One of the most unforgettable moments of my IIT-Kanpur journey came in 1975, during a period when I was recovering from a repeated relapse of typhoid. My father—already a well-known scholar, writer, and political thinker in Nepal—came to visit me.
I remember taking him around the campus and walking him into one of our iconic lecture halls—L-7. As we stood inside the large, echoing empty room, he looked around thoughtfully and then turned to me and asked, “Why do you even attend classes? I never went to any classroom in my life, and I’ve authored over twenty popular books. You’re supposed to learn by yourself—not depend on teachers.” He said it with sincerity, with the pride of a man who had defied an education system that had been closed to the public in Nepal until 1950 for general mass. For someone like him, self-learning was not a choice—it was a rebellion, a necessity, and a source of creative power.
At the time, I didn’t quite grasp the full meaning of his words. I was neck-deep in a technically intense engineering program. I hadn’t yet understood the world he came from—or his quiet resistance through learning and writing. Then he said something unexpected: “Can you call your classmates and professors? I’d like to give a lecture here.” He meant in that very room—L-7. I froze. I didn’t know how to respond. Would they relate to a Nepali writer and political activist? Would his ideas resonate with this elite academic community? I was unsure, unprepared, and unaware of how guest lectures were arranged. So, I didn’t inform anyone.
Now, decades later, I wish I had. If I had gathered the courage and asked for help, my father could have delivered one of his legendary five-hour talks—on self-learning, political and social transformation, on Buddhism and consciousness. Perhaps he could have left behind a spark in those minds trained in logic and technology, a spark that could bridge disciplines and nations.
That missed opportunity has stayed with me—not as regret, but as a reminder of the multiple forms of education we carry, the voices we sometimes silence, and the generational wisdom we must never take for granted. Dharma Ratna Yami – A Life-Learned Scholar. My father, Dharma Ratna Yami, never stepped into a formal classroom. He never wore a school uniform, never sat for board exams, never held a degree. But life? Life was his university.
He went through imprisonment, exile, poverty, and political persecution. But instead of breaking under that weight, he did something extraordinary — he turned every pain, every adversity, into part of a curriculum of his own making. Where others saw suffering, he saw lessons. Where others saw silence, he wrote books — books that became household names across Nepal. He built his education out of resistance. His textbooks were real life. His degree was earned in the struggle for dignity, knowledge, and justice. That is why, even though he never had a formal education, he was one of the most literate minds and influential writers of his time. He proved that education is not only what we receive in school — it’s what we extract from life.
A Home of Ideas and History
Our home was not just a shelter — it was a sanctuary for thinkers, revolutionaries, and visionaries from across South Asia. Pandit Rahul Sankrityayan, the great Indian literary figure and champion of social reform, visited and stayed in our home three times. His deep scholarship, fearless rejection of orthodoxy, and connection to the people left a lasting impression. Even more unforgettable was the presence of Dr. Ambedkar, the architect of India’s Constitution and a towering leader of the Dalit movement. He stayed in our home two months before he passed away in 1956. His conversations with my father, Dharma Ratna Yami, resonated with shared values — of justice, equality, and the power of education to liberate the oppressed.
Looking back, I realize we were living at the crossroads of history and revolution, of intellect and resistance. The very walls of our home carried the echoes of debates, dreams, and doctrines that were shaping the future of the region. “When giants visited our home — we didn’t just host guests. We hosted history.”