The Memorable Day

My Father’s Visit to IIT Kanpur and the Unspoken Lecture in L-7

“When giants visited our home, we didn’t just host guests. We hosted history.”

I. Two Worlds Collide in Lecture Hall 7

One of the most profound moments of my time at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Kanpur occurred in 1975. I was still physically fragile, slowly recovering from a grueling, recurring bout of typhoid, when my father arrived from Nepal to visit me. A renowned scholar, writer, and political thinker, he carried with him the fierce independence of a completely self-taught man.

I remember guiding him through the campus and eventually walking into L-7, one of IIT Kanpur's most iconic, cavernous, and imposing lecture halls. As we stood together in the heavy silence of that vast, echoing room, he looked around with a thoughtful, almost skeptical gaze.

"Why do you even attend these classes?" he asked with total sincerity. "I never stepped foot in a classroom in my life, yet I have authored over twenty books. You are supposed to master knowledge yourself—not depend on teachers."

For him, self-learning wasn't just an educational method; it was a rebellion. Having come from an era in Nepal where formal education was fiercely locked away from the masses until the fall of the Rana regime in 1950, his intellect was a product of his own defiance. To his revolutionary mind, my rigorous engineering program felt like a cage of rigid technicalities. He often expressed a quiet sadness that I hadn't chosen journalism—the path of the pen, the activist, and the public square.

Then, standing right there in the middle of L-7, he made an completely unexpected request:

"Can you call your classmates and professors? I would like to give a lecture here."

I froze. My mind raced with the logistical rigidities and strict protocols of IIT life. Caught between my father’s spontaneous, creative power and the disciplined, hyper-logical academic world I was struggling to survive, I felt an overwhelming wave of uncertainty. I was young, unprepared, and entirely unaware of how official guest lectures were arranged.

Would these elite academics and engineering students relate to a Nepali writer and political activist? Would his revolutionary ideas resonate with a community built entirely on mathematical equations and structured logic?

Paralyzed by the weight of these two diametrically opposed worlds, I stayed silent. I didn’t inform a soul.

II. The Unspoken Lecture: A Tribute to Dharma Ratna Yami

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the weight of what had just slipped through my fingers. I was completely submerged in the daily rigors of a technically demanding engineering program—a path my father never truly embraced. I hadn't yet understood the fire of his world, nor the silent resistance he waged through his learning and writing.

Decades later, I find myself wishing I had found the courage to act. Had I gathered the strength to ask for help from the administration, my father might have delivered one of his legendary, spellbinding five-hour discourses right there in L-7. He would have spoken on self-learning, radical social transformation, Buddhist philosophy, and the infinite depths of human consciousness. He might have left a permanent spark in those rigid technical minds, building a rare bridge between mathematical logic and the fluid wisdom of the soul.

That missed opportunity stays with me today—not as a burden of paralyzing regret, but as a vital life lesson. It serves as a profound reminder of the multiple forms of education we carry, the unique voices we sometimes inadvertently silence, and the generational wisdom we must never take for granted.

My father, Dharma Ratna Yami, never stepped into a formal classroom. He never wore a school uniform, never sat for a standardized board exam, and never held an academic degree. But life? Life was his university, and the world was his witness.

He endured imprisonment, exile, poverty, and severe political persecution. Yet, instead of breaking under that weight, he turned every pain and adversity into a curriculum of his own making. Where others saw suffering, he extracted lessons. Where the state demanded silence, he wrote books—literary works that became household names across Nepal. He built his education out of pure resistance. His textbooks were real-life struggles, and his degree was earned in the fight for human dignity, knowledge, and justice. He proved that true education is not merely what we receive inside a school—it is what we actively extract from life.

III. A Sanctuary of Ideas and Subcontinental History

My father was a remarkable testament to the fact that wisdom, courage, and systemic impact do not require formal credentials—only vision, conviction, and unshakable resilience. His landmark book, Reply from Tibet, stands as an extraordinary artifact of his intellect; to have written such a powerful text from inside a prison cell, and to see it later translated into multiple languages, shows how far his voice traveled despite every institutional effort to suppress it.

Because of his stature, our family home in Kathmandu was far more than a shelter—it was a vibrant sanctuary for the greatest thinkers, revolutionaries, and visionaries of South Asia:

• Pandit Rahul Sankrityayan: The legendary Indian literary figure and champion of radical social reform visited and stayed in our home three times. His deep scholarship and fearless rejection of religious orthodoxy left a permanent impression on our family.

• Dr. B.R. Ambedkar: Even more unforgettable was the presence of the architect of India’s Constitution and the towering leader of the Dalit movement. Dr. Ambedkar stayed as a guest in our home for two weeks in 1956, just two months before he passed away. His late-night conversations with my father resonated with deeply shared values of justice, absolute equality, and the power of education to liberate the oppressed.

• Dr. Dharamvir Bharati: The renowned Indian poet, playwright, and iconic editor of Dharamyug magazine was a frequent visitor. He was drawn to our home by my father's sharp intellect, fearless political voice, and his deep, academic engagement with Buddhism and post-colonial South Asian transformation.

Looking back, I realize we were living at the absolute crossroads of history and revolution. The very walls of our home carried the echoes of debates, dreams, and doctrines that were actively shaping the geopolitical future of the region.

IV. My Greatest Sorrow and the Final Telex

My greatest sorrow is that I was simply not of an age to understand or appreciate the true magnitude of my father's contributions to society while he was alive. During those intense college years, I often wondered with bitterness why he would not quit his political activities and focus on solving our immediate family problems, especially when seven growing children needed him most.

Furthermore, during the three years leading up to my mother Heera Devi Yami's passing, I was entirely consumed with nursing her as she battled for her life. During that painful period, taking care of my ailing mother was my absolute priority; I had no emotional bandwidth left to understand the lofty ideals or the grand social dedication of my father, and I felt deep resentment toward what I perceived as his negligence of her comfort.

The darkest day of my youth arrived just two months after his visit to IIT Kanpur, in  1975.

Just as I was preparing for my demanding end-semester examinations, a disastrous telex arrived announcing my father's sudden death. He was only sixty years old. My sister Hisila and I had never heard of him having any health problems, and the news shattered our world.

My mind completely refused to function. I wept bitterly, totally heartbroken. In that moment of immense grief, the competitive world of IIT engineering lost all meaning—I decided to completely abandon my final examinations, packing my bags to leave for Nepal to attend his funeral and bid farewell to a giant I was only just beginning to truly see.

V. The Guardian of My Future: Honoring Meera Parasnis

The news of my father’s passing threatened to completely derail everything I had fought to build. Brokenhearted and unable to process the grief, I was entirely ready to abandon my final examinations, pack my bags, and leave for Nepal—a choice that would have effectively ended my academic journey at IIT Kanpur.

In that moment of absolute crisis, a saving grace appeared. Meera Parasnis, my dearest aunt and the wife of Professor A.S. Parasnis of the Physics Department, stepped in.

She took immediate, compassionate control of the situation. With the fierce love of a guardian, she pleaded with me to stay and carry on with my academic program. She begged me not to rush back to Nepal at the cost of destroying my end-semester examinations.

Had she not intervened with that precise mixture of strength and tenderness, I would have vanished into the grief of my father's funeral, leaving my engineering career behind in the ruins of that semester.

For me, IIT Kanpur was never just a place for equations, laboratories, or academic degrees. It was the crucible where I found extraordinary souls like Meera Parasnis, who shielded me from a drastic, emotionally charged decision that would have altered the trajectory of my life. Her profound kindness, maternal wisdom, and loving memory have stayed with me, haunting me with deep gratitude throughout my entire life.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

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The Memorable Day – My Father’s Visit to IIT-Kanpur and a missed the Lecture  in A Lesson in L-7

One of the most profound moments of my time at IIT Kanpur occurred in 1975. I was still physically fragile, recovering from a recurring bout of typhoid, when my father arrived to visit me. A renowned scholar, writer, and political thinker in Nepal, he carried with him the fierce independence of a self-taught man.

I remember guiding him through the campus and eventually walking into L-7, one of our most iconic and cavernous lecture halls. As we stood in the silence of that vast, echoing room, he looked around with a thoughtful, almost skeptical gaze.

"Why do you even attend these classes?" he asked with total sincerity. "I never stepped foot in a classroom in my life, yet I have authored over twenty books. You are supposed to master knowledge yourself—not depend on teachers."

For him, self-learning wasn't just a method; it was a rebellion. Having come from an era in Nepal where formal education was locked away from the masses until 1950, his intellect was a product of his own defiance. To him, my engineering program was a cage of technicalities. He often expressed a quiet sadness that I hadn't chosen journalism—the path of the pen and the public square.

Then, standing in the middle of L-7, he made an unexpected request: "Can you call your classmates and professors? I would like to give a lecture here."

I froze. My mind raced with the logistical rigidities of IIT life. Would these elite academics and engineering students relate to a Nepali activist and writer? Would his revolutionary ideas resonate in this world of equations and structured logic?

Caught between my father’s spontaneous creative power and the disciplined academic world I was trying to survive, I felt a wave of uncertainty. I was young, unprepared, and entirely unaware of how guest lectures were arranged. In the end, paralyzed by the weight of two different worlds, He meant right there, in L-7. I didn't know how to respond. Would these elite academics relate to a Nepali writer and political activist? Would his revolutionary ideas resonate with a community built on logic and equations? Unsure, unprepared, and unaware of the protocols for guest lectures, I stayed silent. I didn’t inform a soul.

The Unspoken Lecture: A Tribute to father, Dharma Ratna Yami

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the weight of his words. I was submerged in the rigors of a technically demanding engineering program—a path he never truly embraced. He felt a quiet sadness that I hadn't chosen journalism, the world of the pen that he knew so well. I hadn't yet understood the fire of his world, nor the silent resistance he waged through his learning and writing.

Decades later, I find myself wishing I had. Had I gathered the courage to ask for help, my father might have delivered one of his legendary five-hour discourses—speaking on self-learning, social transformation, Buddhism, and the depths of human consciousness. He might have left a spark in those technical minds, a bridge between rigid logic and the fluid wisdom of the soul.

That missed opportunity stays with me—not as a burden of regret, but as a vital reminder. It reminds me of the multiple forms of education we carry, the voices we sometimes inadvertently silence, and the generational wisdom we must never take for granted.

My father, Dharma Ratna Yami, never stepped into a formal classroom. He never wore a school uniform, never sat for a board exam, and never held a degree. But life? Life was his university, and the world was his witness.

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

My father was a  truly remarkable examples of how wisdom, courage, and impact don’t require formal credentials — just vision, conviction, and unshakable resilience. One of his famous books The book Reply from Tibet is an extraordinary testament to my father Dharma Ratna Yami’s intellect and activism — to have written it from jail, and to have it translated into multiple languages, shows how far his voice has traveled despite every effort to suppress it.

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.

Mr. Dharamvir Bharati, the renowned Indian Hindi poet, playwright, and editor of Dharamyug magazine, was a frequent visitor to our home. He often came to meet my father, Dharma Ratna Yami, drawn by his sharp intellect, fearless political voice, and deep engagement with Buddhism and social reform. Their exchanges spanned literature, politics and the complex transformation of South Asia in the post-colonial period. I now realize how significant those visits were — our home hosted some of the subcontinent’s most critical thinkers of the time.

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.”

My Greatest Sorrow

My greatest sorrow was not being able to understand my father at that age. I was not of the age to understand and appreciate the magnitude of his contributions to society. I often used to wonder during those days why my father was not quitting all his activities and concentrating on solving family problems when seven growing children needed him most. Three years before my mother's death, I was busy looking after my ailing mother when she was battling for her life. During that period, trying to take care of my mother was my top priority rather than understanding the lofty ideals and social dedication of my father. I used to feel very bitter about his negligence in looking after my ailing mother before her death.

The worst day  was receiving a disastrous telex about my father's death two months after he visited me in the year 1975 A. D.  The news arrived just before the end-semester examination. My father was only sixty years old. Hisila and I had never heard of my father having any health problems.  We both couldn't believe the passing away of my father. My mind refused to function. I wept bitterly and was totally heart broken. I decided to forget about the final examination, and was ready to leave for Nepal to attend his funeral.

Meera Parasnis, my dearest aunt, took immediate control of the situation and convinced me to carry on with my academic program. She begged me not to go to Nepal, damaging the end-semester examinations. Had she not been there, I would have vanished with the funeral of my father in Nepal. For me, IIT-Kanpur was not only for academics,  it was also for finding people like Meera Parasnis who saved me from such a drastic emotional action. Her loving memories  haunt me throughout my life indeed.

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