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  He called up Jaya right away.

  They were busy shooting at Dhulikhel, and Jaya invited us to join them.

  We went.

  A song sequence featuring Amitabh and Waheeda Rehman was being shot. The song was Jidhar dekhun teri tasveer nazar aati hai.

  Despite their hectic schedule, both Amitabh and Jaya paid a lot of attention to us. I praised their films. Amitabh inquired about my business. I had read a lot about him in film magazines, and that day I did get to find out first-hand what kind of person he was. I found him very affable and cordial, always smiling, always chatting; and he would make others smile too. I felt that was a sign of a true superstar—to treat everyone cordially without letting one’s ego get in the way.

  I invited Bachchan and Jaya to dinner at our Thamel house. They accepted the invitation without hesitation. Two days later they were at dinner with Lily and me, along with Prem and Himalaya Pandey, accompanied by their wives, and a few other friends, at Thamel.

  After dinner, Amitabh read from Madhushala, the very popular book of poetry written by his father Dr Harivansh Rai Bachchan. He also told us his father had come to Nepal in the past to attend a literary conference; however, we could never find out the exact date or venue of the conference.

  During dinner, I told him, ‘I like the number that was being played in the background during the shooting.’

  ‘Kishoreda (legendary Indian playback singer Kishore Kumar) sang that song,’ he said playfully. ‘Which did you like more, the song or my acting?’

  ‘Both,’ I replied. ‘The song was great. But your acting made it even better.’

  Amitabh laughed wholeheartedly.

  ‘You businessmen certainly know how to make a good impression on people,’ he said.

  ‘That was no film dialogue,’ I quipped. ‘I meant that from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘Do you want to listen to that song?’

  ‘I’d definitely love to, if you’d like to play it for me.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ Amitabh said, suddenly springing to his feet. ‘Get the car.’

  Jaya tried to stop him. ‘Leave it for the time being. We’ll send a cassette.’

  But Amitabh had made up his mind. He would not listen to Jaya. I too did not want him to listen to Jaya.

  ‘It’ll only take five minutes,’ he told her. ‘We’ll go to the hotel and come back right away.’

  I got the car.

  They were staying at the Everest Hotel in New Baneshwor. Amitabh asked me to wait at the reception and went upstairs. When he came down five minutes later, he was carrying a sound system with a double cassette player.

  I felt a bit odd, realizing that Amitabh had taken so much trouble just because I wanted to listen to his song.

  ‘You are carrying an entire sound system for me.’

  He patted my back. ‘Let’s get going.’

  We returned to my place.

  He played the same song on one of the players and started to record it on the other:

  Jidhar dekhun teri tasveer nazar aati hai

  Teri surat, meri taqdeer nazar aati hai

  Zinda hun mein tere liye, jeevan tera hai

  Mera hai jo sab tera, ab kya mera hai

  (Wherever I look, I see your face

  I see your face, my fate, everywhere

  I live for you, my life is yours

  Whatever I have is all yours, nothing is mine now)

  Amitabh gave that cassette to me before he left that night. On the cover, he had written: ‘Dear Binod, Thank you for your hospitality. This is for your listening pleasure.’

  The effort Amitabh took, even over a small thing like a song for someone who was just an acquaintance, made that evening unforgettable for us. I believe that this trait has been instrumental in propelling him to the pinnacle of success.

  My craze for automobiles

  Despite the limited resources of the family in the past, I could never restrain myself when it came to automobiles.

  I was already riding a Yamaha motorbike by the time I enrolled at Saraswoti Campus at Sorhakhutte. When that 125 cc bike sped, I felt on top of the world. Very few college students had motorbikes in those days.

  I would ride to college, my hair streaming in the wind. At college, I would hang around with my friends for an hour or two and then cruise to New Road. New Road was the place where youngsters would hang out and try to impress the girls. When you had a cool bike, you definitely scored!

  Once I was speeding toward Bagbazaar with a friend as a pillion passenger. Just in front of Padma Kanya College, a leading girl’s campus in Kathmandu, my bike collided head-on with a jeep. I was probably too preoccupied with the girls walking out of the college to notice the jeep coming from the opposite direction. My friend was hurled on top of the jeep while I, along with the bike, skidded under it. For a moment or two, a pall of silence descended on the scene. People were too afraid to even look under the jeep, fearing the worst. But I had not even passed out. As nobody came to my rescue, I slowly crawled out on my own. My clothes were dirty. I patted the dust off them. I then felt for the various parts of my body. I was completely unscathed. The bystanders were amazed to see I was perfectly fine following such a serious accident. My friend was fine too. But the bike was badly damaged.

  Before that incident, I was more than happy to have a bike, not a car. Following the accident, however, I never rode a two-wheeler again.

  A Fiat 124 was the first car father bought—a second-hand vehicle from a foreign project or embassy that cost Rs 18,000. I was a small boy then. The entire family was jubilant when father parked the car in front of Arun Emporium the day he bought it. However, we did not get to ride in that car even once. On the very same day, our landlord, Juddha Bahadur Shrestha, asked father, ‘Lunkaran Dasjee, where did you get that car?’

  After my father told him about the great deal, Juddha Bahadurjee announced, ‘You got it cheap. I was also looking for a car. I’ll take that one.’

  We were totally flabbergasted. However, father would never refuse anything to Juddha Bahadurjee, whom he considered his guardian. So the first car in the family slipped out of our hands before anyone but father could ride in it.

  A few weeks later, my father bought another car. Again a Fiat. Second-hand.

  Once I fell for a two-seater, an Austin Healey. I thought how impressed my peers would be if I owned a stylish sports car. During those days any car in Kathmandu was a rarity. People would turn their heads just to catch a glimpse of the car! I had to have it at any cost. I told my father about my wish to have the car, but he rejected it outright. I was adamant, however. I staged a hunger strike at home, subjecting my parents to emotional blackmail. After two days, mother started to pressure my father: ‘Can’t you fulfil your son’s wish?’

  Finally, I won.

  That was the first car I owned. I could not resist cruising around the New Road area in that car (whose registration number was 1050) every evening, much as I had on my Yamaha bike.

  As time passed, my passion for automobiles only intensified. Our family doctor, Sache Kumar Pahari, had imported an Alfa Romeo. For some reason, he did not want the car. He asked me if I wanted to buy it, which was like offering water to a thirsty person. I eventually acquired that car after much pleading with my father. I also bought a red Mercedes that Annapurna didi had selected for me. None of these cars was common in Nepal back then.

  I then decided I wanted a Range Rover, the king of SUVs in those days. How was I going to get one? I did not have the money to buy one, and father certainly would not agree to buy me such an expensive car, especially after having bought me three cars already. But I could not restrain myself.

  I found a way out. I used my contacts. A foreigner friend of a friend of mine was coming to Nepal from Birmingham in a Range Rover. His name was Ron. ‘I’ll ask Ron to buy a new Range Rover for the trip,’ my friend said. ‘Once he gets here, you can buy it from him. He’ll sell it at a reasonable price.’

  I felt
as if I had won the lottery.

  A few months later, Ron arrived in Nepal from Birmingham down the Silk Road. I treated him superbly so that he would like me, because I was scared he might ask such a high price for the car that I would not be able to afford it. Ron liked me and agreed to sell the car for Rs 1.5 lakh.

  The price was right. But what was I going to do about the customs duty? Duty on automobiles was so high I would have had to pay around Rs 8 lakh. I went to the customs department to discuss what could be done but could not find a solution. I was racing against time. Ron was about to return home, and I could neither buy the car nor tell him that I could not buy it. I was dilly-dallying, and anxious about all my hard work going to waste.

  Then I came to discover that the royal family did not have to pay customs duty on their imports. I talked to Kumar Khadga through his brother Neer Shah. Kumar had married into the royal family. But it turned out he had an annual quota on the amount of goods he could import duty-free, and that quota had been used already.

  I got in touch with Helen Shah, another member of the royal family. We entered into a verbal agreement that she would buy the Range Rover for Rs 1.5 lakh, use it for a while and then sell it to me. Ron handed over the keys to Helen Shah. Now I was eager to buy the car from Helen Shah as soon as possible, but she had no interest in selling it quickly, despite the fact that there was no dearth of cars in the royal family. I never saw her in that car more than twice a year, but I had to wait for nearly four years before she finally sold it to me.

  When I drove that Range Rover, I felt as if I was riding on Pegasus, the mythological flying horse. Today I have the latest Range Rover model that Nirvana gave me for my birthday, but I still have that old Range Rover too.

  3

  Drawing from Sports

  The only person I have ever envied in my life is Suresh Gurung, one of my friends from my school days. This envy had nothing to do with studies and everything to do with sports.

  He was such a great sportsman that he would master any game that interested him. Football, basketball, table tennis, squash—you name it—he was the champion. He remained a champion squash player for a long time. He worked with Nepal Airlines Corporation, the state flag carrier, for many years, and later for some private airlines. The girls at school were crazy about him, perhaps because he was such a good sportsman.

  I was only an average sportsman.

  Up to my college days, I was crazy about football, volleyball and table tennis. Squash was a later interest; I continued to play the game until I turned forty. I was also into bodybuilding from the time I was around fifteen. There was a gymnasium at Jyatha in my neighbourhood, and I would go there every day. Later on, I joined the American Club in Kathmandu. I stopped going there only seven years ago.

  It was not easy to get into the American Club. Nepalis were not usually eligible for membership. But I always find a way to get what I want. Sandy Vogelgesang was the US ambassador to Nepal at the time, and we were well acquainted. One day I asked her, ‘Could you please do me a favour?’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘You would have to change a rule to do it for me,’ I said. ‘Can you change a rule for me?’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t ask for anything that I couldn’t deliver,’ she replied. ‘If it’s possible, I would even change a rule for you.’

  I asked for membership of the American Club. ‘You don’t give membership to Nepalis. If you want to do me a favour, you’ll have to change that rule. Can you do that?’

  She thought for a while and said, ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

  The next day I got a reply. ‘I can’t change the rule for you but you can go there every day as my guest.’

  Nobody had ever provided such a facility to anyone at the American Club before. I started going to the club as the ambassador’s permanent guest. I continued to go there on a regular basis for twelve years, even after Sandy had completed her time in Nepal and returned home.

  I still want to keep my body toned and fit, so I have built a gym at my place. When I am in Kathmandu, I begin every day with a workout under the supervision of a professional trainer. I feel a businessman, or anyone in a leadership position, needs to keep fit, even if it entails self-discipline.

  As I get further engrossed in business, I find it increasingly difficult to find time for sports. These days, I play only golf.

  Golf demands a strategic approach.

  There are three stages to it. First, you need to understand the course, be mindful of where the undergrowth lies and where the bunkers are. It is not different from being aware of the state of the market in business. You have to have good knowledge of the competition, of the market rules and trends, and know where customer interest is heading.

  The next step is to devise a strategy to strike the ball in such a way that it drops at a certain point, and take it from there to another. The ball will reach the desired point only if the right amount of energy is applied at the right angle and in the right direction. Otherwise, the ball will drop into a bunker or disappear in the undergrowth. Similar rules apply in business. We move ahead according to our assessment of the situation. The competitors make their own assessments. The one who assesses the situation best reaches the destination first.

  After determining where and how to strike the ball, one has to determine which club to use. Business functions in a similar fashion. One needs to decide on the best tools—whether they are new strategies or plans to pull strings—to achieve one’s goals. A businessperson needs to cultivate a wide network of contacts and be alert at all times as to the best way to use them.

  Success in business, much as in golf, proceeds by these three stages.

  Initially, I used to play at the Royal Nepal Golf Club next to the Kathmandu airport. I wanted to become a member of the club after I started to play at the course on a regular basis some nineteen years ago, but I was refused membership. While others had private membership for Rs1000, I was told I could get only ‘corporate membership’, which cost more than Rs 5 lakh a year. I understood the intention behind this discriminatory approach; they simply did not want to let me in.

  There was no question about my unwillingness to pay Rs 5 lakh. I was barred from playing golf there. That incident hurt my self-esteem. I decided a fitting response to them would be to build my own golf course. I now have a nine-hole golf course inside CG Industrial Park (my industrial estate).

  I have played at numerous golf courses around the world, from Scotland to Indonesia, from Thailand to India, the UAE and Mauritius. Still, I do not consider myself a serious golf player.

  In business, however, I am a serious player. Here I apply all the strategies that a good player applies in golf. I bring the same zeal to my business that I brought to constructing a private golf course in CG Industrial Park.

  PART II: THE ASCENT

  4

  The Leap

  Wai Wai

  The story of Wai Wai begins around thirty-five years ago.

  Royal Nepal Airlines had already started flights to Thailand. Thai Airways had also started flying to Nepal. Many cartons of instant noodles could be seen trundling down the baggage belt once international flights landed in Kathmandu.

  I had been looking for another product that could be made out of white flour. Pashupati Biscuits and Maha Laxmi Maida Mills were well established by then. A large portion of the white flour produced by the Maida Mills went into the making of Pashupati Biscuits. Still, the biscuit factory alone was not able to consume all the flour from the mills. ‘Why don’t you try producing instant noodles?’ Himalaya Pandey, a friend of mine, suggested to me one day.

  He was then working with Gorkha Travels, one of the leading travel and tour operators of Nepal in those days, and had noticed the large quantities of instant noodles arriving on the Bangkok–Kathmandu flights. ‘Noodles are getting more popular in Nepal,’ he said.

  One of the reasons for the popularity of noodles was the growing number of Nepalis wh
o were going abroad and trying out new foods. A second reason was the aggressive marketing campaigns launched in Nepal by two noodle companies. Gandaki Noodles had launched Rara while Nestlé India Limited’s Maggi was being imported in huge quantities. I concluded that nothing could be more appropriate than instant noodles for the consumption of white flour. I had my own packaging plant. All I needed was the technical knowledge related to noodle production. As far as the market was concerned, Rara and Maggi had blazed the trail. I just had to blacktop it.

  Himalaya Pandey and I caught a Thai Airways flight to Bangkok, following the trail of the baggage belt.

  Bangkok was not new to me. I had had good contacts there since the days of starting Arun Emporium. Berli Jucker, the company that had supplied the equipment for our flour mills, had its regional headquarters in Bangkok. Through Berli Jucker, I was able to meet with noodle producers there.

  There were three companies. I approached all of them, settling for Thai Preserved Foods as our technical collaborator. We did not need any additional support except to learn how to produce fully cooked instant noodles. The company was not big enough to give us any other kind of support either. It was owned by a gentleman called Kitty Pong Sri and some of his partners. He was a very creative and hard-working man but was happy with what he had. I invited him to visit Nepal to help me make my final decision, and he obliged. After spending three days exploring the streets of Kathmandu and its markets, he asked me with his eyebrows raised, ‘Do you really want to start a noodles plant? The smallest lot will be 30,000 packets a day. Do you think you can ever sell this quantity in this country?’ I shared with him the famous story of two salesmen going to the same market; one returning with the report that since nobody eats there is no market, and the other coming back with a completely opposite story, that since nobody eats, this is the market! That was how Wai Wai was born.

  After the success of Wai Wai, we launched Mama noodles in the market. The chief executive of Thailand’s President’s Food, Pipat, came to see me. I thought it was about my registering the brand in Nepal but, on the contrary, he had come with a proposal for a joint venture. I told him, ‘I’m ready for a joint venture, but it has to be on my terms.’