No matter how hard we tried to hide our relationship, people started to notice it. The bowl-shaped Kathmandu valley was a small place in those days.
‘Things can’t go on like this, Binod babu,’ Lily’s mother told me one day. ‘You need to realize that this could bring a lot of trouble to us too.’
Lily too started to say things that I found unsettling. ‘Your family will never accept me. Let’s go to India. We have friends there, so let’s get married there and once we’re married, everyone will have to accept it.’
Her suggestion pressured me even more because I did not believe in marriage without the consent of family.
‘It’s just a matter of days. Father will change his mind,’ I tried to convince her. ‘We can’t exclude my family from our wedding. Everyone needs to be involved.’
I managed to convince her, but I was getting increasingly anxious about my father’s intransigence.
19 April 1978
It was five days after my birthday. On my birthday, Lily and I had visited the temple of Guheshwori located behind the Pashupatinath area. Driven by some impulse, I took a trace of vermilion powder (tika), offered it to the Goddess and applied it on Lily’s forehead, something that a husband does to his wife.
She was overcome with emotion. This was a sign of my commitment to her. And it worked. I felt it unburdened her soul, which was heavy with the growing pressure from her family and the uncertainty about which way my family’s decision would eventually go.
Call it a mere coincidence or the grace of Goddess Guheshwori, but after that visit to the temple, we began feeling less pressured by our families. Though I do not believe in miracles, some happenings do challenge my rational mind. Within a few days, my father started to soften his stance. He invited Lily to our house and offered tika to her as his blessing. But he offered that blessing on one condition: ‘If you two want to marry, you can do so. But you can’t marry in Kathmandu. We would be the laughing stock of our community if your wedding took place here.’
I knew very well that he had always liked Lily, and that he actually feared facing the community, whose boundaries were hard to cross.
We decided to go to New Delhi for our wedding. The family of Jaspal Singh Sahani had made all arrangements for it. We knew the Sahani family through the sister of the girl from Patna to whom I had been engaged. Ironically, it was her relatives now solemnizing my marriage to Lily!
Jaspal used to operate a company called Supan at the time. He had won the contract for the interior decoration of the Soaltee Hotel, and used to visit Kathmandu frequently on work. With the help of his brother, Jaspal had taken Lily to India for treatment when she had once fallen ill. As he was a good friend, I used to tell him about the dispute in my family regarding my marriage. I was touched when he said, ‘You are like a brother to me. Your wedding procession will start from our house.’
On 4 February 1979, we arrived in Delhi with a small group of close friends. Basant had arrived ahead of us to help with the arrangements. Lily and I were married on 7 February 1979, at the Maurya Sheraton in Delhi.
Due to Jaspal’s affection and support, we never felt we were getting married far away from our country and our families. Father too arrived in Delhi at the eleventh hour to give us his blessing. We returned to Kathmandu on 9 February. By that time, we had already moved from our house at Khichapokhari to Thamel.
The day we moved into the new house also happened to be Lily’s birthday.
Fatherhood
Whenever I pass over the Kupondole bridge, my eyes automatically fall on the slum behind the maternity hospital of Thapathali.
That is where my dear daughter rests.
To wait for a long time to have children is a mistake. I have always believed that once a couple is married, they should not put off starting a family. We should raise our children while we ourselves are still young.
Perhaps my daughter was also in a hurry. She did not want to stay inside her mother’s womb for very long. Lily had to be rushed to the maternity hospital within a year of our marriage. She had gone into labour early, and our daughter was born prematurely, just seven months into the pregnancy. She had to be placed in an incubator. It was a torture for Lily to be separated from our child immediately after the delivery. She cried her heart out, and the tears never dried up. I was helpless. I would try to console Lily and then look at my daughter breathing softly in the incubator. May the Lord never make any father feel as helpless as I felt that day.
Those twenty-four hours were the longest of my life.
My daughter did not survive.
I laid her to rest in the cemetery behind the maternity hospital.
My family was grief-stricken. I wanted to cry at the top of my voice, but no sound would issue from my throat. My eyes were shut with sorrow, and I could not shed even a single tear. I had withered from within. I felt drained and empty.
I had always wanted a daughter. That wish was never fulfilled.
The next year, Nirvana was born on 15 March 1982. Rahul was born on 2 June 1983, even before Nirvana had turned two. The loss of our daughter was followed by the birth of our sons in rapid succession.
We waited three years for our third child. Varun was born on 13 February 1985.
All parents want to give all those things to their children they never had themselves. They want to send their children to the best schools, the ones they never attended. They want to raise their children in a way they could only dream of for themselves.
We were no exception.
Nirvana went to Rupy’s and Kanti Ishwori schools in Kathmandu during the early years. Meanwhile, I was looking at well-known schools in India, from Sherwood in Nainital to Woodstock in Mussoorie. I liked Doon School at Dehradun the best. I was impressed with the standard of teaching, the environment, the culture and the facilities it offered. But it was not easy to get admission there. I had heard that even noted politicians and businessmen from India could not get their children enrolled in that school. Somebody told me that if I could enrol my son in grade one in Welham Boy’s School at Dehradun, it might be then easy to transfer him to Doon after five years.
I decided to put Nirvana into Welham at any cost.
Charlie Kandhari, a very strict man, was principal of the school. I sought an appointment with him. However, even after waiting for hours outside his office, I did not get an appointment. I did not give up; it was a matter of my son’s future. After my long wait, I saw the principal come out of his office, only to walk away without even looking at me. I followed him.
A white dog was trailing behind him. I followed the master and his dog.
‘Mr Kandhari! Mr Kandhari!’ I called out to him in a loud voice. ‘I am here to meet you.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he replied as he walked on, not even bothering to turn around.
The more I tried to approach him, the more he moved away. I did not want to raise my voice in case that might put paid to whatever little chance I stood of getting my son into the school. I repeatedly tried to get acquainted with Charlie Kandhari, but he always avoided me.
I was at a loss to know what to do.
The Sikkimese finance minister, Chhamla Tsiring, visited Kathmandu shortly after my Dehradun visit. A close friend of mine, Captain Sudhir Rai, knew him well, and I was able to get in touch with Tsiring through him. I drove Tsiring around Kathmandu and built a good rapport with him. Then I took the opportunity to seek his help in getting my son into Welham.
‘I don’t have any influence there,’ he said, just when I thought I had made a connection after struggling hard.
I was stunned. I thought all my efforts had been wasted. But Tsiring suggested an alternative.
‘I can do one thing,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange a recommendation letter from Mr Kamal Nath (then Indian federal minister). Welham are sure to admit your son once they get the letter.’
He dispatched an aide to Delhi the same day. I got the recommendation letter a few days later and immediately set ou
t for Welham.
Charlie Kandhari still did not show any inclination to admit Nirvana any time in the foreseeable future. He said all the places were taken. Then he said, ‘I’ll try.’ At least, he did not try to avoid me, probably because he now realized that I had contacts in India despite being a Nepali.
Kandhari lived close to the school. His wife ran a beauty parlour nearby. I asked Lily to hobnob with her. She agreed. On my part, I started to cultivate Kandhari himself.
One day, Kandhari told me, ‘I want to open a school in Nepal similar to Welham.’
My hard work was finally beginning to pay off. I realized that Kandhari was getting interested. I invited him to Nepal. To impress him, I invited the education minister, Keshar Bahadur Bista, to join us for dinner.
‘The Panchayat Training Centre at Jiri has been vacant for years,’ the minister said. ‘If Welham is interested in running a school there, I could try to lease the property to you.’
I had no plans to run a school in Jiri. My only wish was to get Nirvana into Welham. However, now that the education minister had floated a proposal, I had to be seen following it up. I agreed to go to Jiri. Kandhari would not go by road. He said he did not have enough time. I chartered a helicopter to take him to Jiri. We inspected the school. He then said he wanted to use the opportunity to visit Tiger Tops, so I took him there as well.
After touring Nepal for a few days, Kandhari returned to Dehradun.
Nirvana was accepted into Welham shortly afterwards.
The school project in Jiri simply fizzled out. Kandhari did not show much interest in it and I was too busy with my own work too.
Nirvana was just six years old.
He still liked to sit on his mother’s lap. He still wanted to be pampered by his grandparents. He still wanted piggybacks and shoulder-rides from his father. He was too young to follow his father to the office or to the Pashupatinath temple.
I was longing to give him the advantages I did not have as a child. It did not occur to me that I was depriving him of the happiness I had enjoyed at home with the family.
It was heart-rending to leave Nirvana behind at the school hostel. It was as painful as plucking out one’s own heart and handing it over to someone else.
‘Papa!’ he screamed. ‘Mommy! Why can’t you keep me with you? Why are you leaving me here? Let me come with you!’
He was crying bitterly.
‘Mommy, please don’t leave me alone. Papa, I want to stay with you.’
He was pleading while his eyes welled with tears. I tried to act tough but his crying was tearing at my heart. There was a lump in my throat and I was struggling to console myself. And I had to try to cheer up Lily too.
We returned to our hotel leaving Nirvana behind, but our hearts constantly ached for him.
We wondered what such a small child would be doing at the hostel now. Did he have dinner? Maybe the warden scolded him because he spilt food on the floor. Was he still crying?
We could not stop ourselves from going back to see how he was faring. We sneaked into the hostel after dark, bribed the security guard and peeked into his room through the window. He was lying in his bed but still crying bitterly. My heart felt heavy and Lily could not even look at him. She ran away with tears in her eyes.
I too returned with a very heavy heart. My eyes were wet.
We remained tormented for a long time. Every time Nirvana came home for the holidays, he would cry and beg us not to send him back to the school. His friends and teachers told us, ‘In the evenings after classes are over, he goes to a lonely corner and cries. He misses you a lot.’
Hearing that, we felt even worse.
Once, when I had gone to drop Nirvana back to school, journalist Vijay Kumar Pandey was with us. We had all stayed at the same hotel in Dehradun. The school bus was coming to pick up Nirvana and we were hurrying to get him ready. Just when the bus was due, Nirvana said he had to go to the toilet. He then would not come out, saying he needed more time. In fact, he wanted to miss the bus so that he could spend one more day with us. He missed the bus and was very happy about it, but we put him in a car and drove him to the hostel.
He played similar tricks on other occasions. While on our way to drop him at the hostel, I would hum a song by the legendary Indian singer Kishore Kumar:
Aane wala pal, jane wala hai
Ho sake to isme jindagi bitadun
Pal jo ye jane wala hai
(The approaching moment is about to pass
I would want to live an entire life in it
For the moment is about to pass)
The lyrics made him cry even harder.
Back at home, my mother would scold me: ‘Did your father go that far away? Did we send you that far away?’
I was weakening emotionally, but did not lose my confidence that I was doing the right thing. I was consumed by ambition and the belief that I was giving a better future to my son. I did not listen to anyone.
A year later, it was time to send Rahul to school. That was even more challenging because Rahul had suffered from asthma since infancy. He would often have asthma attacks and we had to rush him to the hospital in the middle of the night. Timely treatment is crucial for chronic asthma sufferers.
We were now faced with a dilemma. A part of us wanted to let Rahul stay in Kathmandu but we were worried about its effect on Nirvana. What if he thought we loved his younger brother more than we did him? What we feared even more, however, was that it might affect Rahul’s state of mind. Would it make Rahul less mentally strong? Nirvana was sent abroad for studies but Rahul was kept at home because of his illness. What if Rahul developed a mindset in which he saw himself as dependent and inferior?
We took a tough decision: Rahul had to learn to overcome his difficulties or he would never progress in life. You can take it as a courageous parental decision, or a cruel one.
Rahul was sent to Welham too.
After five years of trials and tribulations, it was still not easy to get Nirvana into Doon School. Contrary to my expectation, the school gave no priority whatsoever to students from Welham. What we had heard in the past was absolute nonsense. In fact, there was such strong rivalry between Charlie Kandhari of Welham and Shomie Das, Doon’s principal, that the latter would not even entertain the idea of admitting a student from Welham.
Later, another friend of mine helped me get Nirvana and Rahul into Doon School. Once the two were there, we did not face any problem at all in admitting Varun later.
Academically, the three were average students, but they all turned out to be excellent in sports. Rahul, whom we had considered physically frail, turned out to be a dark horse and one of the school’s sporting champions. He became captain of the football and squash teams, breaking the record as the highest goalscorer in the school’s history. He was equally adept at basketball and other sports too. Rahul’s stint at boarding school boosted his self-confidence, and he overcame his difficulties easily.
We were now on good terms with Shomie Das. I had planned to open a school in the past, just to impress Kandhari. This time around, however, I was serious about it. With Shomie’s support, we opened Chandbagh School in Kathmandu. He became an adviser. Chandbagh refers to a garden at Doon School.
Sending children to good schools is not just about giving them a good education. It is also about their overall development and social networking. I kept this in mind while exploring options for my sons’ higher education too.
After completing year ten at Doon, Nirvana went to Harrow School in north-west London. It is the institution where world-famous personalities such as Jawaharlal Nehru and Winston Churchill studied. After completing his course there, Nirvana went to Singapore Management University (Wharton Asia) to do his bachelor’s in business administration. Rahul went as an exchange student to Millfield School in the UK and then to Miami University. Varun also went to Miami University, but we later transferred him to the American University of Dubai after we decided to invest in the Emirates. After
graduating, he went to Murdoch University in Australia to do a master’s.
Friends from school and college tend to stay in touch and can support each other in their careers. Doon alumni hold senior positions in many important organizations across the world. Some of them are my sons’ peers and this will definitely help them in the days to come. Exposure to leading educational institutions and good relations with their schoolmates, has developed self-esteem and self-confidence in my sons. I was sure from the very beginning that my sons needed both a sound academic base and a network of contacts to lay the foundation for a multinational company.
Each of my sons is looking after different aspects of the Chaudhary Group. Nirvana is based in Kathmandu, Rahul mostly stays in Singapore, and Varun is based in Dubai. My aim, to groom my sons as future leaders of the Chaudhary Group while I am still actively engaged, has been fulfilled to a certain extent. Lily has supported me in this. It was no small sacrifice on her part to send her children away to school to support my ambition. I am eternally grateful to her for that.
Now it is up to my sons to take the legacy forward.
Nonetheless, we still miss our daughter.
My Mother
She wore only cotton sarees all her life and walked around in rubber slippers. She did not allow even onion in the kitchen, forget about non-vegetarian food! If somebody spoke in a raised voice, she would say, ‘You are scaring God out of the house. Why do you talk so loudly?’
That was my mother.
She was born into a simple middle-class family in Darbhanga in the Indian state of Bihar. She had seen scarcity from close quarters, but her eyes never reflected discontent. She was illiterate but by no means lacking in wisdom.
Making It Big Page 6