SATIS SHROFF

 

SATIS SHROFF

The Heart Of The World

 

Nepalese men and women work in the fields.

 

They use the traditional bullocks and buffaloes.

They dig the fields manually.

 

The women work beside the men,

 

With babies strapped to their backs.

 

Long wooden hoes are being used

 

to dig and break the soil,

 

whole families pitching in to do the job.

 

 

And far out in the distance,

 

the all-seeing-eyes

 

of the compassionate Swayambhu

 

observes the land from the towers

 

on which his eyes are painted.

 

 

As you start for the temple,

 

you're first greeted by two Tibetan lions set in stone,

 

Amid wonderful wooded surroundings.

 

Behind the lions you see three colossal statues

 

Of the Buddha, serene and daubed

 

In flaming red and gold.

 

 

All around you there are naked trees

 

In poses of suspended animation.

 

The ground crackles as you step

 

On the fallen brown and russet leaves.

 

 

Shrill bird cries ring through the air.

 

It is roosting time, you say to yourself.

 

The trees are silhouetted

 

Against the evening sky

 

And the shadows are lengthening.

 

Your eyes discern the prayers

 

Carved in the granite slabs

 

As you ascend the seemingly endless stairs.

 

 

A bearded tourist and a bevy of girls giggle nearby,

 

Talking in French and eating peanuts.

 

They pass some peanuts

 

To the swarm of monkeys

 

who are a regular feature of Swayambhu.

 

The Rhesus monkeys are creeping,

 

Jumping, fooling and fighting with each other.

 

"How happy they are", remarks a tourist with a laugh,

 

As the monkeys climb the spire of the stupa.

 

The overhanging eaves of the stupa,

 

Gilded with gold, are loosely chained together.

 

The wind blowing from across the silvery Himalayas

 

Makes them rustle.

 

 

You are dumbfounded by the majestic temple.

 

Three lamas go by:

 

"Om mane padme hum" stirs in the air.

 

You take a cue from them

 

And go about spinning the 211 copper prayer wheels

 

that girdle the dome.

 

Then you peer at the all-seeing-eyes

 

Painted on the four sides of the stupa

 

And look where they look:

 

At the myriad pale yellow, white, blue

 

And crimson lights of the Kathmandu Valley below.

 

 

You feel that you have indeed reached the top of the world.

 

A chilly, and icy gust of wind blows your hair.

 

The clatter of the prayer-wheels is constant.

 

The stony stairs are set at an extremely steep angle

 

But there are railings to help you up or down.

 

A Tibetan, probably a Khampa from Eastern Tibet,

 

Mumbles his prayers as he comes

 

Down from the temple.

 

He is wrapped in heavy mauve woolens.

 

A shaggy Tibetan Apso, a tiny dog, like a Pekingese,

 

With bells round his collar jingles past.

 

 

You go on.

 

A few paces up, a monkey stealthily passes by

 

As though he were a big-game hunter.

 

You are again confronted by meditating Buddhas:

 

The Dhyanibuddha Akshobya

 

Who rides an elephant and a lion,

 

Ratnasambhava who rides a horse,

 

Amitabha who rides the peacock

 

And Amoghasiddhi who rides the heavenly bird Garuda.

 

 

The going is hard but the ascent is redeemed

 

Because of the breathtaking beauty of the place.

 

More Rhesus monkeys dart around you.

 

One of them takes a joy ride along the railings

 

Like a kid, skids off and vanishes.

 

 

You can't help laughing.

 

You abruptly come across two statues

 

Of horses: short and stubby.

 

You're weary but you press on

 

And come across small elephant statues,

 

With live monkeys playing pranks on their backs.

 

The monkeys give you a quizzical stare.

 

These are all part of the Buddhist pantheon.

 

 

Now you begin to understand

 

Why the tourists call this temple complex

 

Also "the monkey temple".

 

The monkeys are protected by law (as is the yeti)

 

And have freedom there since over 2000 years.

 

They live on the offerings

 

Brought by the Hindus and Buddhists,

 

And peanuts and popcorn offered by the tourists.

 

 

Your climb is over.

 

The sky is dark, blue,

 

And is fast changing into Prussian blue.

 

Venus has already appeared,

 

But you have eyes only for the gigantic white dome,

 

The stupa of the Self-Existent One.

 

The stupa is of great sanctity

 

For all Hindus and Buddhists.

 

It is hemispherical

 

And you are struck by its enormous size.

 

The earliest inscription on Swayambhunath

 

Dates back to the year 1129,

 

But the stupa is thought to be much older.

 

 

You make your way to an elderly Buddhist monk

 

And he tells you a legend about Swayambhu...

 

"Once upon a time the Nepal Valley was a great lake.

 

It was on this spot, where you now stand

 

That a lotus bloomed and became the heart of the world."

 

 

 

Feuertanz In Autumn

 

A rhapsody of yellow, orange

 

Scarlet hues suggest peace,

 

Yet when the wind blows over the leaves,

 

It becomes a Feuertanz

 

In dynamic rouge, yellow, brown:

 

Glowing and strewn in the air,

 

And you long for the warmth of your cosy room.

 

 

The landscape in ochre, sand and acryls and aquarelle,

 

Created by Mother Nature,

 

Throws a mysterious veil

 

In the early morning.

 

A delight for the eyes

 

Of the passing observer and connoisseur:

 

Of Nature landscapes in the Schwarzwald.

 

Nature’s artistry: secretive and mysterious.

 

 

Outside the sun is at ten O’ clock,

 

Throwing your shadows on the Alpine meadows,

 

Akin to the highly expressive figures

 

Of Alberto Giacometti.

 

There’s arresting artistry in the works

 

Of Mother Nature like writings,

 

Revealed subtly beneath colours.

 

Smells, taste and crushed leaves

 

Making you curious,

 

Beckoning you

 

To find the meanings

 

Behind the sensory symbols.

 

 

A dialogue takes place

 

Between the observer

 

And Nature,

 

Where you experience kinetic energy

 

As well as the peace and tranquility.

 

It’s autumn in Freiburg,

 

The Black Forest is laden

 

With brown, green, yellow red leaves

 

Tossed carelessly

 

By the wind.

 

 

In Herbst you hear

 

The expressive rustling movement

 

Of the leaves.

 

In the distance looms Kaiserstuhl

 

With its vineyards,

 

The blue Vosges peaks of France,

 

Beyond the Rhine.

 

 

In Kappel you discern the whirling of the leaves,

 

Caused by the Höllentäler,

 

The wind from the Vale of Hell.

 

A storm is swirling colours:

 

Pink and red surrounded by white,

 

Like snow in a whiteout,

 

The pitter and patter of rain,

 

Amidst the din of the thunder

 

Followed by flashes of lightning

 

Over the Schwarzwald hills.

 

 

Nature undergoes a series of mutations,

 

Where metamorphosis of shapes and forms

 

And cell migration takes place.

 

The seasonal changes evoke migrations

 

Among birds and humans,

 

In the quest for better pastures, warmth

 

And a safe haven to roost.

 

 

When the travel is over it’s time

 

For reflections of their inner lives.

 

The themes are innumerable,

 

In the quest from the micro

 

To the macro cosmos.

 

 

 

 

Grow With Love

 

Love yourself

Accept yourself,

For self-love and self-respect

Are the basis of joy, emotion

And spiritual well being.

 

Watch your feelings,

Study your thoughts

And your beliefs,

For your existence

Is unique and beautiful.

 

You came to the world alone

And you go back alone.

But while you breathe

You are near

To your fellow human beings,

Families, friends and strangers

As long as you are receptive.

 

Open yourself to lust and joy,

To the wonders of daily life and Nature.

Don’t close your door to love.

If you remain superficial,

You’ll never reach its depth.

 

Love is more than a feeling.

Love is also passion and devotion.

 

Grow with love and tenderness.

 

 

 

 

Chirps In My Garden

 

Ach,

 

To lie in bed

 

And listen to the birds sing.

 

I peer at the pine trees above,

 

Heavily laden with fluffy snow,

 

Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

 

 

 

I espy something moving:

 

Three deer with moist black noses,

 

Sniffing the Kappler air,

 

Strut among the low bushes

 

In all their elegance,

 

Only to vanish silently,

 

Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

 

 

 

I hear the robin,

 

Rotkehlchen,

 

With its clear, loud, pearly tone,

 

As it greets the day.

 

Just before sunrise the black bird,

 

Amsel,

 

Which flies high on the tree tops,

 

Delivers its early arias.

 

The great titmouse stretches its wings

 

And starts to sing.

 

 

 

The brown sparrows turn up

 

With their repertoire,

 

Rap in the garden,

 

Twitter and chirp aloud.

 

All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,

 

For it also wants to be heard.

 

It starts its high pitched melody

 

With gusto in the early hours.

 

 

 

The starling clears its throat:

 

What comes is whistles,

 

Mingled with smacking sounds.

 

The woodpecker,

 

Specht,

 

Isn’t an early bird,

 

Starts its day late.

 

Pecks with its beak,

 

At a hurried tempo.

 

 

 

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,

 

I’m sure you’re on holiday,

 

Or thank God it’s Sunday.

 

Other feathered friends

 

Who frequent our Black Forest house,

 

Are the green finch, the jay,

 

Goldfinch which we call ‘Stieglitz,’

 

Larks, thrush and the oriole,

 

The Bird of the Year,

 

On rare occasions.

 

SATIS SHROFF

 

Glossary:

 

English, German, Latin names

 

Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula

 

Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula

 

Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major

 

Bullfinch (Rotfinke):

 

Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris

 

Starling: Sturnus vulgaris

 

Woodpecker (Specht):

 

Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis

 

Oriole: Oriolus oriolus