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  When I started to get busy in my professional life, she would worry about my general well-being. I would be sitting in my room, focused on work, and she would come in hesitantly, fearing she might disturb me. She would sit quietly on a stool beside me and look around. She would then talk softly after gauging my mood. If she felt she had to talk to me, she would just stay in the room for a while. Sometimes, I would not even notice when she had entered or left the room.

  She was very concerned about her younger sister Sudama. My aunt was not in a good financial position. Mother would do anything to make her happy. I do not ever remember mother asking for anything for herself; if she asked for anything, it was always for her sister. Her entire life revolved around addressing the needs of her sister, including the education of her son.

  My mother was never robust. She was extremely thin. Yet we never saw her fall ill until she developed stomach cancer at the age of seventy.

  We took her to Tata Memorial Centre in Mumbai, one of the leading cancer centres in South Asia. The doctors there told us they would have to operate on her.

  When she was being taken into the operation theatre, I was standing by the door. Just before she was taken in, she slowly folded her hands to greet me. I do not know why she did that. Perhaps somebody had told her she had a very slim chance of recovery.

  I was dumbstruck.

  The nurses whisked her away.

  We waited, pacing restlessly outside the operation theatre for eight hours. The surgery was a success.

  We were ten siblings—four daughters and six sons. Except for our elder sister and three of us brothers, all the others died young.

  Kusum didi was more like our guardian than a sister. We always obeyed her. I was the one she pampered the most. She and her friends would often go on tours to exotic destinations like Pokhara and Lumbini, and I would usually go with them. She was educated at Padma Kanya College. She got married to Mahesh Kumar Agrawal, who later became chairperson of the Nepal Chamber of Commerce.

  My younger brother Basant and I were more friends than brothers. There is not much difference in age between us, so we grew up together. He was more into the arts than business. He was a man of poetic disposition, loving and giving. Later, he also proved himself in the field of commerce and made a big contribution to transforming the Norvic Hospital into the most modern hospital in Nepal, matching international standards.

  As far as Arun, my youngest brother, is concerned, I have always treated him like my own son. I used to involve him in everything I did, grooming him as much as I groomed my own sons. He took a keen interest in business. He always wanted to prove himself and still does. He played a key role in expanding our automobile business.

  All three of us had different styles of working. Our aims and goals were different. But we have always respected each other and never breached that line of propriety. That is why many wonder whether we still live as a joint family or separately. As our business started to grow, we took charge of the respective segments we were handling.

  Father always believed that brothers should start to live separately before misunderstandings can drive them apart. If brothers continued to live under the same roof, pent-up anger and frustration would eventually explode, pushing them apart in such a way that they could never again come together. If they lived separately, however, giving one another breathing space, then they would continue to nurture love for one another. It is better to live apart and remain close than to live together and become estranged.

  That was the reason I left our home at Thamel and moved to Ravi Bhawan.

  Mother was not pleased with my decision. I took her to the new house I had bought, but she looked sad. She was very fond of her grandchildren and kept whining for ages about being away from them. Initially, I would spend only my holidays in the new house so that my parents could gradually come to terms with the fact that I was not going to be living with the extended family any more. I also accommodated guests there. Later, I started staying at the new house every Friday night.

  Immediately after mother’s surgery, we moved to the new house permanently. Mother conducted the housewarming rituals.

  I tried hard to persuade my parents to live with us, but they would not agree to it. I then pleaded with them to stay at our place just once a week, but they would not agree to that either. Father preferred to see his sons every day at the office. Every evening, he would drop in at my office and then visit Basant and Arun before going home to Thamel.

  We still visit our old house at Khichapokhari to celebrate Laxmi Puja, a ritual concerning the Goddess of wealth that is performed during Diwali, the great Hindu festival of lights. We make offerings into the old cash box and even to the measuring instruments used in the old cloth shop. The rest of the rituals take place at our family house in Thamel.

  Mother’s cancer relapsed.

  When it comes to this disease, you remain helpless even as the person you love is emaciating and dying before your very eyes. No matter how much strength, money or facilities you have, you remain powerless.

  We did everything possible. We tried Tibetan medicine. We tried Ayurveda. There was no treatment we did not seek for her. After all the systems of medicine had failed, we even resorted to rituals, but to no avail.

  Mother passed away on 9 May 2000.

  We took her to Aryaghat at the Pashupatinath temple.

  The funeral rituals began. A large number of relatives, friends and well-wishers had gathered around the pyre where the mortal remains of my mother rested. Being the eldest son, I began conducting the rituals, guided by the priests. Our scriptures required me to take a dip in the ‘holy’ Bagmati river, which flows through the temple premises. I was also supposed to offer the holy water to the deceased. Just when I bent down to collect a handful of water for the offering, the priests stopped me.

  ‘You can’t use that water. It’s sewage,’ one of them said. ‘How can you offer such filthy water to the departed soul?’

  I was stupefied that an orthodox Brahmin had asked me not to follow a ritual that was supposedly mandatory for the salvation of the soul. My mother had devoted her entire life to the worship of Lord Shiva and now I could not even offer a handful of holy water to her mortal remains! Nothing could be more shameful!

  It was not that I was unaware of the sewage that flowed in the Bagmati before that day. But this sad reality really hit home only after I was barred from performing an important last rite. I did some introspection. I looked at all the well-wishers around me, the politicians, administrators, industrialists, businesspeople, social activists, journalists, artists, lawyers, and so on. All the people standing right in front of me were distinguished people in Nepali society; but here were these so-called ‘dignitaries’ standing on one side, while sewage, where I could not even deposit my mother’s ashes, flowed on the other. I cursed myself, my society and my government.

  I poured my heart out to my journalist friend Vijay Kumar Pandey.

  ‘It would be better if you wrote about these things in such a way that it serves as an eye-opener for all,’ he suggested.

  I liked the idea. But how could I go about it?

  ‘Writing just to give vent to your emotions won’t serve the purpose,’ he said. ‘If you want to write, do it in a way that challenges the government.’

  ‘What kind of challenge?’

  ‘The Bagmati has become absolutely filthy. Either you clean it or, if you can’t, let me do it,’ Vijay said in a challenging tone. ‘Can you write an open letter to the prime minister saying that?”

  ‘I alone can’t possibly clean the entire river,’ I said. ‘How could anyone clean the river when they keep discharging sewage into it? But if it’s about improving the environment at the Aryaghat and making provision for pure water to offer to the departed, then I am ready to bear the expense.’

  My entire body quivered at the thought of writing an open letter to the prime minister as I conducted the rites associated with my mother’s death. The Hind
u tradition does not allow indulgence in mundane matters during the formal period of grieving. It was not the time to write a letter to anyone, let alone a letter for publication in the mass media. My only duty, traditionally, was to religiously follow the last rites for my mother in seclusion.

  Notwithstanding all that, I could not stop myself from writing an open letter to the prime minister after seeing the awful state of the Bagmati. I felt that if I did not immediately start a debate on the issue, my conscience would haunt me forever. Today I and my family had suffered. Countless Nepalis must have suffered in the past. If we did not act now, innumerable families would have to go through the same ordeal my family and I had to.

  The article that I drafted after consulting Vijay was published on 17 May 1999 in Kantipur daily under the heading ‘A mourner’s letter to the Prime Minister’.

  I knew it was impossible to instantly rid the Bagmati of pollution. However, I asked in my letter, would it not be possible to create an environment in which, at least the last rites according to the Hindu tradition could be carried out? As a citizen of the country, I made a public appeal to the prime minister to treat the water flowing through the Aryaghat area at the very least so that it is suitable for that purpose.

  I had written: ‘If the line ministries or the agencies authorized by those ministries feel they are not capable of discharging the special responsibilities relating to Lord Pashupati, the venerable God of the only Hindu nation on earth, then through this letter I make a promise to the entire nation. Through my personal means and resources, and the good wishes of like-minded Nepalis, I will take the responsibility for Pashupatinath. Within six months, no son going to the Aryaghat to conduct the last rites for his mother will find himself in the position that I was.’

  The article made waves across the entire country. Hundreds of people came to visit me. Thousands of people sent me letters of support. Some even encouraged me by pledging everything they owned for the cause. Innumerable people expressed solidarity. The overwhelming support boosted my confidence. I invited a South Indian architect, Raj Gopalan, to design a plan for improvement of the Aryaghat, and together we produced a Project Map.

  However, I then discovered there was another project underway: the Pashupati Area Sewerage Improvement Project, led by Bidur Poudel. That project came under pressure after my article was published. Organizing a press conference, Bidur Poudel said the project was ‘doing everything it takes to clean the river’ and that ‘the government is not weak’. The government revitalized that project by putting more than Rs 50 crore into it. We felt we should let the government try to resolve the problem before we stepped in. However, the problems dogging the Aryaghat remained unresolved.

  At the same time, some people started to doubt my sincerity. Many accused me of making a promise in a fit of emotion, saying I did not keep my word. Elsewhere in the world, the government encourages resourceful people to engage in public works. In our country, however, I have had the experience of being snubbed by the government despite my willingness to do something for the nation. I did not get a chance to do my bit for the Bagmati even after making a public request to the prime minister. It was part politics, part ego on the part of the political leaders and activists, which barred me from pursuing the noble cause.

  Just then, Queen Aishwarya, patron of the Pashupati Area Development Trust, sent her secretary, Sagar Timilsina, to see me. ‘Her Majesty has been deeply touched by your article,’ he said. ‘Her Majesty is also concerned about the issue.’

  He was hinting that the royal palace was planning to include us in the campaign to develop the Pashupati area. Within a few days, Basant was appointed member-secretary of the trust. He had worked for many years with the Social Welfare Council.

  After Basant received the appointment letter, I told him, ‘This is our obligation. Make it your first mission. If we have to extend any cooperation from our group, we will not shy away.’

  Following Basant’s appointment, some reforms resulted at the Pashupati and Aryaghat area. Basant has played an important role in this achievement. This gives me great satisfaction.

  After our consistent efforts for the past fifteen years, we were finally able to sign an agreement, in November 2015, with the Pashupati Area Development Trust to revitalize the Pashupati Aryaghat area. The plan includes repair and renovation of Aryaghat, Batsaleshwori and Bhasmeshwor Ghats. The agreement has been signed as part of my group’s corporate social responsibility commitments. A technical team of the Chaudhary Group (CG), in coordination with the trust, has conducted an extensive study of the area for the project. The pact was signed after the design drafted by the study team was approved by the Nepalese department of archaeology. Through this project, we aim to change the entire face of Aryaghat in Pashupati, which is one of the most treasured pilgrimage sites for over one billion Hindus across the world.

  Even after taking my mother’s life, cancer did not spare our family. Sixteen years ago, my father was diagnosed with cancer of the tongue.

  We took him to Mumbai for treatment. Cancer specialist Dr Sultan Pradhan said that part of my father’s tongue had to be removed. He assured us that after surgery, my father’s ability to eat and speak would not be affected.

  The surgery was performed, and my father seemed fine for the next eighteen months. Then the cancer relapsed. We returned to Dr Sultan, and more of my father’s tongue was cut away. He started to stammer a bit, but other than that there seemed to be no problem.

  The cancer came back two years later. The doctors in Kathmandu told us it had metastasized. We did not go to Mumbai this time but to Singapore and Bangkok. The doctors there drew the same conclusion. They said the tongue had to be removed. If that was the case, we thought, we should go to Mumbai where the first surgery on my father had been done. We returned to Mumbai. We visited the famous Hindu shrine, Tirupati Balaji, in the nearby state of Andhra Pradesh, to pray for my father’s recovery. We also paid homage to Shankaracharya, head of the monasteries in the Advaita Vedanta tradition.

  As I mentioned earlier, Lily was a devout follower of Sathya Sai Baba, a prominent Hindu guru. ‘Let’s seek the blessing of Sai Baba,’ she suggested; so we decided to visit his religious retreat in Bangalore. No one, however, ever got a special audience with Sai Baba. All we could hope for were seats in the front row in the big hall so that his eye might fall on us. Whomever his eyes lit upon would be the ones to get blessed. Geetha Rajan, wife of K.V. Rajan, the former Indian ambassador to Nepal, had contacts at Sai Baba’s temple. With her help, we got a chance to sit in the front row.

  We had heard many stories about the miracles taking place at Sai Baba’s temple. I could sense that my father, who was there with Lily and me, was hoping for a miracle. Sai Baba entered the hall. He blessed some of his devotees but did not even look at us. Father repeatedly leaned forward in a bid to attract Sai Baba’s attention. I was silently praying for my father’s prayers to be answered, but Sai Baba did not even look at us.

  He left the hall without even casting a glance in our direction.

  I could see my father was utterly devastated. Had Sai Baba even cast a glance at my father, I thought, that would have strengthened his willpower, and willpower, I believe, has a lot to do with overcoming cancer.

  I too felt dejected but I could not restrain myself from doing something about it. I pulled my father to his feet and forced him through the door through which Sai Baba had just exited. But Sai Baba was retiring to his private rooms and his devotees stopped us from going any further.

  We gave up. We stood there feeling helpless.

  And then, a miracle occurred. Sai Baba suddenly stopped, turned around and looked at us. He beckoned to us to come to him, and his devotees cleared the path.

  What can a human being say when faced with the divine? We were speechless. Sai Baba drew my father towards him and, with both his hands, forced him to sit. We were simply awestruck and could not utter a single word. Sai Baba took my father’s hands in his own.r />
  ‘What has happened?’ he asked in Hindi.

  Father could not speak.

  Sai Baba then went into his rooms, leaving my father behind, and came out shortly afterwards with a handful of ash.

  ‘Open your hands,’ he said.

  Father extended both his palms. He was looking at Sai Baba with tears in his eyes.

  Sai Baba dropped the ash into my father’s hands. ‘Use this regularly,’ he said. ‘Apply it regularly.’

  Tears started to roll down father’s face. I too became emotional; I had a lump in my throat. We felt like devotees who, after years of meditation, had seen the face of God.

  Father started to apply the ash to his face immediately.

  Two days later, we returned to Mumbai to see Dr Sultan. He gave my father a thorough check-up and, after looking at all the results, said, ‘Why have you come? He doesn’t have any problems.’

  We were amazed. We showed Dr Sultan all the test results from Kathmandu, Singapore and Bangkok confirming metastasis.

  ‘These results are inaccurate,’ Dr Sultan said. ‘His tongue is absolutely clear. Go home now and put your minds at rest.’

  We told him about our audience with Sai Baba but he did not believe a miracle had taken place. Others too find it hard to believe it, but it is true. From that day onwards, father has never had any problem related to his tongue, though his heart ailment does persist.

  2

  My Passions

  Music and cinema

  Legendary Bollywood star Dev Anand had come to Kathmandu for the shooting of his movie Hare Rama Hare Krishna. I would go to all the locations where the film was being shot—the historic Hanumandhoka area, the famous Buddhist stupa of Swoyambhunath and the Bhaktapur Durbar Square—just to catch a glimpse of him. Hundreds of people would be there watching the shooting, and I could never make my way to the front row through the crowd. Many times, I even joined the crowd of fans waiting outside the gate of Soaltee hotel where he was staying. Many of his fans would start to cry if they even so much as caught a glimpse of his profile as his car went by.