The question can also be a remark and can mean anything from “Doing Well?” to “Oh, so you are still alive?” and everything in between. The casual comment brought back memories of Bangalore to Aryal and his interlocutor.[break]
The state was then called Mysore. Chief Minister Devraj Urs, Mrs. Indira Gandhi’s trusted lieutenant in the politics of South India, would soon rename it Karnataka to appease the chauvinistic constituency that Kannada film star Rajkumar had begun to cultivate.
Over three decades later, its capital city too would acquire a new identity and become Bengaluru.
The city is now said to have one of the most modern airports in India. Back in the seventies, the airport didn’t even have a tourist information counter.
After disembarking from a late-evening flight from Madras, four Nepali students appeared lost on an empty terminal. Perhaps bemused by their perplexity, a fellow passenger enquired where these boys, barely out of their teens, wanted to go in the city. One of them handed the address of a local college hostel.
The good Samaritan not only offered them a lift but also took them for dinner on the way to what was then the swankiest restaurant on St Marks’s Road. According to the host, the eatery was so posh that most of its service personnel—the gateman, the steward, waiters as well as most members of the band—were Nepalis.
The dinner conversation started on a somewhat frustrating note. Without a hint of malice in his tone, the seemingly well-educated host inquired why Nepal needed engineers and doctors.
“Isn’t that a country run by Indians who manage their affairs while reigning Maharajas live lavishly by exporting soldiers and gatekeepers?” His four guests took turns to explain patiently that Nepal already had large number of engineers and doctors but needed more for its modernization. “In that case, why don’t you have your own engineering and medical schools?”
He was not convinced that Nepal lacked resources to establish its own technical institutions. His skepticism was valid. He knew at least two fabulously wealthy Bangaloreans who styled themselves as princes of Nepal.
On the way to the hostel, the kind Kannadiga apologized for his ignorance but didn’t forget to remind his guests, “If the nobility and the rich continue plundering your country, it would forever be ruled either by fascists or communists. The rich must give back to society to protect their privileges.”
Nearly four decades after that chance conversation, dark predictions of an ill-informed but well-meaning Kannadiga continues to have relevance. Barring profit-sector enterprises that produce manpower for export, Nepal hardly has one or two institutions of higher technical education even today.
Bangalore in the seventies was a laidback city. Known as pensioners’ paradise, those who could afford had Ambassador and Premier Padmini cars.
Others walked when they needed to travel to the neighborhood temple or market. Consequently, public transport was grossly inadequate. Distances were too far apart to be served by bicycle rickshaws. Auto-rickshaws ruled the road to such an extent that students often joked that Bangalore was a city under ‘auto-cracy.’
The food was cheap. A Masala Dosa, followed by a cup of filter coffee, could be had for a rupee at the local Kamath or Udipi eateries.
Restaurants were required to serve full Janata vegetarian meal for only one rupee per Thali set. But what set Bangalore apart was its wide open spaces and lush greenery.
In comparison, Kathmandu had, in the words of Sardar Bhim Bahadur Pande, the dubious distinction of being the only capital city of the world without a proper public park.
Kathmandu still doesn’t have a public park worth the name and there is no publicly known plan of building one in near future, either. Perhaps that could be one of the reasons behind the lack of openness among public figures in the Valley—they don’t have the urbanity that comes from sharing open spaces.
With the combined effort of British military that concentrated on cantonment area and the royal administration that took care of the rest of the city, Bangalore had managed to acquire the best physical infrastructure in terms of roads, water supply, drainage and sewer lines, electricity and playgrounds in India.
A relatively low density of population helped: Until early in the seventies, less than half a million people lived in what was still a garden city with buildings taller than nearby trees proscribed by the municipality.
Culture was another defining feature that made Kannadiga life vibrant. Theater world buzzed. Music scene was exciting. Painters were active. Writers were energetic.
The middleclass of Bangalore was content and concentrated on creativity. Populist programs of Chief Minister Urs—outside of communist-ruled Kerala and West Bengal, Karnataka had adopted most effective land reforms, Dalit empowerment, and poverty alleviation projects in India—had succeeded in keeping ethnic chauvinists confined to Tamilnadu and leftwing ultras contained in Kerala.
With research centers like the Indian Institute of Science and state-of-the-art public sector undertakings such as Bharat Heavy Electric Limited (BHEL), and Hindustan Machine Tools (HMT), the city had begun to emerge as a technological hub.
A bourgeoisie confident of its future took active interest in its city. A culture of philanthropy had already taken root.
Alms and charity
Tradition of alms is quite strong in Hindu and Buddhist religions. No shame is attached to begging and believers are expected to give to the best of their ability.
Hindu priests were expected to survive on alms so that they could devote all their energy to praying for the welfare of humanity. Buddhists clergy concentrated on meditation even as they depended upon donations from devotees.
Unlike Christian tithing and Islamic Zakat, Hinduism and Buddhism do not prescribe a percent of income that need to be set apart for charitable purposes.
However, large donations to Hindu religious ceremonies and temples, even in Nepal, are not uncommon. It is in the field of philanthropy that Nepalis seem to fall behind people of comparable status in other societies.
Alms (Bhiksha) is an expression of pity. It may or may not relieve the suffering of the receiver but it certainly helps the giver feel good about his or her generosity. Charity (Daan) implies giving with religious intentions. The English word actually comes from Latin ‘caritas,’ meaning Christian love.
Charity is intended for piety. It may ease misery of the receiver for a while but it does very little to address the social causes that had created the distress in the first place.
This is where philanthropy comes in. Philanthropy aims to address the underlying causes of social problems such as poverty, illiteracy, malnutrition, ill health, racism, unemployment, crime, and lack of wellbeing.
The concept is so alien that it does not even have a proper term in Nepali. Paropkar comes closest to the idea of philanthropy, but the Sanskrit term carries religious connotations.
Charitable princes built ornate temples and community chiefs set up well-endowed Guthi trusts to keep cultural traditions alive. Sinners gave away liberal land grants and generous cash incentives to priests and preceptors who blessed them with impunity from sins of killing their own kinsmen.
The poor, the downtrodden, the marginalized, the externalized and the weak of the society were expected to live through their suffering as repentance of sins of their past births while the blessed enjoyed fruits of their good karma in previous lives.
Disconnect between the two groups of people was complete. In this milieu, there was little chance of the rich investing in the betterment of the society they lived in.
After the fall of the Mallas in Nepal Valley, no ruler invested his time or money for the betterment of society. Extraction and exploitation of the land remained the norm for over two centuries.
Rootless elites
Lacking a sense of belongingness, every Rana ruler decamped with whatever he could manage to take away. Some of Jang Bahadur’s progenies are believed to have taken part of the Lucknow Loot with them to Kashi and Prayag.
Khadga Shamsher retired so fabulously rich to Sagar in central India that he transformed the look of the town of his chosen residence. Dev Shamsher opted for a hill station in the then United Provinces. Most minor Ranas invested in Calcutta, a few savvy ones extending their holdings beyond the seven seas in Europe.
The extent of booty that Juddha Shamsher had managed to take into his retirement in Dehradoon can be guessed from the fact that when the Indian government decided to demonetize 500- and 1,000-Rupee notes, he sent about 25 million in cash for exchange to Kathmandu. Over half a century ago, that must have been some sum.
Bangalore was home to the last Rana premier Mohan Shamsher and the royal son-in-law Krishna Shamsher. Krishna was slightly different from his avaricious cousins. He gave away his Kathmandu house to the government.
It is now the presidential palace. Rana priests and precepts preferred to deposit their share of national plunder in places like Varanasi and Calcutta but some of them were farsighted enough to invest in the stock exchange of Bombay and London.
Any one of them could have set up world-class universities, hospitals, or institutions of art and culture after the Ranacracy ended in the 1950s. None of them brought back a paisa for the betterment of their country.
At the micro level, the situation was even worse. According to the first census and land record taken ninety years ago, Mahottary was the most populous and prosperous region of the country.
Some of the richest Jagir holders of the area were Ranas, their relatives, priests, precepts, trusted henchmen, faithful attendants and sundry other hangers-on.
Let alone a school or hospital, not even a public inn bears the name of Raja Man Bahadur Singh, Raja Tarak Bahadur Shah, Ram Shamsher or various Upadhyas, Sharmas, Giris, Mallas and Shresthas who prospered with the blessings of their masters.
The pattern was same throughout the country. The high nobility carted away its wealth abroad while lower aristocrats lived off the plunder of the countryside in Kathmandu Valley.
Charity can be done anywhere; philanthropy requires a sense of obligation to the place and people that have made the rich what they are. Philanthropy is an investment in common future.
Before leaving the town a few years later, some of the boys visited the factory of the good Kannadiga who had taken them for dinner soon after their arrival. The place was modest.
It manufactured the Indian brand of a famous American ink. The owner was slightly ashamed of his ignorant remarks. He need not have been so.
The Nepali elite still lives off manpower export earnings and takes pride in the fact. His predictions have not yet lost their relevance: The country continues to face the risk of oscillating between fascism and communism. Philanthropy can humanize the rich and energize the poor, but that’s something that can be legislated.
Lal contributes to The Week with his biweekly column Reflections. He is one of the widely read political analysts in Nepal.
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