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European Ethnology: Paint Me A Fairytale Town (Satis Shroff, Germany)
Related to country: Germany
Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

European Ethnology: PAINT ME A FAIRY TALE TOWN (Satis Shroff)

As tradition demands in the Swiss Alps, the cattle were decorated with pine-branches, big bells on their necks, silk roses and, of course, small Swiss flags. After enjoying the freedom of the Alpine meadows in the Flumserbergen, the cows trudged reluctantly again all the way to the Valleys---and eventually the stalls in their cowsheds. What a lovely end to the Alpine summer.

It was also on Saturday that the Swiss Fastnacht’s symbolic character named Brother Fritschi returned to his homeland Lucern after languishing for eight months in the custody of the Basler merry-makers of Fasnet or Fastnachtlern, as we call ‘em here. Some 250 inhabitants of Central Switzerland came to Basle on Saturday to free Fritschi from his imprisonment. It might be mentioned that Fritschi was given a sumptuous meal before he was set free. He was nabbed robbing and the custodians were lenient and he was allowed to watch a soccer match at the local St. Jackob’s Park. When he arrived in Luzern, he was greeted by his spouse and he rejoiced and danced on the Rathausstegbrücke ( a bridge to the town council) with his spouse Fritschene. Prior to that Fritschene had admonished and battered him for his bad ways.

This story of Fritschi’s imprisonment dates back to 500 years and the Basler servants of war (Kriegsknechte) kidnapped Fritschi in those days.

What a coincidence. It’s still September but in Munich the Octoberfest is going on in full swing. It was declared open by the Oberburgermeister Christian Ude, who hammered a peg into a keg of beer and said: “O’zapft is!” which is the Bavarian way of commencing the Octoberfest. On this 175th Octoberfest, the first person to take a swig of beer was the politician Günter Beckstein, who’s a real Bavarian. He was under fire in the German media recently for he’d said: “You can drive a car even if you’ve had two krugs of beer.” No one seemed to be amused. The traditional alpine dirndl-look is very ‘in’ for visitors to the Octoberfest. And you’re allowed to smoke as much as you like in the beer-tents and the meadows. Poor non-smokers and cows.

That was Saturday and I’m on my way to Staufen also known as the Faust-town. As I wait for for the red bus to come in Kappel, a lovely Black Forest area, I talk with a sweet old lady who’s also on her way to the railway-station---the Hauptbahnhof.

“Autumn is with us now, isn’t it?” I ask her.

She replies in the affirmative. The flowers are still in the fields, ready to be plucked, and so is the maize. Nearby, the grass has been cut with the help of a harvester and you see big rolled bundles of prospective hay scattered like in an oil-painting by Vincent van Gogh. Last week the grass was green and now the leaves have taken on different hues:yellow, brown and russet.

‘Do you like winter?’ I ask her.

‘I love all the seasons, especially autumn and winter,’ she replies.
She adds: “You know what, I’ve even composed a poem about autumn (Herbst).

‘Oh, indeed? Then let me hear it,’ I tell her.

She clears her throat and begins to recite her own poem in a trembling voice:

Herbst

Es wenden sich die Blätter
Die Wälder sind schon leer.
Bald kein einziges Mücklein,
Im Strahl der Sonne mehr.
Es naht der kalte Winter,
Mit seine weißen Pracht.
Und so freuen sich die Kinder
Zu eine Schneeballschlacht.

Translation:

Autumn

The leaves flutter and turn
The forests are already empty.
Soon there won’t even be a small fly,
In the rays of the sun.
The cold winter approaches
With its white mantle.
And the children rejoice,
To enjoy a snow-ball fight.

I thanked her for the poem and we parted. I’m sure we’ll meet again in the bus someday. At the main railwaystation I take the regio train to Basle. The train speeds past the hillocks with vineyards of Ebringen and I get off at Bad Krözingen, not bad-crossing, but a place known for its spa. I take a smaller train to Staufen. And here begins a journey like in the story of Hellmut Holthaus which is incidentally also the introduction to the traditional town-stories (STAdtGESchichten), which the Staufener prefer to call STAGES.

“Paint a fairy tale town for me…” goes the story of a town called Staufen. It is a lovely little town with cobbled streets, located below a Burg, a castle which is in ruins now, but has been pepped up with mortar on a side of the castle-wall for different events. You discern the troops of the town as they come marching to the tune of drums and flutes. They march from the Chaplain Gate to the marketplace, where they get an order from the town-carer (Vogt) to guard Staufen. The market-in-charge proclaims the strict rules addressed to the owners of taverns and inns and the market-vendors. The town-guards in their quaint costumes bringe the People’s Tower under their control, the Malefiz Tower and the Baders Loch too.

It being the Middle Ages, you can hear the fiddles, tambourines and wonderful music, smell and try the tasty wines and get a whiff of delicious meat being roasted in the open fires, and other appetising Middle Age specialities being prepared in the frying pans.

Some 600 people of Staufen are dressed in colourful long gowns and the males have hats on, the maidens with braided or long flowing hair. There are earnest and motley clothed people in the streets: a man with a beige coloured sloppy hat and long gown and jacket goes past you. He could be a rich merchant. A charcoal-smeared old woman with a white cloth on her head, white smog and prussian blue tunic.

Along the Hauptstrasse and Kirchstrasse are vendors selling jewellery, clothes, leatherware, historical music instruments. Staufen’s marketplace dates back to the Town Laws passed in the 14th Century and they’ve retained this feature even today. Meanwhile, cavalier with a rouge feathered hat, set at a rakish, white shirt with laces and a fine cape saunters by. He smiles that cynical smile of the arrogant gentry. A knight wearing a chain-armour struts by, armed with a lance and a heavy sword. All the people go aside where, and when, he appears. A red haired woman plays the tambourine---selfconscious and proud. Red-headed women were ridiculed and burned as witches formerly. This woman is strong, defiant and admirable. A wonderful person.

A squire and his timid wife float by and she gives you a broad grin. She’s wearing a blue and maroon dress and holds her spouses’s arm, lest he look at other damsels. Jolly drinking peasants with jugs in their hands and ale and beer in their bellies. A young maiden with a face that hauntingly similar to Angelina Jolie has a falcon on her right hand. A bearded German comes along playing bagpipes and he stoops to thank a generous lady with a beautiful hat, red lips, blue eyes and golden dress, nods and disappears in the crowd.

There’s music in the air. Music and dance have changed through the centuries. The atmosphere is filled with tones from bagpipes, guitars, mandolins, drums, flutes and beckon you to dance. There’s almost every music to suit one’s taste: boogie woogie, stepdance, from the peasant’s polka to the courtly menuette. You can’t help being infected by the rhythms and tunes.

Cannon-fire, jugglers, vendors, the poor and the rich, people belonging to different epoches at a hiatus in Staufen. The torch bearers march through the inner part of the town, followed by the musicians, the display of the badges of Staufen on the flags and shields, the knights of Staufen. The talk is about the courage of the heroes (Heldenmut), followed by a clashing of swords, the honour of the knights, even quarrels among the neighbours. Everything of significance seems to be unfurling in this Staufener kaleidoscope right before your eyes.

It was in September 24, 1848 that the freedom fighters under the command of Gustav Struve and his wife Amalie marched from Lörrach to the town of Staufen. Whereas Struve’s fighters are fired with thoughts of freedom, the people of Staufen have their fears. You see Gustav Struve demanding a republic from the Town Council’s balcony as the revolutionary fighters build barricades on the streets and bridges. A general named Hoffmann comes to Staufen with the government troops of the duke of Baden and what results is a fierce battle. Cannons and muskets are fired from the gate-walls of Staufen by the revolutionists and the government guards. The revolution has begun and the people sway the tricolour flag: black, red and yellow. A lot of people die or are wounded and as the veil of smoke from the cannons vanishes, so do the republican hopes of the people who fought for a revolution 160 years ago. Gustav Struve manages to flee. What remains are the dead musicians, citizens, debris and smoking cannon balls on the Staufener facade.

If you ask me whether I’ll go to the next Zeitreise in Staufen (time travel), you bet I surely will..

September 25, 2008 | 5:00 AM Comments  0 comments
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एइत्गेइस्त्ल्य्रिक: थे गुरखा ब्लुएस (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)

Zeitgeistlyrik: The Gurkhas Blues (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart,
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England has failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty and affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.
Do the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas dead and gone
Still linger seeking injustice
At the hands of Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies, they died for.
How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
And added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Gets a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So do Brits who play classic and pop.

When it comes to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigns myopia.
She sees not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high,
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passes the ball
And proclaims from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers come and go,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remains,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevails.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Is the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG1,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that.’

A sentence like a guillotine.
Is the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It’s like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments have come
And gone,
The Gurkha injustice has remained
To this day.
Apparently,
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians,
But in this case even fellow officers.2
Colonel Ellis and General Sir Francis Tuker,
The former a downright bureaucrat,
The latter with a big heart.
England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed gerontological problems.
‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
And are still treating us,
Is a mystery.’

Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her majesty’s far off Government,
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The sturdy, betrayed Gurkha puts on
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri3,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), 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, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry.
Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He is a regular contributor on The American Chronicle and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA, in addition to Gather.com etc.

September 20, 2008 | 11:09 AM Comments  0 comments
Tags:


The Gurkhas Are With You (Satis Shroff)
Related to country: United Kingdom
Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic


Zeitgeistlyrik: The Gurkhas Are With You (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart,
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England has failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty and affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.
Do the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas dead and gone
Still linger seeking injustice
At the hands of Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies, they died for.
How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
And added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Gets a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So do Brits who play classic and pop.

When it comes to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigns myopia.
She sees not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high,
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passes the ball
And proclaims from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers come and go,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remains,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevails.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Is the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG1,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that.’

A sentence like a guillotine.
Is the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It’s like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments have come
And gone,
The Gurkha injustice has remained
To this day.
Apparently,
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians,
But in this case even fellow officers.2
Colonel Ellis and General Sir Francis Tuker,
The former a downright bureaucrat,
The latter with a big heart.
England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed gerontological problems.
‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
And are still treating us,
Is a mystery.’

Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her majesty’s far off Government,
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The sturdy, betrayed Gurkha puts on
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri3,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), 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, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry.
Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He is a regular contributor on The American Chronicle and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA, in addition to Gather.com etc.

September 15, 2008 | 5:15 AM Comments  0 comments
Tags:


एइत्गेइस्त्ल्य्रिक (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़)



Zeitgeistlyrik: Drinking Darjeeling Tea in England (Satis Shroff)

Beware the Ides of September
Manchester will be a milestone
In Gordon Brown’s polit-life.
Your economic ‘competence’
Has become an Achilles heel,
Your weak point.

The people’s party of New Labour
Wants to get rid of you.
These are the rumours,
Heard in the trendy streets of London.

Twelve months ago Gordon Brown
Was the Messiah of Brit politics,
After Blair’s disastrous role in the Labour,
Unpopular, depressed,
His energy absorbed by Iraq.
Alas, even the new Messiah
Has lost his face,
Within a short time.
His weakness: decision making.

England is nervous, fidgety,
For Labour fears a possible loss,
Of its 353 Under House seats.
Above the English cabinet,
Looms a Damocles sword.

Will Labour watch
And drink Darjeeling tea,
Till a debacle develops?
Labour is in a dilemma.
Hush, help is near.
David Miliband is going vitriolic.
A silly season indeed,
Drinking Darjeeling tea in England.



Zeitgeistlyrik: The Gurkhas Are With You (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart,
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England has failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty and affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.
Do the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas dead and gone
Still linger seeking injustice
At the hands of Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies, they died for.
How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
And added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Gets a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So do Brits who play classic and pop.

When it comes to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigns myopia.
She sees not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high,
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passes the ball
And proclaims from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers come and go,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remains,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevails.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Is the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG1,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that.’

A sentence like a guillotine.
Is the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It’s like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments have come
And gone,
The Gurkha injustice has remained
To this day.
Apparently,
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians,
But in this case even fellow officers.2
Colonel Ellis and General Sir Francis Tuker,
The former a downright bureaucrat,
The latter with a big heart.
England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed gerontological problems.
‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
And are still treating us,
Is a mystery.’

Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her majesty’s far off Government,
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The sturdy, betrayed Gurkha puts on
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri3,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), 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, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry.
Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He is a regular contributor on The American Chronicle and its 21 affiliated newspapers in the USA, in addition to Gather.com etc.

September 15, 2008 | 5:09 AM Comments  0 comments
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Satis Shroff: Lecturer, Author, Poet, Singer(MGV-Kappel) Germany's Profile

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