armed forces are deployed in the hills.

The decision of the Union home ministry to decline to send additional forces in the hills, pointing out that according to intelligence inputs deployment of additional forces will aggravate tension in Darjeeling–is laudable. Delhi must intervene immediately and follow a policy of deescalation in the Darjeeling hills.
Like Sikkim, it would be in the interest of the Gorkhalis if, and when, Delhi would gain control over the sensitive Darjeeling area. If the central government takes over, the people of Darjeeling will be contented and peace will return. PM Chatterjee has shown that she can only chatter nonsense and is a war-mongering woman who thinks only of an aggressive means to the end the issue. Thereby she has not understood the ethnic history and sentiments of language and culture of the Nepalis (Gorkhalis) living in the Darjeeling district. Jai Gorkhaland!

Bringing the three parties together is a good thing but big issue is that the centre (Delhi) should grant the demands of the Gorkhaland people. The Bengalis got their Bengal under the British Raj. They didn’t get East Bengal because most of the people there were Muslims. The Pakistan government didn’t want to give up East Pakistan without a stiff fight. In the end East Pakistan was overrun by the Indian Armed forces from the sea, air and land. That was the birth of Bangladesh.
The Nepalese were brought to Sikkim, Darjeeling District by the British and have lived there since generations. They want to live in peace under the centre (Delhi) much like Sikkim. And not under the Bengalis, who have not only taken the best administrative and academic jobs but have made it possible for thousands of Bengalis to migrate to the hills of Darjeeling, Kalimpong and Kurseong–and the Bengal government has sent hillmen to the plains, in a clever, administrative job-transfer-act.
It is high time that Gorkhaland became a reality and the Gorkhalis living there receive what they have fought and struggled for all these decades. Gorkhaland for Gorkhais! Not Bengalis.

 

 

Zeitgeistlyrik: What Does the Dream Mean? (Satis Shroff)

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

f47e6-mgvsdc10780WHAT DOES THE DREAM MEAN? (Satis Shroff)

What does the dream mean,

Dearest, are you dead?

Singing on a Saturday afternoon,

From Minnelied to Oh, Happy Day,

A La-Le-Lu lullaby and Havenu shalom,

To Ich hab heute Nacht geträumt.

Germans from different walks of life

Come together to sing.

Some are from Freiburg,

Others from elsewhere.

What unites them in the choir

Are songs of peace, love,

Dreams from the Middle Ages and New York.

From the window of the singing room,

You see green trees and lush meadows.

A few birds chirp merrily from the foliage,

Listen to the men’s choir.

Some songs are sung softly,

Some songs loudly.

There’s melody and rhythm,

Bass and tenor voices mingle with the piano.

Sometimes it doesn’t sound like one voice.

The blonde conductress from St. Peter,

Ceases to play on her black and white keys,

To explain how the lyrics…

View original post 71 more words

Zeitgeistlyrik: What Does the Dream Mean? (Satis Shroff)

f47e6-mgvsdc10780

WHAT DOES THE DREAM MEAN? (Satis Shroff)

What does the dream mean,

Dearest, are you dead?

Singing on a Saturday afternoon,

From Minnelied to Oh, Happy Day,

A La-Le-Lu lullaby and Havenu shalom,

To Ich hab heute Nacht geträumt.

Germans from different walks of life

Come together to sing.

Some are from Freiburg,

Others from elsewhere.

What unites them in the choir

Are songs of peace, love,

Dreams from the Middle Ages and New York.

From the window of the singing room,

You see green trees and lush meadows.

A few birds chirp merrily from the foliage,

Listen to the men’s choir.

Some songs are sung softly,

Some songs loudly.

There’s melody and rhythm,

Bass and tenor voices mingle with the piano.

Sometimes it doesn’t sound like one voice.

The blonde conductress from St. Peter,

Ceases to play on her black and white keys,

To explain how the lyrics should sound.

Where to take a deep breath

And where to modulate the voice.

‘Sweet rose coloured mouth

Come and make me healthy again.’

Was soll der Traum bedeuten?

Herzliebste bist Du tot?

 

After the singing the throats become dry.

Off to the local pub to sing a last time:

‘Raise your glasses,

Singers should be friends.’

Knowing well that health and hope

Go the way of love.

* * *