The generation of Baauji took life as a gift from the past and only wanted to make the world around them better
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The definition of middle-age varies according to cultures. In addition to biological age and heredity, social mores, family values, working environment, interpersonal relationships and attitude of the person are also important determinants of the phase of life. However, since the middleclass everywhere are Americans in its aspirations, the US description has universal acceptance: People between age of 45 and 65 are now considered in the middle of their lives.
No matter how high one has climbed, future looks like a downward slide from the peak of midlife. The past is a history of mountains climbed and valleys traversed. That could be the reason dreams of the youth suddenly begin to make way for memories before they turn into late-life reminisces. Memories get reconstructed with every narration and repetition too become commonplace. But that again is a middle-age affliction, which deserves the indulgence of the audience.The death of a person one has known for a long time invariably triggers a flood of memories. Recollections need involvement, hence the necessity of an account in first-person singular. In any case, I think I have earned the right to occasionally indulge in "I, me, and my" after averaging two commentaries a week for over quarter of a century through different media outlets in and outside of Nepal.
Lunkaran Das Chaudhary, 93, was one of the titans of Kathmandu valley, whose grace touched me for a while between early-1980s and late-1990s. Haunting eyes of Basant Chaudhary at Aryaghat at the cremation of the person many of us called Baauji has made the catharsis through remembrance necessary.
My introduction to the Chaudhary household in early-1980s was accidental in the philosophical sense of the term, one of those incidents that have no logical explanation. Apart from running some highly successful industries in eastern Nepal, Basant dabbled in a few creative enterprises perhaps more for fun than the lure of takings.
I doubt that some of the things that Basant did decades ago—publishing a quality English-language periodical, a colorful film magazine in Nepali and then one of the most influential English newsweeklies of its time; running perhaps what was the first modern recording studio; and sponsoring and organizing highly-acclaimed entertainment events—ever generated any profit for the Chaudharys. But everyone involved in such activities had a great time together. One of such diversions of Basant was the Group Three, a leading advertising agency of its time.
Those were the days I used to moonlight as a copywriter and jingle composer to supplement my income. The-then Royal Nepal Airlines Corporation was a prestigious Group Three portfolio. I got into writing copy for RNAC and was inducted into the inner circle of Basant, which included, among a few others, Deepak, Anil, Jitbabu (It took me a while to figure out that he was the famous music composer Shambhujit Banskota!) and Bishwambhar Pyakurel, who was then better known as creator of melodious songs than expounder of dry economic theories.
Homo moribus
By the standards of the rich and famous today, the Chaudhary home at the Thamel Junction in the 1980s wasn't very grand, but it was spacious, clean, tastefully done and invariably warm. Through the bridge connecting living quarters with the kitchen extension, we sometimes strolled into the dining bay where there was something to eat at all times of the day. The most sumptuous used to be the breakfast with homemakers plying hot delicacies on the plates themselves despite there being a retinue of caretakers around. Due to some tipplers in our midst, we usually avoided crossing the bridge for dinner.
Only when Basant formed the art and literature trust in the name of his parents, I learnt that Maaji was born Gangadevi. But it really didn't matter. She had been like Ganga—washing our lapses with her affectionate generosity—any way. The enduring memory in my mind is of her persistent question: Have you eaten something or not? The question loses its inherent affection in English translation, but there is more to the query than mere hunger concerns.
Food in a Hindu household is much more than a calorific source to get through the day. Somewhat like in Judaist traditions, even everyday eating is an important ceremony with rituals of purification, participation, absorption and gratification. Perhaps such procedures exist in every faith and are merely more pronounced in traditional families. The inquiry from the matriarch of a household whether you have eaten something implies that her concerns and care are with you.
The patriarch of the family—the Father Chaudhary—I sometimes met during the evening prayers and Aarati at Pashupatinath where he was a regular. Even though there are few cows that raise dust when coming back home in Kathmandu, the magic of Godhuli (cow-dust time) that Sanskrit poets have sung can still be captivating. The constant question that Baauji unfailingly asked after exchange of salutations was whether everyone was well at home. Baauji hardly knew my family, but his query in the precincts of Pashupati sounded so much like blessings.
Years ago, journalism guru Kunda Dixit had shared his observations about phases of aging. First there are invitations to join joyous marriages of friends. Then composed invites to attend Pasni (feeding ceremony) and Bratbandha (sacred-thread ritual) begin. Soon after, riotous unions of progenies of contemporaries start. And then it's the turn of cards in black ink and you suddenly realize that the generation ahead of you have begun to depart. There is an apt description for such a feeling of melancholy in Nepali language, which when roughly translated into English means the freedom from attachments born at the cremation ground—Masaan Bairagya.
Kunda too was in mourning when I last met him—his mother that all of us called Deviji passed away a while ago—and I agree with his assessment that the grief of bereavement in the middle-age is perhaps as much to do with the realization of our own mortality as the loss itself.
It was perhaps easier for the first generation of modernizers in Nepal that led simple and value-based lives. For Baauji and his contemporaries in business, Rajaswa (Taxes) and Devaswa (religious obligations) were sacrosanct. Employees were like children that had a claim upon the wealth and wisdom of their employers. Such an attitude may not have made great fortunes, but lives of the content generation did exude peace. The same may not be true of the goal-oriented and result-centered offspring of the pioneers that once considered business to be a form of worship.
Homo economicus
In the Chaudhary household, elder Binod had the airs of homo economicus—a category characterized by the supreme self-confidence in their infinite ability of taking most rational and beneficial decisions—and took little interest in visitors that he considered beneath his attention. Youngest Arunbabu used to be slightly shy and reserved. Basant was happy-go-lucky and we could talk about everything under the sun except his business for hours on end. Little wonder, he ended up being a poet. We drifted apart after the onset of noughties as Basant began to concentrate on running a hospital and I had to cope with additional responsibilities that adulthood brings.
In over last fifteen years, I have hardly met Basant more than five times. But I could read the fear mixed with grief in his eyes at Aryaghat even as Binod maintained the composure of a hyper-achiever and Arunbabu struggled to hide his emotions. The Ghat was crowded with mourners. Having cremated my parents much earlier, I could somehow relate to grief-stricken siblings.
Our generation is frustrated because we wanted to shape the future and have ended up being prisoners of the present. The generation of Baauji took life as a gift from the past and wanted to make only the world around them better. Humanity and community was far more important than country or government. Was it better? No one knows for sure. However, there is little doubt that they led less conflicted lives and had more impact on society than many of us rational beings can ever imagine.
