LYRIK: BOMBAY BURNING

Munjo Mumbai!

Bombay´s burning.

All Muslims are not terrorists,

Although some Muslims are.

Not all Hindus are honourable,

But many are.

Whether one is a terrorist,

Lies in the eyes of the observer.

Are the eyes

Those of Hindus or Muslims,

Jains or Sikhs,

Christians or Parsis,

Buddhists or Bahais,

Animists or atheists

Or the Dalits of the Hindu society?

Are the 130 million Muslims of India

To be judged by the Hindus,

Because Bombay´s Taj Mahal Hotel blew up

At the hands of the ´Deccan Mujahidin?´

The ghost of Osama´s al-Qaida

Makes the rounds again.

India´s liberal, secular status

Is at stake,

When anti-Muslim resentiments

Are fired

By emotional Hindu nationalists.

Is it Hafiz Saeed versus Babu Bajrangi?

There´s more to it

Than meets the eye.

The USA can bomb

Al-Qaida and Taliban

Hideouts in Pakistan.

But India cannot follow suit.

The wounds in the consciousness

Of Indians and Pakistanis,

Caused by the division of the subcontinent

Haven´t healed yet.

The Babri mosque,

The slaughter of Muslims in Gujerat,

The war in Kashmir

Still linger in the memories

Of the Pakistanis.

An attack would only

Open old clots

And trigger a nuclear war.

Have not the Muslims

Of this subcontinent

Shown solidarity and loyalty

When China waged a Himalayan krieg,

When India freed the people of East Pakistan,

When India fought against the Nizam of Hyderabad?

Hindus and Muslims

Can be friends,

Just as Buddhists and Christians.

Let not communal strife

Pollute our minds.

Let us live

And let live.

Togetherness,

Miteinander,

Should be the cry of the day,

Not bloodshed and mayhem

In the name of Allah, Shiva or Christus.

It is humans,

Fanatical humans,

Who create crimes,

Injustice and folly

On human souls.

Gewalt breeds only Gewalt.

Hush, read the holy Koran,

Bible, Vedas and Upanishads

Between the lines,

And struggle for more words of love,

Understanding, tolerance, dignity

Of humans and animals

In this precious world.

Shanti!

Shanti!

Cocktail Klatsch (Satis Shroff)

A cocktail party is an intermittent dance,

With champagne glass in the hand,

And a blonde´s waist in the other.

Dodging and negotiating

Between sips and slips,

Small talk.

With zeitgeist music,

As a psycho-barrier,

When confronted by

Ladies and gents,

You don´t prefer

To exchange niceties,

Personal secrets

Or somatic secretes

With.

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

The dance floor,

A heaven to those

Who know how to dance:

The salsa, samba, tango,

The fox and the waltz.

How many shoe soles have I danced,

How may souls have I conquered?

Here I am,

Longing for a dance,

A paraplegic dancer.

I dance now

With my eyes,

Even when I seem

To gaze in the distance.

I hear wonderful melodies

From the Spring of my life.

I dance now

In my mind.

Isolation (Satis Shroff)

She had a small soul

And little education.

She gave,

But sought

Something else in return.

She loved her husband,

Pampered him in society,

For all to see.

Did she love him,

Or his wallet?

And things money can buy?

She shielded him from his friends,

With whom he´d fought

In the trenches of Stalingrad,

Cornered together like rats,

And prayed when Stalin´s Orgel

Screamed murderously over them.

He needed love and care

After the trauma of war.

Woke up in sleep

With nightmares of the krieg.

He gave up his camarades,

For a wife who said she loved him.

They had sauerkraut and spätzle,

Watched tennis and thrillers on TV,

And had no time for others.

Lonesome pensioners,

In self-inflicted isolation.

What came was depression

Sans eyes,

Sans friends.

Failing senses

Varicose veins,

Cerebral sclerosis,

Alzheimer and strokes.

The light went out.

Was someone out there?

The Feud (Satis Shroff)

The feud I fought

Was not whole heartedly.

I handed it to a lawyer,

Who made a hash of it,

And a judge who was subjective.

I had to pay a heavy loss.

Would it have been better,

Had I put my heart

Into the feud?

Can I forget it,

But not forgive?

Can you forgive,

But not forget?

Questions that still

Torment my soul.

Surya at Benaras (Satis Shroff)

My eyes and mind were fading

Under the rays of the scorching sun.

I was at Benaras,

Standing in the polluted

But holy river.

Half naked,

With a sacred thread,

Greeting Surya,

The child of dawn,

The great source of light

And warmth:

The Sun.

You are the nourisher,

The brilliant light-maker,

The eye of the world,

The witness of men´s deeds.

Oh, you king of the constellations,

You,

Who possesses a thousand rays.

I was mumbling a Sanskrit litany,

I´d learned from my dear Mom :

Hara, hara Gungay,

Saba paapa langay.

May all the sins of this world

Be washed away

By the Ganges.

Glossary:

Gungay: Holy Ganges of the Hindus

Saba: all

Paap: sin

Benaras: Old name for Varanasi

Wine (Satis Shroff)

He who drinks sings,

He who sinks drinks,

You say.

He who drinks

Drops and spills

His wine,

His self,

His Ich

His life.

And when it´s spilt,

Can you still drink?

Is it you

Or is it the wine

That spilt your life?

Glossary:

Ich: German word for Id (Freud), I, me

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

Why do you run after me?

You are seduced by my voice,

My style and verse.

Follow your heart,

Your own words.

Till then,

We go different ways.

We follow different paths,

Though we hear the same rhythm.

And in doing so,

We meet again.

Aufwiedersehen,

Arrividerci.

The Whiteness in the Zone of Death (Satis Shroff)

The best view of the world

Is from the top of the highest mountain,

The Abode of the Gods.

´The best way to climb a peak

Is not to give it

A single thought.

Think of a thousand other things,´

Said the climber from abroad,

To the sherpa.

Suddenly it became stormy,

The dreaded whiteout came

With howling, biting winds,

Tons of snow everywhere.

The sahib had only a single thought.

´Hilf mir, O Gott!´

And cried like a new born baby,

Scared of the wilderness,

Scared of the whiteness

That surrounded him.

He found the sherpa,

Who said:

´ Here, where you stand,

Is almost the summit, Sir.

Welcome to the Abode of the Gods.´

´The abode of what?´

´The Gods,´ said the sherpa.

The climber turned around:

Whiteness in the death zone,

As far as he could imagine.

A step to the right,

A step behind,

And a blood-curdling scream.

Swallowed by a treacherous crevice.

The half-frozen sherpa mumbled,

´Om mane peme hum,

Vajra guru

Peme siddhay hum!´

Till sunrise.

He opened his eyes,

Thanked the Gods of the Himalayas

For saving his life,

Felt sorry for the sahib,

And descended

With a heavy heart.

Manjushri and the Heart of the World (Satis Shroff)

The green fields in the Vale of Catmandu

Shuddered as the heavens parted,

Revealing the secrets of the Himalayas.

Manjushri appeared with his mighty sword,

At this very place where you now stand,

For here was once a lake,

With turquoise waters.

The people hid behind their house-walls

And ornate windows.

They peered with awe

At what unfurled before them.

The Sanskrit and Nepalbhasa they spoke,

Left them wordless,

For Manjushri was there

To release their hearts,

To create a fertile land,

Below the barren hills.

The warrior from the East,

Raised his sword

And cut a gorge,

Where now the Chovar stands,

With its century old sediments.

Lo and behold!

The turquoise water became

A foamy, swirling, spiralling,

Circling mass with music

Rising to a crescendo.

It left Catmandu Valley

With incessant roars.

What remained was a fertile valley,

Rich in alluvium.

From the centre bloomed a lotus

And became

The heart of the world.

A White Page (Satis Shroff)

On a white page,

I´m searching for you.

I cannot bear to lose you.

Where have you been,

My lovely?

I remember the day

You entered my life.

Your soft gaze

With deep blue eyes.

We drank white wine at the bar,

Went home laughing,

Tipsy and joyful.

I thought it would last forever

And a day.

We were intoxicated

With love,

I thought.

Skins that sweat

And whispered

From the pores.

A never-ending longing

For you.

I heard the screeching of an owl,

Ach, where tenderness was uncovered,

When the clouds slithered past the moon.

I humoured you,

I reeled under the silence

Of the years.

There were distant cries,

But I heard only you.

I had to bear with you,

But you remained

A white page

In my life.

Adieu.

Souvenirs (Satis Shroff)

They come from lands afar

In search of impressions,

Kitsch or treasures,

For their designer cupboards,

Back home in western countries.

Busloads of them stream out,

Digital cameras, camcorders

Mobiles with cameras

And take shots of the village people,

Dilapidated huts,

Ornate windows, tattered clothes.

Guerrillas with guns,

Children with running noses,

For Mom is down in the vale,

Chopping wood for the hearth.

They click and store the temples,

Shrines, pagodas, palaces,

Gigabytes of global images

For family albums,

Power-point presentations.

Slide-shows for all and sundry,

The intimate images

Of a foreign country.

Will the tourists tell,

When they reveal

What they´ve stored,

Of how hard it is to survive,

In the foothills of the Himalayas?

Where the sun shines at day

And Himalayan winds and wolves

Howl at night.

Where the monsoon brings

Torrential rain and death

From June to September,

And where the earth is dry,

Barren in winter.

Where the waters of the lake Phewa

Mirror the snows of Annapurna

And the fish-tailed one,

Like in a pretty post-card.

The Music of the Breakers (Satis Shroff)

I remember the beautiful music

From the streets of Bombay,

Munjo Mumbai,

Where I spent the winters

During my school-days.

Or was it musical noise?

Unruhe, panic and flight for some,

It was the music of life for me

In that tumultuous,

Exciting city.

When the sea of humanity was too much for me,

I could escape by train to the Marine Drive,

And see and hear

The music of the breakers.

The waves of the Arabian Sea

Splashing and thrashing

Along the coast of Mumbai.

Your muscles flex,

The nerves flatter,

The heart gallops,

As you feel how puny you are,

Among all those incessant and powerful waves.

The manner in which Satis Shroff writes takes the reader right along with him. Extremely vivid and just enough and the irony of the music. Beautiful prosaic thought and astounding writing.

Your muscles flex, the nerves flatter, the heart gallops,

As you feel how puny you are,

Among all those incessant and powerful waves.'

"Satis Shroff's writing is refined – pure undistilled." (Susan Marie, www.Gather.com

Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg. He´s a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff).

His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of "Writers of Peace," poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:

Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ´Through Nepalese Eyes´ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen." (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich)

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

"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.

Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German form mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix. Nepal is a jewel on the Earth´s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.' Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007.