Making It Big

  I then realized the plane had taken off.

  ‘Look around! Just look around!’ Sudhir was yelling. I felt nauseated whenever I opened my eyes. How could I look around?

  Once the turbulence subsided, I started to feel a bit less frightened. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The plane was flying over Delhi. Seeing how petrified I was, Sudhir burst into laughter. I was still very afraid. I looked out at the body of the aircraft. It looked so fragile. How could it resist the strong wind blowing against it? I turned towards the pilot, thinking here was a rookie in the cockpit. Could he actually fly the plane?

  ‘Don’t be afraid! Don’t be afraid!’ he said, trying to cheer me up as we circled over Delhi.

  I was petrified again when we descended. He would have to try hard to land the plane, but the strong wind would lift it up and crash it down, I thought.

  Sudhir later went to Canada to learn flying. He no longer flies those toy planes. He flies Boeings with Nepal Airlines Corporation.

  As for me, I did not pass the CA entrance exams.

  Early at the helm

  Big business houses dominated the Federation of Nepalese Chambers of Commerce and Industry (FNCCI). These included the Golchha Group, the Dugar Group and the Madanlal Chiranjeelal (MC) Group. They had almost monopolized the quota for export of jute and other industrial products. Small and honest businessmen like my father had to struggle for a small share of the quotas. For the big houses, the FNCCI was just a tool to dominate trade by staying close to the helm of power. To sharpen that tool, they fielded and elected their own candidates. By keeping the FNCCI under their control, they could leverage benefits in the controlled business environment of the time.

  Indra Bhaktajee decided to stand for election to the FNCCI in 1978. He sought my father’s support. Father was indebted to him. He was not just a childhood friend but had also helped free me from the false charge of Tinku’s murder.

  On the other hand, the big business families had announced their candidate—Juddha Bahadur Shrestha. This was the same Shrestha out of whose premises we ran Arun Emporium. This put my father in a spot. As the election fever rose, the Marwari community issued an order that its members should support Judhha Bahadur.

  Without mincing words, my father told Juddha Bahadur, ‘I have a family bond to Indra Bhaktajee and I have already pledged my support to him. Please don’t put me in a difficult position.’

  Juddha Bahadurjee was not angry or disappointed with my father.

  ‘I understand your predicament,’ he replied. ‘I know you have a familial relationship with him. You should stand by him and I will accept that.’

  Both the candidates secured equal number of votes in that election. Indra Bhaktajee won the election through a lucky draw. Father, however, did not join his team of office-bearers. Rather, he brought in Hulas Chand Golchha from the competing panel as a vice president of the FNCCI.

  I told my father, ‘They’ve used you again.’

  The leaders of the Marwari community were infuriated with my father after that election. They could not digest the fact that a man from their own community had gone against them, and branded him ‘anti-Marwari’; father fell ill within a few days of the election.

  One day, when I returned home at sunset, I saw father lying in his bed, with mother sitting beside him. I headed straight to my room upstairs. I heard my mother call out just as I was about to open my door, and ran down the stairs.

  Father’s face looked pale. He was breathing with difficulty. His forehead and nose where bathed in sweat. Mother was fanning him, and from time to time would wipe away the sweat from his face with her hands.

  I was dumbstruck. I just stood and stared at him.

  ‘Call the doctor immediately,’ mother said.

  There was no phone in that room. I dashed to the room where the phone was and called our family doctor Sachche Kumar Pahadi.

  ‘Call the ambulance immediately,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Father’s body was drenched in sweat by the time Dr Pahadi arrived. He checked my father’s pulse and placed a stethoscope on his chest. The doctor’s eyes said it all. When the ambulance arrived, Dr Pahadi would not even let my father get out of bed. He brought father downstairs, lifting the bed itself. Mother could not stop weeping.

  The ambulance raced. I clasped father’s hands but there was no response. His hands were cold and sweaty. I looked at father and at Dr Pahadi. The doctor was checking my father’s heart with his stethoscope.

  ‘He’s had a heart attack,’ he said softly.

  I froze with terror.

  Suddenly, my life had taken an unexpected turn. Father was on life support in the ICU. My brothers were not fully grown up. I had just graduated from Shankar Dev Campus in Kathmandu and, at twenty-three, apart from the discotheque venture from which I had now disassociated myself, had had no real responsibilities. And here was Dr Pahadi telling me, ‘Your father cannot continue to work now. Make sure he gets complete rest.’

  I felt as if a storm had swept away my world, as if I was a bird that had been flying free and was now trapped in a cage.

  Our family business was at a critical juncture at the time. Father had just launched Pashupati Biscuits. We had only just received a licence for Maha Laxmi Maida (White Flour) Mills. Our stainless steel, synthetic yarn and hosiery factories had closed down. India had started to impose restrictions on the import quota for goods coming from Nepal on the grounds that the system was being abused. There were disputes with the Kedias and the Jatias who were managing our factories. Only Arun Emporium was doing well.

  Then came another shock.

  I would frequently accompany my father to Bombay and to Vellore, a small town in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu where he was undergoing treatment at a large Christian missionary hospital. Father had employed one of his distant cousins, whom we called Uncle Rajkumar, to look after Arun Emporium and Arun Impex while we were away. We thought Uncle Rajkumar was loyal to my father. However, when we had just returned from one of our trips to Vellore, he came to see father. He inquired about his health and initially seemed concerned, but when he was about to leave, he handed a letter to my father. Father asked me to read it aloud. It said:

  ‘I have served you faithfully for many years. I had a lot of other opportunities which I never pursued just for your sake, even though I wanted to start my own business. Now it’s time for me to think about my own welfare. I want a 25 per cent partnership in your business. Please don’t misunderstand me. I believe a 25 per cent share is my right after having served you for so long.’

  We were shaken to the core by Uncle Rajkumar’s demand. It appeared that the people we trusted to look after our business interests were betraying us. We had had a bitter experience with Binay Agrawal in the flooring and furnishing trade, and now Uncle Rajkumar was following suit. His demand was absolutely unjustified, especially in the light of my father’s failing health and the situation we were in. Father had never promised to make him a partner in the business. Outside of business, we treated Uncle Rajkumar like a member of the family, but within the business he was a paid employee like any other. We had not seen the greed lurking behind his concern for his ‘brother’. He had raised the issue of partnership at a time when my father was unable to work and fighting for his life and—Uncle Rajkumar must have presumed—in no position to refuse him.

  It seemed Uncle Rajkumar had been planning this move for a long time. He had already opened a shop, run by his brother, in Birgunj, and was hoping my father’s ill-health would indirectly benefit his own business. However, his crude demand for a 25 per cent share in our business exposed the true extent of his greed. I decided to give him a fitting reply. This was a crucial and decisive move I made on the chessboard of my business world. Had I conceded to his demand, it would have given me more freedom in some ways. With him running the business, I would have had less responsibility and more free time, and could even have gone back to spending my evenings at Copper Floor. But that would have
delayed my entry into the battlefield of business by many years.

  I moved my first piece on the chessboard.

  Father asked Uncle Rajkumar to meet him in his room a few days after receiving the letter. I was also present.

  ‘I understand your feelings,’ father told him very calmly. ‘You’re right. You have been taking care of my business for a long time and you shall continue to do so.’

  Uncle Rajkumar’s face brightened with joy.

  Father continued, ‘Binod has nothing to do. Take him with you and teach him the trade. He’ll be able to assist you while I’m out of the picture.’

  Uncle Rajkumar could not disagree. Perhaps he thought there was no threat from a boy who tried to avoid work even when his father was around. Perhaps he thought he could make me dance to his tune.

  My first move was successful.

  It was time for the second.

  I would stay at the shop for a while and then return to my old ways. Uncle Rajkumar was content. Once I came up with a proposal, ‘Uncle, let’s go on a trip to Japan.’

  ‘Why would we go to Japan?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s go on a buying trip. We can meet the wholesalers personally and bring stuff back with us if we find anything good,’ I replied innocently.

  He was probably surprised and annoyed that I seemed to be taking an interest in the business, so I quickly dispelled that impression. ‘If you go to Japan, it gives me an excuse to go with you,’ I said. ‘We can mix business with pleasure.’

  His expression changed.

  My second move too was a successful one.

  While Uncle Rajkumar went out to meet business contacts in Osaka, I would pretend to hang around in the markets. One evening, I coaxed him into going to a discotheque with me. Our relationship became less formal after we started visiting the discotheque together. He began to open up. I would ask questions about the business in a seemingly light-hearted way and he would give me information quite freely. I was like the camel in the fable that wanted to get its nose into the tent. Uncle Rajkumar also became more generous with his time. Earlier, when he called on business contacts, he used to leave me behind in the hotel, but now he started to take me with him, introducing me as his nephew. Establishing personal relations with these contacts and having them recognize me as a legitimate representative of the family business was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to become the camel that displaced the owner of the tent.

  We would visit the production and sales centres to select clothes and other items. By day, we would inquire about prices and seek quotations, and by evening hit the discotheques.

  Uncle had decided to befriend me, and I continued to pick his brains at every opportunity. By the end of that month-long visit to Japan, I understood every aspect of our business dealings there: our contacts, our sources, prices, how the goods were shipped to Nepal, how customs clearances were obtained, and who our clearing agents were.

  My third move had been successful. I now contemplated my fourth.

  I started to stay longer at office and began looking into the accounts. At times, I would check the accounts myself. Even at that point, I think, Uncle Rajkumar did not see me as a serious threat.

  One day I said to him, ‘It must be really tough for you. You have a lot to look after, on top of the accounts.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied.

  ‘I’m not of much help. Why don’t you hire someone who knows a bit about the job?’ I suggested.

  ‘Whom shall we hire?’

  Seizing the opportunity, I made my move. ‘There’s someone I know who’s good at keeping accounts.’

  Uncle Rajkumar did not reply.

  The very next day, I handed over the entire account-keeping job to Indu Badani, someone I trusted completely. Uncle got quite a shock and went to my father to complain. ‘Let Binod do whatever he wants,’ father said, to sidestep the issue. ‘I can’t handle it any more.’

  When he heard my father’s response, it dawned on Rajkumar that we were planning to ease him out of the business. Naturally, he decided not to cooperate. He tried to keep some details of the accounts to himself and refused to answer any questions, which led to tension in the office. Meanwhile, I had already established direct contact with the Japanese producers and distributors. I started contacting distributors in Korea and Thailand as well. I started to place orders myself, and also to clear the goods, contacting the customs clearing agents myself. Through Indu Badani, I already had control of the accounts. Uncle Rajkumar no longer had a real role in the business.

  I made my fifth and last move. I handed him a letter. He read it out in front of me:

  ‘You have helped us a lot in running Arun Emporium and Arun Impex, and I am grateful to you for that. However, since I have now started to run the entire business myself, there is no longer a role for you. Hence, after you collect your severance pay, I bid you farewell.’

  Uncle Rajkumar was dumbstruck.

  I had given him a fitting reply, exactly six months after he had handed his letter to my father.

  I had won the game in just five moves. Uncle was defeated at his own game.

  I now wanted to bring the Pashupati Biscuit factory in Biratnagar fully under my control. Two brothers, Bajrang and Radheshyam, were managing the factory. I suspected they had ideas similar to Uncle Rajkumar’s. Father had given a 10 per cent share in the project to each of them as his working partners. After father fell ill, they were running the show.

  I had to manoeuvre my pieces on the chessboard, just to gain control of my own family’s enterprises. I went to Biratnagar and, during a meeting with the brothers, told them, ‘The competition is getting tough. If we don’t become more professional, we’re not going to survive.’

  They asked what they could do.

  ‘Let’s hire chartered accountants. Let’s bring in market researchers to study the market. Let’s identify where we are lagging behind and explore the possibility of exporting,’ I said, setting out my plans.

  They did not agree with my plan to hire experts. They would rather have taken care of everything themselves. Perhaps they guessed I had an ulterior motive. But I took a firm stand and appointed two chartered accountants, M.R. Maheshwori and J.R. Bhandari. Then my supposed partners’ real intentions became crystal clear. They refused to cooperate with the chartered accountants. The chartered accountants told me they were refusing to provide them essential documents, which made it impossible for them to do their job. I pleaded with them to hang in there.

  The brothers were so brazen that they started being deliberately obstructionist in their dealings with me. If they knew I had arrived in Biratnagar, they would simply leave the place. Faced with such a degree of non-cooperation, I opened an office for myself in Biratnagar and continued to move my pieces from there. In the meantime, I launched Maha Laxmi Maida Mills. Father had agreed to give shares of 10 per cent each to the working partners there too. I kept up the pressure on the partners in Pashupati Biscuits pushing them more and more until they gave up and left the business.

  We managed to set up a kind of independent industrial structure in Biratnagar.

  I had won the second game of chess.

  I spent a lot of my time in Biratnagar in those days. After putting a system in place for Arun Emporium and its subsidiary firm, I entrusted Indu Badani to look after that business in Kathmandu. I then focused on expanding the biscuit venture, including production of the raw materials for it. Establishing Maha Laxmi Maida Mills was part of that plan. We also started to produce the packaging for the biscuits. We developed new brands and began researching the market in the eastern hills of Nepal and in India. I travelled to the towns in the eastern hills—such as Dharan, Dhankuta, Ilam and Panchthar—and from there to the north-eastern Indian states of Sikkim, Assam and Meghalaya, with model packets and promotional materials for Pashupati Biscuits.

  Within a year of launch of the promotional campaign, Pashupati Biscuits was well established in the markets of Nepal and was becom
ing increasingly popular in north-east India. After jute during my father’s time, Pashupati Biscuits became the second product we exported. By 1980–81, it had found a good market in India.

  The building in which our corporate office is located—at Sanepa in Kathmandu valley—is known by many as ‘Chaudhary’s radio office’.

  Around sixty years ago, father had loaned money to Surendra Shumsher Rana, a member of the Rana oligarchy. Twenty years later, Rana summoned my father to tell him that he could not pay back the money but would instead give him a plot of land at Sanepa as compensation. In those days, the area was nothing but farmland. The plot was close to the Surendra Bhawan maternity hospital where I was born. There were no other buildings in the vicinity. Rather than risk receiving no repayment at all, father accepted the deal, but the plot of land remained idle for a long time.

  After the expansion of Pashupati Biscuits and Maha Laxmi Maida, I was looking for a new area of investment. Through family sources, I came to know that the deputy inspector general of police, Narayan Singh Shah, had a good relationship with the management of the Japanese company National Panasonic. Through Shah, I made contact with National Panasonic and, after protracted negotiations, got the contract to assemble parts for National Panasonic Radio in Nepal.

  This was my first collaboration with a multinational company.

  Around thirty years ago, I built a single-storeyed building on that plot of land at Sanepa and started producing radios. I also set up a small office there. People called it ‘Chaudhary’s radio office’. After the business expanded, I added another storey to the building and decided to relocate my office there from Khichapokhari. Another reason I decided to relocate my office was that friends would frequently call in at Khichapokhari. They would drop by in the evening and I would have to devote considerable time to socializing when I should have been working. I was sick and tired of it.