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  Binay really worked hard in the early years. He helped expand the business a lot, as my father had hoped he would. I do not know what went wrong with Binay later on, but he slipped into some very bad habits. He would get drunk in the morning and come to the office all tipsy. How could the partner of a virtuous man like my father be drunk first thing in the morning? Father tried to persuade him to give up his addiction but he would not listen. When we discovered that Binay had started his own flooring and furnishing business in Birgunj in competition with us, father decided it was best to sever ties with him. My father was an honourable man who gave his business partners a long rope and a lot of independence. But he would not tolerate betrayal of trust. Clearly, Binay could no longer be trusted as a business partner.

  ‘I can’t work with you any longer,’ father told him one morning. ‘Let’s go our separate ways.’

  Binay was dumbstruck. He then tried to plead innocence, claiming he had not invested a penny of his own money in the Birgunj store and that it belonged to his in-laws. He even promised to give up drinking. But my father would not change his mind. Once he became disillusioned with someone, it was hard to win back his trust.

  ‘I’ve made my decision,’ he told Binay. ‘Don’t worry, though. I’m not firing you. I’m the one who’s quitting.’

  Binay stood with his head hanging in shame.

  The business that was flourishing so well while my father was at the helm, was ruined by Binay. A person who made bad decisions in terms of his own personal well-being could hardly be trusted to run a business, especially if his heart was not in it. But father could not fire the son of a friend’s—not so much because he was kind, but because he feared criticism from his peers.

  He settled his stake in the stores for Rs 6 lakh.

  The year was 1968.

  The demand for imported goods was surging in Nepal. Indian tourists had started flooding in to buy goods from other countries. Two decades after independence from British rule, India had not yet freed its market. Following the socialist economic principles of Jawaharlal Nehru, India was against foreign goods, in line with its ‘quit India’ policy aimed against the British Empire.

  The state may have been opposed to foreign goods, but the Indian people were crazy about them.

  Rs 6 lakh was a huge sum of money in those days. My father invested the money in yet another new venture—a department store. To woo Indian tourists as well as affluent Nepalis, the department store had to have an attractive design. Father was conscious of the importance of interiors through his experience in the flooring and furnishing business. He hired a foreign interior designer, Kwalthru, who was based in Kathmandu. He charged almost Rs 25,000 to design the store.

  Father started the first department store, Arun Emporium, in Nepal, by leasing the ground and first floors of Meera House, a building owned by the late Juddha Bahadur Shrestha, whom we called Subba Sahib using a local term of respect.

  The store was ahead of its time. It had separate departments for women, men and children, as well as separate sections for electrical and household appliances. It introduced world-famous brands such as Weinsil, Dormeuil, Hilltop Blankets and Christian Dior to Nepal. Indian tourists would come looking for our store.

  I was thirteen years old at the time.

  By then, the times had changed, but the wheel had turned full circle. My father was now visiting the Maru Ganesha temple and the Akash Bhairab temple via Basantapur before he opened the store, very much the way grandfather did.

  He had moved the statues of Lord Ganesha and Goddess Laxmi from the old shop to the department store. He would offer prayers and make the offerings of sweets brought from the Ganesha temple. The same old cash box was kept at the store, and father would make offerings into the box as well, just the way grandfather did in the past.

  Grandpa used to sit on a white cushion on the ground by the cash box. Father now sat in a revolving chair at the cash counter. He had hired around half a dozen people to assist him. He would wave his hand and greet passers-by, saying, ‘Bhagwan sharanam!’, meaning ‘Take refuge in God!’

  He knew everybody in the neighbourhood by name. They would reply, ‘Bhagwan sharanam, Sahujee!’

  By the time I reached the shop, rubbing my eyes, he would have finished his prayers as well as his PR exercises. ‘You’re late again,’ he would scold me, extending the offerings to me, just the way grandfather would to my father at his shop. I would grin, taking the offerings and a morsel of laddoo if there was any on the plate.

  Father tried his hand at many different business ventures after grandfather’s death. Of them, Arun Emporium was the most successful. He also established a separate import company called Arun Impex. By the beginning of the 1970s, Arun Impex had become a leading import and export company.

  Arun Emporium and Arun Impex complemented each other. One was a retailer while the other was an importer. We started to import a wide range of products for which there was strong demand, from foodstuffs and clothes to hardware and construction materials. We also obtained the authorized dealerships for some reputed European brands such as Moulinex S.A. of France and Max Factor of the United Kingdom. We also imported Beck’s Beer from Germany.

  I started helping my father once the department store came into operation. I was fifteen years old and preparing for the School Leaving Certificate exams.

  Sarees made in Japan, Singapore and France were quite popular in Kathmandu those days. These imported sarees became a status symbol for women from the affluent and nouveau riche classes. It was a boon for our business. I handled separate departments—Saree Sansar and Ghar Sansar—within Arun Emporium, to meet this demand. I would stay back at the store late into the night, arranging the sarees on the racks; and I would notify our loyal customers about new arrivals. I would personally visit special customers to tell them about the arrival of new stock, and these sarees were so popular that the customers would come to the store the very next day.

  Grandfather used to take bundles of sarees to the palaces under the regime of Juddha Shumsher. I sold sarees at our Khichapokhari store. But our approach was similar. He would go to the customers, carrying the sarees with him. I too went to the customers, carrying the message that new sarees had arrived. My grandfather’s was a small, traditional business. Ours was much bigger and better organized. But our selling strategies were essentially the same. The customers would come and, just as my father had done in the past, I would unfold the sarees and lay them out for scrutiny. The customers would check each one carefully until they had made their final choice. After they left, I would have to fold up the heaps of sarees and put them back on the shelves.

  Day in and day out, the sarees were folded out and then folded away.

  It was best to import the sarees by air but it was difficult to bring in large orders because of the limited air cargo capacity. Those were the days of the ‘gift parcel’—the government having formulated a law that waived customs duty on goods brought in by Nepalis from overseas. Many traders were exploiting this provision. Though there was supposedly a cap on the quantity and size of the ‘gift parcels’, the customs officers always appeared oblivious to that rule, or perhaps they simply did not care about it. Some of the customs officers would ‘object’ to what was going on, so the traders would bribe them. Some of the traders were having a field day, receiving thousands of ‘gift parcels’ every day, while we, on the other hand, could not get enough cargo volume to import goods for trade. We faced a stark choice: to resort to sycophancy, and if that did not work, to offer bribes.

  I would visit the houses of the employees of what was then called Royal Nepal Airlines (RNAC). It had a monopoly as it was the only carrier of the country. The staff used to act as bosses. I would leave no stone unturned to please them so that they would facilitate our cargo. The day our goods landed in Kathmandu, we would be jubilant.

  In the meantime, my father was establishing three factories in Birgunj in partnership with the Kedias and the Jatias. The
first, Modern Hosiery Private Limited, opened in 1965. It manufactured socks under the brand name Rhino—a humble attempt to redefine the identity of Nepal, which was traditionally associated with the Mount Everest and Lord Buddha.

  Nepal Spinning, Weaving and Knitting Private Limited, the second, was also commissioned in the same year. The factory laid the foundation for the production of synthetic cloth in the country by using imported spools of fibre. Imported fabric dominated the market in Nepal at the time. Though our cloth did not displace imported fabric, it allowed us to take pride in our domestic production.

  The third factory, Ratna Stainless Steel Private Limited, came into operation in 1967. The steel utensils produced by that semi-automatic plant were the best in the market.

  India had waived customs duty for these products from Nepal, and factories started to mushroom. Many trading houses expanded their business; however, many misused the duty-free facility by exporting raw materials rather than finished products to India. They would smuggle in coils of steel under the pretext of exporting stainless steel products. Others openly took spools of yarn and sold them in the Indian market.

  Despite the customs waiver, India had placed a quota on exports from Nepal. Some businesses exploited the quota system by making special arrangements with ministers and other high-ranking government officials to ensure their products were included in the quota. Small entrepreneurs like us were supposed to beg them or the industrial families for a small share of the quota, but father would not do that. Hence, we were somewhat at odds with some of the big business houses.

  Father, however, would not give up.

  Life as a child

  When I was born, everything seemed to be in a state of flux, from our family business to the political climate in the country.

  The 1951 revolution had toppled the Rana oligarchy and had laid the foundation for political transformation. People had lofty aspirations. But the delayed general election did not allow the transformation to materialize. There was a yawning gulf between aspiration and reality.

  Our family business was in a similar state.

  The shop established by my grandfather at Juddha Sadak had laid the foundation for transformation of the family business, but the transformation could not take place as the family lacked capital, and my father was getting frustrated.

  I was born under these circumstances at a maternity hospital in the premises of Surendra Bhawan, which has since been renovated and is now the International Club. As destiny would have it, it is the building next door to mine. Every day I go up to the sixth floor for lunch, I look at the building where I was born.

  I was raised modestly in our Khichapokhari house. In those days, a row of connected houses lined Khichapokhari. It was a close-knit community, unlike the situation these days when people live isolated from each other in free-standing houses. The connected houses reflected the interconnected lives of the residents. As children, we would jump from one roof to the next. From the veranda of one house, we could reach over to the window of the adjoining house. The courtyards were as big as football fields; still, that sprawling space never seemed large enough for the restless, high-spirited children that we were.

  My first school was Judhhodaya Public High School at Chhetrapati, in the vicinity of New Road. I then moved to Nepal Adarsha Vidhya Mandir at nearby Ganabahal. I was not an enthusiastic student. In fact, I would often skip school and loiter around, playing marbles and a local game involving pebbles. When I did attend school, I could not wait to get home, throw my bag down and go out to play right away. I was good at both marbles and the pebble game. The skin on my hands and legs would flake off and the skin on my face dry up from the dirt. During winter, the skin on my face would also develop dark patches. Mother would scold me, ‘This boy doesn’t care for his health so long as he gets to play.’

  She was right.

  Once, when I was on my way home from school, I spotted two deflated bicycle tyres. As I was with a group of friends, I acted as though I was indifferent to them, but as soon as we parted company at Khichapokhari, I ran back to Ganabahal. The tyres were still there. I picked them up. They were only punctured. I wanted to get them repaired as soon as I reached home, but my father had returned home early, so I hid the tyres under the staircase.

  I could not sleep that night. I was waiting for daybreak so that I could get the tyres repaired. I was also afraid that my father might spot them, so I quietly slipped out of bed several times in the darkness to make sure they were still there.

  Next morning, I sneaked out of home with the tyres and went straight to the Ason market in the neighbourhood. The repair man there asked for a rupee per tyre. As I did not have enough money, I asked him to repair one and dumped the other. That did not bother me as I had got it for free.

  As he fixed the flat tyre and started to pump air into it, I felt inflated with joy. The tyre was to me what a new bike is to a teenager.

  I would always carry a wooden ruler with me. I dug it out of my schoolbag. Now I had a steering prop for the wheel too. What more could a driver ask for? I set off, rolling the tyre along the road with the help of the ruler. I was in school uniform and carrying my schoolbag. Someone I knew could have spotted me and told my parents what I was up to, but the inflated tyre had so enticed me I could not stop playing with it.

  I kept running, on and on.

  Those days, the sidewalks were largely empty and very few vehicles plied the road.

  I paused after running for about an hour. I was panting, and thoroughly drenched in sweat. As I looked around to find out where I had reached, I saw a big airplane parked on my right.

  I had reached the airport, which was about five kilometres from home.

  I had never seen an aircraft from such a close distance before. I ran to the other side of the road, clutching the tyre. Placing the tyre on the roadside, I sat on it, gaping at the aircraft. Shortly after that, the plane started to taxi and then left the ground to fly like a bird. I immediately sprang to my feet and picked up the tyre. My hands were sweaty and slippery. I wiped them on the sleeves of my shirt and, adjusting my schoolbag, tightening my shoelaces, and grabbing the ruler, I started rolling the tyre again. I was now trying to chase the plane.

  I kept running, chasing after the plane for as long as I could see it.

  Sometimes I feel I am still chasing it. I spent half a year flying.

  When I reached home that evening, even my uniform looked exhausted.

  This marathon activity went on for days. I would mostly go towards the airport as it had two advantages: a view of airplanes and less risk of being caught in action, as very few people would have recognized my father in that area. Sometimes, just for a change, I ventured out to other localities such as Thamel, Maharajgunj and Kalimati, but I was always looking over my shoulder in those places, fearing someone might see me and tell my parents.

  One day, my fears came true. Father walked straight into my room, took me by the arms, lifted me up and asked sternly, ‘Where is that tyre?’

  I panicked. How did he know about it? Had he spotted me himself or had someone else told him? I never knew how. When I saw that he was furious, I did not even try to make excuses. Father did not get angry very easily. He would usually keep quiet or simply laugh things off even if we did something wrong. But when he got really angry his earlobes would quiver, and my own hands and legs would start to shake when I saw that. There was no point making excuses; none would be accepted.

  ‘Under the staircase,’ I said, so softly that I could hardly hear myself.

  He went out of the room without a word. I did not dare to look under the stairs that day, but when I looked the next day, the tyre was gone.

  I loved another game—collecting empty cigarette packets.

  My friends and I would go around the neighbourhood for hours collecting empty cigarette packets discarded by smokers. We would even search the heaps of waste dumped by the roadside. As soon as I touched them, these empty packets would become
cash in my hands, the way rubbish turns into art for some people. My friends and I had given the cigarette packets monetary value, depending on their condition and the brand. A packet that was worn out and faded was valued at only 50 paise. The Charminar brand was the most valuable. Those who collected the highest number of packets became the bankers. Those with none were bankrupt.

  We would trade the cigarette packets for marbles. Actually, we would use the cigarette packets as a currency for trading marbles. Everybody was addicted to marbles but that did not mean everybody could bring money from home to buy them. We came up with this idea so that we could still play, even after we lost all the marbles we possessed. If one of us ran out of marbles, he or she could approach a friend and borrow marbles using the cigarette packets as collateral.

  I came to realize much later that people had relied on the barter system before the monetary system was introduced, and that was what we too had invented to meet our need for marbles.

  Why did we choose cigarette packets? Why did we not use normal paper for the purpose? We could not have, because regular paper was too readily available. To find a few cigarette packets involved at least an hour or two of search, plus we had to look for packets that were in a good shape so that we could maximize our returns. If they were slightly soiled, we had to clean them. It was an income-generating activity. We were into a form of commerce even in our childhood.

  I would keep my marbles in an empty spice box under my bed. I would also arrange the cigarette packets in a row under the bed. I would inspect my assets every day after coming home from school, counting all my marbles and all my packets.

  Father once caught me playing marbles at Khichapokhari. He did not say anything and his earlobes did not quiver either, but I could tell he was not happy about it, so I went home immediately.

  But father never knew about the treasures hidden under my bed.

  Once, while my mother was changing my bed linen, she spotted the cigarette packets. ‘Why have you collected so many dirty packets?’ she asked.