After completing an engineering degree in Information Technology from Australia, Diwakar quietly returned to his home in Tamghas Bazaar, Gulmi. While most of his friends in Australia chose to stay back for well-paying jobs, none of their arguments could sway Diwakar. Eventually, he left Australia for his hometown without any fanfare.

“Finding a job, getting married, having children, and raising them—is this what life is worth living? If so, where is my freedom? This is nothing but a vicious circle that traps a beautiful life inside a golden cage. I don’t want to put myself in that cage. I will live my life on my own terms,” Diwakar told himself. These were not mere words—he turned them into a lifelong philosophy and resolved to stick to it until his last breath.

Though still a young man, Diwakar had already witnessed the darker side of marriage. His elder brother’s failed marriage was one example. Just last year, his elder sister had left her husband and returned home with her two young daughters. She had refused to stay with her alcoholic husband, who regularly abused her. On top of that, Diwakar had seen how most married couples spend their lives bickering, only to end up in court. He wanted no part of that web. Instead, he longed for a free life in complete peace and tranquillity.

Diwakar had already spent a couple of months at home and was still unsure what to do next. Meanwhile, one of his school friends, Bijay—who worked at a reputed IT company in Kathmandu—called him. Bijay proposed starting an IT company in Kathmandu and was looking for a partner. Starting a good IT company requires modest capital investment followed by consistent hard work. Bijay had been with his company for five years and had developed the skills needed to run an IT business. He was confident he could turn the venture profitable. The only thing he needed was a trustworthy and competent partner.

Diwakar liked the idea, but his enthusiasm faded when Bijay mentioned they would need at least 30 lakh rupees as startup capital. Diwakar knew his father’s financial condition all too well. To send him abroad for studies, his father had already sold a large chunk of ancestral land and taken a bank loan, which he was still repaying in monthly instalments. Without a second thought, Diwakar told his friend he could not join the business.

The next morning, Diwakar woke up at six and went to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Seeing his mother and elder sister busy with household chores, he walked to Dumre’s Chiya Pasal for his favourite tea. He would invariably have two or three cups there almost every day.

There is an interesting story behind Dumre’s Chiya Pasal. The owner, Ghan Bahadur, was a local resident of Dumre, Tanahun. To go to Europe, he had borrowed a large sum from friends and relatives, but his agent left him stranded in Malta. With little money to reach other European countries, he started working at a tea shop in Malta to survive. That shop was famous for its variety of tea and coffee. Ghan Bahadur worked diligently, learning all the skills required to make delicious tea and coffee. Then, one day, Maltese police arrested him and deported him to Nepal.

Unable to return to his home in Dumre because he had too little money and was still in debt, Ghan Bahadur quietly began working at a restaurant in Kathmandu. There, he fell in love with a young woman named Sunmaya. When she learned of his special skill in making tea and coffee, she suggested they go to her hometown, Tamghas, and start a tea shop there. Ghan Bahadur agreed immediately. Sunmaya sold her personal gold jewellery to fund the shop, and that is how Dumre’s Chiya Pasal came into existence. The tea shop rose to success, and within a few years, Ghan Bahadur earned enough to pay off his loans. One day, he and Sunmaya went to Dumre, repaid every rupee, and returned to Tamghas.

Diwakar was deeply inspired by Ghan Bahadur’s real-life story. He liked the idea of doing something on his own rather than working for others. Ghan Bahadur, in turn, always treated Diwakar as a close friend.

One morning, as Diwakar was sipping tea at Dumre’s Chiya Pasal, a private car hit a cow on the street and sped away. The cow’s front leg was broken. She was in extreme pain, moaning continuously. Kindhearted Diwakar wanted to help immediately, but no one came forward. Frustrated but determined, he decided to act alone and fetched a veterinarian from a nearby shop.

By afternoon, the cow had grown restless. After much thought, Diwakar hired five daily-wage workers and transported the injured cow to his backyard. There was an old shed where his father used to store maize and millet. Diwakar shifted some sacks and made a small space for the cow. Thanks to his intense love and care, the cow—whom he named Roshni—began to recover quickly. One early morning, when Diwakar went to the shed, he was astonished to find a small calf suckling from Roshni. He realised at once that the calf was her own baby. The cow looked overjoyed, licking her baby with deep affection. Seeing the bond between mother and child, Diwakar could not hold back his tears.

As he watched the cow and her calf, an idea flashed in Diwakar’s mind: to run a Gaushala (a shelter for cows). He began collecting old, injured, and abandoned cows from around Tamghas and housing them in an expanded shed. Fortunately, his parents were deeply religious and never objected to their son’s pious work. They promised to help him in every way possible.

Diwakar registered the Tamghas Gaushala with the local authorities and began running it legally. Over time, he travelled to China and brought back machines to convert cow dung into high-quality compost fertiliser. He made cow dung cakes for cooking and sold them locally. He also produced various aromatic incense sticks from cow dung for religious purposes. These activities earned him enough to cover the Gaushala’s expenses.

While Diwakar was busy serving his cows and working as a cowboy, many of his friends disapproved. They openly criticised him for working like an ordinary farmer despite holding an IT degree from a reputed Australian university. Diwakar never argued with them. He simply said he was not chasing name, fame, or money—he was pursuing happiness and satisfaction in life.

One early morning, Diwakar’s mobile phone rang loudly. He was busy at the cowshed, but when the phone wouldn’t stop, he answered. On the other end was the secretary of the International Fund for Animal Welfare (IFAW) in Washington, DC, USA.

“Dear Diwakar, I am pleased to inform you that our board of directors has decided to give you this year’s Animal Action Award for your selfless and exemplary service to abandoned cows. We will make all necessary arrangements for your trip to Washington, D.C., to receive the award and prize money.”

Diwakar’s happiness knew no bounds. He had never started the Gaushala with any award or monetary gain in mind. It had all happened by chance.

The next day, all the national dailies in Nepal featured the news on their front pages: “IT Engineer Turns Cow Saver”; “International Award for Serving Cows to Nepali IT Engineer”; “This Year’s Animal Action Award for Nepali IT Engineer Serving Abandoned Cows.”

As Diwakar read the newspaper, someone patted him on the shoulder from behind. When he turned to see who it was, he found none other than Roshni. She stood calm and composed, looking at him with bright eyes—as if she wanted to congratulate him.