An unassuming entrance near Pashupati Temple in Kathmandu leads into the Mrigasthali forest. Despite a steady stream of people passing through the sacred grounds, most do not know that for centuries it has been a burial site.&nbsp; The forest here is where children too young to be cremated used to be buried, as were Hindu ascetics and later the Kirat and Christian population of Kathmandu.&nbsp; Hindus predominantly cremate their dead, but ethnic minorities like the Kirat, Muslim, and Christian mostly opt for burial rituals in designated areas. For centuries there has been no problems, but this social harmony between the funeral practices of diverse faiths is now being jeopardised by the lack of space as well as recent majoritarian trends.&nbsp; The burial space for Nepal’s minorities is being increasingly encroached upon despite Nepal’s secular Constitution, and this a source of new friction between communities. One recent morning along the banks of the Hanumante in Bhaktapur, a group of men dressed in mourning attire were huddled around the flames of a funeral pyre of a dead relative. On the other bank is what looks like a parking lot, but is actually a burial site for a Hindu sect that has been living in the town for centuries.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240131110136_3c5e02eba710f97c2ef13b7078062b960755f307d4591b7ab8acc05661ca9ab2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20240131110136_3c5e02eba710f97c2ef13b7078062b960755f307d4591b7ab8acc05661ca9ab2" data-rendition-name="original" width="3484" height="2250" loading="lazy" alt="life after death"> <figcaption>Hanumante Ghat</figcaption> </figure>  Rabindra Puri belongs to the Dasnami Sanyasi sect, and his forebears were ascetics who settled down in Bhaktapur and assimilated into the local Newa culture. He looks out at where his father and ancestors have been buried, and says: "Whenever I am down, or there is an important event in my life or my family, I come here and feel the energy of my father." One a recent visit to the sacred site, Puri was shocked to see a JCB earthmover levelling the area so cars could be parked where his sect used to conduct the traditional ritual of simulating their own burial. The cemetary serves as a holy place that connects the living with the dead of the Dasnami sect.&nbsp; "We do not have a say when the government decides to bulldoze over our tradition," laments Puri, who is a heritage conservation architect and activist. Recently, a young man from Puri’s community who had lost his wife a year ago came to pay his respect to her only to find a latrine was being built on top of her grave. The Ward chair was building public toilets, and got the contractor to build one over what he thought was an open space. The construction was halted, but across predominantly-Hindu Nepal ethnic groups and religious minorities are finding it more difficult to bury their dead. &nbsp;&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240131110140_2e082ead7f8ebd7003f70320781720dce366c0ecba9d17a7d44fc2ec5aed8ce7.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240131110140_2e082ead7f8ebd7003f70320781720dce366c0ecba9d17a7d44fc2ec5aed8ce7" data-rendition-name="original" width="3629" height="2403" loading="lazy" alt="life after death"> <figcaption>Graveyard of Jame Masjid near Swayambhu.</figcaption> </figure>  Kathmandu’s Muslim community have a burial site near Swayambhu. Because of the lack of space there, the Jame community has added soil 3m thick on top of the older graves to make another layer of tombs. The 0.5 hectare cemetary is used by both the Jame and Kashmiri sects, and was granted as a token by the Rana regime in exchange for part of the mosque property property in the Jamal area.&nbsp; “We haven't encountered issues since we added the elevation, but we are also hopeful that the government will listen should any problems arise in the future,” says Abdul Shamim, of Kathmandu’s Jame Masjid. The Kashmiris are seeking another burial space near Kathmandu, and the community foresees potential friction with local communities. "It is the teaching of Allah that we have to bury, not cremate, so there are two options: find space to bury or let the body flow down the river," explains Mohammed Ashraf of the Kashmiri Masjid. The Kirat community in Kathmandu has a bigger dilemma: opt for cremation or burial. While a majority of families now use the electric crematorium at Pashupati for funerals, not everyone in the community is for it and many want traditional burials.&nbsp; “But there is simply no space for a cemetary,” says Ganesh Rai, a journalist.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240131110116_07b0a883b1da32fc838254727d5f4b24075a72897469e6323c99b8f6bb87cecd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20240131110116_07b0a883b1da32fc838254727d5f4b24075a72897469e6323c99b8f6bb87cecd" data-rendition-name="original" width="3468" height="2160" loading="lazy" alt="life after death"> <figcaption>Shleshmantak, Pashupati where children too young to be cremated used to be buried, as were Hindu ascetics and later the Kirat and Christian population of Kathmandu. </figcaption> </figure>  In 1998, the Supreme Court imposed a ban on all burials within the premises of Pashupati, a UNESCO heritage site. The ban is temporarily lifted under certain conditions, including the use of concrete for gravestones, it was reinstated in 2011. This means ethnic groups that have recently migrated to Kathmandu are having problems for funerals. &nbsp;The Kirat people, for instance, say they have a right to bury their dead as tradition dictates, just as the increasing Christian population in the Valley who are also lobbying the government for a cemetary near Pashupati. But the lack of burial space means many Christians in Kathmandu use the electric cremation and place the ashes in urns in their churches. &nbsp;Hindus make up 81.9% of Nepal’s 30 million population with nearly 2.4 million in Kathmandu Valley alone. The Valley also has 84,000 Christians, 48,000 Kirat and 32,500 Muslims, according to the 2021 census. There is just one electric crematorium and a critical shortage of burial sites for this population. Before 1778, when the Valley’s kingdoms had their own kings and population was small, funerals for all communities were mangeable. But with the explosive urbanisation and the Valley’s population now exceeding 3.5 million, even the Hindu cremation sites are congested and face local opposition.&nbsp; The Newa people of Kathmandu had cremation sites in Shobha Bhagwati, Chabahil, Maitidevi, Shankhamul, Nakkhu and Balkumari, but these have fallen into disuse, partly due to the absence of funeral pyres and with the expansion of settlements nearby.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240131110120_1c429b764911039c94224f93460150d7b95ea8115be62193e78aa3618d3ab826.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20240131110120_1c429b764911039c94224f93460150d7b95ea8115be62193e78aa3618d3ab826" data-rendition-name="original" width="3680" height="2508" loading="lazy" alt="life after death"> <figcaption>In Gangahiti in Chabahil there are two cremation spaces for the Sakya and Dangol clans. Now, there is a tandoori restaurant right behind where the cremation site used to be.</figcaption> </figure>  In Gangahiti in Chabahil there are two cremation spaces for the Sakya and Dangol clans where members have been cremated for centuries, but it is now overrun by new neighbourhoods.&nbsp; Nirmala Karmacharya has lived in Gangahiti for over 20 years, and did not even know that there was a cremation site nearby when her family built their house.&nbsp; &nbsp;“You never know when there is a creamation, and we have to shut all the windows to keep out the smell,” she says. “The government should have regulated cremation sites better.”&nbsp; During the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020, Mayor Bidya Sundar Shakya built a gas crematorium in Gangahiti, but there are still frequent clashes between mourners and residents. &nbsp; “We understand their pain, but there is already a crematorium in Pashupati. Why do they have to come here?” asks Karmacharya.&nbsp; In 2023, Gangahiti residents won the case in Patan High Court restricting the clans from &nbsp;using the cremation site. Now, there is a tandoori restaurant right behind where the &nbsp;cremation site used to be. Public litigator Sanjay Adhikari says that Gangahiti residents were well aware of the cremation site before they purchased the property, and it was unfair to the Shakya and Dangol communities to lose their ancestral creamation site.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240131110124_335508510586ca020118fefb975c71550f4d89be52eededffbb6099a6457002e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20240131110124_335508510586ca020118fefb975c71550f4d89be52eededffbb6099a6457002e" data-rendition-name="original" width="3400" height="2160" loading="lazy" alt="life after death"> <figcaption>The pressure on Pashupati’s cremation area has grown because other traditional sites along river banks have been overrun by the city’s expansion and are closed. </figcaption> </figure>  The few ghats at Pashupati on the banks of Bagmati cannot keep up with demand for cremations from Kathmandu’s growing population. Most days, there are long queues of distraught relatives waiting for their turn to perform the last rites. The nearby electric crematorium usually only has one furnace running and there are long waits there, too. State officials have a VIP platform for their cremations and do not have to wait. The pressure on Pashupati’s cremation area has also grown because other traditional sites along river banks have been overrun by the city’s expansion and are closed.&nbsp; “Most come to Pashupati because it is the holiest place, and also its relatively efficient service. It is not feasible to go looking for cremation pyres elsewhere,” says Rewati Raman Adhikari of Pashupati Development Trust. Mrigasthali forest is regarded as a sacred Hindu site where Lord Shiva came to attain salvation, and burials are only allowed for babies and certain ascetic sects, and funerals for other religious groups is restricted here. &nbsp; “The burial ban also has an ecological aspect to it, we want to preserve these forests, so we don’t want concrete grave stones in the jungle,” adds Adhikari. “Burials of other religions within their sacred site is also not acceptable to Hindus. We must learn to co-exist peacefully.”&nbsp; When even Hindus find it increasingly difficult to cremate their dead, the majoritarian mindset means that other religions are left to fend for themselves. Despite a secular Constitution, a glaring example of prevailing injustice is that Nepal’s minorities face exclusion even after death.&nbsp; This piece was reported in collaboration with the Centre for Investigative Journalism Nepal (CIJ-N).

Alisha Sijapati

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Life after death

<figure><img width="1067" height="702" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636beddf4b0ad905ca02ef0cjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption></figcaption></figure>The BBC included Sapana Roka Magar, an 18-year-old voluntary crematorium worker from Nepal, in its <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-55042935" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bbc.com/news/world-55042935&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHW2wTG0VjSAmKR6ZKSPFd6iv1SrA">100 Women of 2020</a>, a yearly list of inspiring and influential women from around the world.Roka Magar works with the Homeless Management and Rehabilitation Center, a Nepali charity providing assistance to homeless people. For the past three years, she and her team have provided traditional Hindu funeral rites for abandoned and unidentified deceased bodies.With Covid-19 affecting homeless people in Nepal’s cities and the number of dead at cremation sites increasing by up to four times higher than pre-pandemic levels, Roka Magar's work has become vital. Without her, many of the bodies would be in hospital morgues, be abandoned on the streets, and deprived of dignified funerals.After Roka Magar’s team identifies and collects the bodies from the streets or mortuaries, they are sent for postmortem examination in hospitals. If the body remains unclaimed for 35 days, the organisation takes it to a crematorium and performs दागबत्ती, a traditional final rite in Hindu religion.These cremation rituals are usually conducted by male members of the deceased's family. Roka Magar, however, performs the rituals herself for hundreds of unclaimed bodies at the Pashupati Aryaghat <a href="https://kathmandupost.com/valley/2019/01/15/aryaghat-cremators-complain-of-low-pay-and-perks-facilities" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://kathmandupost.com/valley/2019/01/15/aryaghat-cremators-complain-of-low-pay-and-perks-facilities&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNE_vG1_ytJ8KdWnxllXmrFfqlP44g"> (cremation ground)</a>, on the banks of Bagmati river in Kathmandu, Nepal. <figure><img width="800" height="450" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636bede14b0ad905ca02ef0djpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Sapana Roka Magar being interviewed by tele-astrologer Harihar Adhikari on AP1 tv. </figcaption></figure>Sapana Roka Magar was born into a farming family in a small village of Nepal's Myagdi district. She is said to have been a brilliant student during her childhood and pre-teen years. At age 14, she moved to Beni to study — and that is when her life took a sharp turn for the worse.She married a teenage boy against her parents’ will. The relationship broke down just after a few months, and Sapana found herself shunned by her home village. She distanced herself from her family and became homeless.While living in the streets, she became acquainted with the Homeless Management and Rehabilitation Center, and began to work with them. Roka Magar now calls the president of the organisation, Dinesh Jung Basnet her godfather.Gender role remain strict in Nepal, with women generally expected to manage the household and take care of the family. The pandemic has worsened gender inequality in the country when it comes to education, employment, and income.Women are traditionally not allowed in cremation grounds, and in some villages, only male members of the family are permitted to participate in funeral rites. But by providing final rites for people whose bodies were abandoned, Roka Magar does a job that most men wouldn't accept.Nepali social media users were elated by seeing Sapana Roka Magar included on the BBC 100 Women of 2020 list and shared congratulatory messages.Freelance writer Dil Nisani Magar tweeted: <figure><img width="563" height="392" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636bede44b0ad905ca02ef0ejpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Educator Santosh Upadhyaya tweeted: <figure><img width="560" height="387" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636bede54b0ad905ca02ef0fjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Youth activist Nikita Bhusal tweeted: <figure><img width="561" height="799" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636bede74b0ad905ca02ef10jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Kul Chandra Gautam, former UN Assistant Secretary-General and Deputy Executive Director of UNICEF tweeted: <figure><img width="556" height="126" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636bede94b0ad905ca02ef11jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Entrepreneur Kushal Sundar Shrestha complained that Nepal recognised Sapana only after she received the BBC honour: <figure><img width="562" height="261" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191112/636bedea4b0ad905ca02ef12jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure><a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-50042279" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bbc.com/news/world-50042279&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGk1vE9CxBFaUH5cEn1krJtGjLYXA">In 2019,</a> Bonita Sharma, a social entrepreneur from Nepal, was also listed in BBC's 100 Women, in the knowledge category. In arrangement with <a href="https://globalvoices.org/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://globalvoices.org/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFGzRHxXk-iGELKUEF3_7Ufd1OqSA">Global Voices.</a> This <a target="_blank" href="https://globalvoices.org/2020/12/05/nepals-sapana-roka-magar-who-provides-hindu-funeral-rites-for-unclaimed-bodies-listed-in-bbcs-100-women-of-2020/" title="https://globalvoices.org/2020/12/05/nepals-sapana-roka-magar-who-provides-hindu-funeral-rites-for-unclaimed-bodies-listed-in-bbcs-100-women-of-2020/" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline;" rel="noopener noreferrer">story</a> by Benju Lwagun originally appeared on Global Voices on 5 December 2020.

Social media elated by Nepali in BBC list

<figure><img width="1067" height="702" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6d49c7e80680e0877c3jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption></figcaption></figure>The BBC included Sapana Roka Magar, an 18-year-old voluntary crematorium worker from Nepal, in its <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-55042935" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bbc.com/news/world-55042935&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHW2wTG0VjSAmKR6ZKSPFd6iv1SrA">100 Women of 2020</a>, a yearly list of inspiring and influential women from around the world.Roka Magar works with the Homeless Management and Rehabilitation Center, a Nepali charity providing assistance to homeless people. For the past three years, she and her team have provided traditional Hindu funeral rites for abandoned and unidentified deceased bodies.With Covid-19 affecting homeless people in Nepal’s cities and the number of dead at cremation sites increasing by up to four times higher than pre-pandemic levels, Roka Magar's work has become vital. Without her, many of the bodies would be in hospital morgues, be abandoned on the streets, and deprived of dignified funerals.After Roka Magar’s team identifies and collects the bodies from the streets or mortuaries, they are sent for postmortem examination in hospitals. If the body remains unclaimed for 35 days, the organisation takes it to a crematorium and performs दागबत्ती, a traditional final rite in Hindu religion.These cremation rituals are usually conducted by male members of the deceased's family. Roka Magar, however, performs the rituals herself for hundreds of unclaimed bodies at the Pashupati Aryaghat <a href="https://kathmandupost.com/valley/2019/01/15/aryaghat-cremators-complain-of-low-pay-and-perks-facilities" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://kathmandupost.com/valley/2019/01/15/aryaghat-cremators-complain-of-low-pay-and-perks-facilities&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNE_vG1_ytJ8KdWnxllXmrFfqlP44g"> (cremation ground)</a>, on the banks of Bagmati river in Kathmandu, Nepal. <figure><img width="800" height="450" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6d69c7e80680e0877c4jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Sapana Roka Magar being interviewed by tele-astrologer Harihar Adhikari on AP1 tv. </figcaption></figure>Sapana Roka Magar was born into a farming family in a small village of Nepal's Myagdi district. She is said to have been a brilliant student during her childhood and pre-teen years. At age 14, she moved to Beni to study — and that is when her life took a sharp turn for the worse.She married a teenage boy against her parents’ will. The relationship broke down just after a few months, and Sapana found herself shunned by her home village. She distanced herself from her family and became homeless.While living in the streets, she became acquainted with the Homeless Management and Rehabilitation Center, and began to work with them. Roka Magar now calls the president of the organisation, Dinesh Jung Basnet her godfather.Gender role remain strict in Nepal, with women generally expected to manage the household and take care of the family. The pandemic has worsened gender inequality in the country when it comes to education, employment, and income.Women are traditionally not allowed in cremation grounds, and in some villages, only male members of the family are permitted to participate in funeral rites. But by providing final rites for people whose bodies were abandoned, Roka Magar does a job that most men wouldn't accept.Nepali social media users were elated by seeing Sapana Roka Magar included on the BBC 100 Women of 2020 list and shared congratulatory messages.Freelance writer Dil Nisani Magar tweeted: <figure><img width="563" height="392" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6d89c7e80680e0877c5jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Educator Santosh Upadhyaya tweeted: <figure><img width="560" height="387" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6db9c7e80680e0877c6jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Youth activist Nikita Bhusal tweeted: <figure><img width="561" height="799" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6dd9c7e80680e0877c7jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Kul Chandra Gautam, former UN Assistant Secretary-General and Deputy Executive Director of UNICEF tweeted: <figure><img width="556" height="126" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181140/636be6df9c7e80680e0877c8jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure>Entrepreneur Kushal Sundar Shrestha complained that Nepal recognised Sapana only after she received the BBC honour: <figure><img width="562" height="261" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181144/636be6e09c7e80680e0877c9jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption></figcaption></figure><a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-50042279" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bbc.com/news/world-50042279&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGk1vE9CxBFaUH5cEn1krJtGjLYXA">In 2019,</a> Bonita Sharma, a social entrepreneur from Nepal, was also listed in BBC's 100 Women, in the knowledge category. In arrangement with <a href="https://globalvoices.org/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://globalvoices.org/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1607423872588000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFGzRHxXk-iGELKUEF3_7Ufd1OqSA">Global Voices.</a> This <a target="_blank" href="https://globalvoices.org/2020/12/05/nepals-sapana-roka-magar-who-provides-hindu-funeral-rites-for-unclaimed-bodies-listed-in-bbcs-100-women-of-2020/" title="https://globalvoices.org/2020/12/05/nepals-sapana-roka-magar-who-provides-hindu-funeral-rites-for-unclaimed-bodies-listed-in-bbcs-100-women-of-2020/" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; outline: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-size: 1em; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline;" rel="noopener noreferrer">story</a> by Benju Lwagun originally appeared on Global Voices on 5 December 2020.

Shantanu Dhakal wakes up to a cold misty dawn, dons his college uniform and fastens his tie, tightening it carefully so as not to dislodge the tracheostomy tube protruding from his throat.
Gingerly, he brushes his teeth, mindful not to hurt the wound on his left cheek, where a bullet tore through during the GenZ protests on 8 September in the highway town of Itahari in eastern Nepal.&nbsp;
Dhakal, 18, came home from college that day three months ago and then took the bus to Itahari to join some friends who were protesting in front of the sub-metropolitan city office. It was mid-afternoon, and the crowd was chanting anti-corruption slogans and holding up placards.
Like most young Nepalis, Dhakal and his friends had been angered by videos on social media of the offspring of Nepal’s rich and powerful flaunting their lavish lifestyles.&nbsp;
"That was the trigger for me to join the protest, it opened my eyes to just how widespread nepotism and corruption was," Dhakal told Nepali Times.&nbsp;
The police arrested a few students, angering the crowd even more. They massed at the gate of a nearby police station to demand their friends be released. &nbsp;
Dhakal was standing across the street from the police station when the first shots rang out. The crowd scattered. As he ran for cover, there was a searing pain in his left jaw. Blood was streaming and it took some time for him to realise he had been shot.&nbsp;
“I was bleeding profusely and couldn’t speak. My vision blurred, there was a ringing in my ears,” Dhakal recalls. “I collected myself and continued to run, fearing that I would be shot a second time.”
Dhakal collapsed some distance away, and a fellow protestor took him to a nearby hospital, where doctors bandaged his jaw. He was referred to Birat Medical Teaching Hospital, where surgeons immediately performed an emergency operation. &nbsp;
The bullet had torn through his left jaw, shattering the bone, teeth, and soft tissue. Blood had rushed into his throat, obstructing the airway so doctors first performed a tracheostomy, installing a tube in his throat to help him keep breathing. A week later, the doctors reconstructed his jaw with metallic plates, grafting skin from his chest and transplanting it to the lower left side of his face.&nbsp;
Dhakal spent three weeks in hospital before being discharged. But the relief of being home was marred by disturbing thoughts. He says, “Just sitting there doing nothing began to take a toll on my mental health.” &nbsp;
Since he was always interested in content creation and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@docsbyshantanu">producing short documentaries</a>, he decided to document online his near-death experience and post-protest life.&nbsp;
Shantanu Dhakal’s Instagram and TikTok <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shantanu__dhakal/">posts are simple, short videos</a> every other day about his treatment process, dressing his wound and cleaning his tracheostomy tube, attending events with others injured during the protests, and scenes from everyday life in his family farm.&nbsp;
The comment section has Nepalis and people from around the world reaching out to ask how he is doing and keeping his spirits up. Dhakal now has a caring social media community, and he uses the platforms to keep in touch with other injured protestors across the country.&nbsp;
Life is returning to a new normal. This week, he returned to college to resume classes after more than two months and is making up for lost time. He has adjusted to speaking and eating with the tube, although the pain never quite goes away.&nbsp;
“I can eat mostly fine, but it is still difficult to speak,” he says. Soon, he will go to hospital for his fortnightly follow-up, and doctors will determine when his tracheostomy tube can be removed.
Like other young Nepalis, Dhakal is now even more politically engaged and actively reads the news of the interim government installed after the GenZ protests.&nbsp;
With the 5 March elections only three months away, young Nepalis like Dhakal hope that the elections will throw out the old and bring in the new. He is among the more than 800,000 new voters who have registered.&nbsp;
“The most important thing is that we have stable government,” he says. “As far as candidates go, an ideal one for me would be a person who prioritises health and education. But if the candidates in my constituency are not up to mark, I may not vote.”
Dhakal along with other injured protesters and relatives of those killed met &nbsp;Energy Minister Kulman Ghising, who has launched his own Ujyalo Nepal Party, and he is cautiously optimistic about the work of the current leadership. &nbsp;
It is a different story in Kathmandu, where Prime Minister Sushila Karki is struggling to manage the expectations of various youth collectives while trying to convince the old parties to participate in elections.&nbsp;
While the UML and NC are actively trying to delegitimise Karki’s government as they prepare to hold their respective general conventions, they are also preparing to give out tickets for elections.&nbsp;
Self-proclaimed GenZ leaders who used Discord to elect Karki prime minister are putting up their own conditions for the polls, even demanding her resignation for failing to meet their demands. This is in sharp contrast to the feelings of many of those injured during the protests who want elections so the nation can heal, and move on.

A new normal

This is the 75th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. My father was a country boy from Sarlahi, and my mother a city girl from Kathmandu. They had an inter-ethnic marriage, which was difficult until the two families gradually began to accept it. My parents, who worked in development, viewed the world through a social lens. They often traveled overseas for their INGO work, leaving me and my sister behind. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, or in rented apartments with guardians. Between Grades 1 and 10, I must have switched schools seven times. Our parents prioritised our education, and enrolled me in the most expensive schools. I was shocked by my school fees, and often wondered how they managed with their salaries.&nbsp; I wanted to become a businessman, so I could have the kind of life some of my well-to-do friend had. My family was not from a business background, and social services didn’t lend themselves to that kind of lifestyle. Now I realise what my parents gave me was already over the top, a truth that becomes clearer as I get older. Our family was getting along fine until our father died while working on a project in Dhading in September 2021. The official reason was ‘heart attack’. We do not talk about this much, perhaps as a way of dealing with the loss.&nbsp; He was our rock, and everything got harder. At least we had good people around us who reminded us to take care of our mother and to work hard. And we did. My sister and I made TikToks during the lockdown, initially in a joint account which reached its peak in 2022-2023. I had always wanted to be an actor, but I knew the film industry does not pay well. My parents also urged me to keep my interest in acting as a passion project. TikTok enabled us to showcase our talent for comedy. We figured out how to crack TikTok’s algorithm and stayed on top of trends. People liked our duo and the raw and authentic content. It required a strategy, luck, planning, and understanding the game.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1778" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  We use a hashtag #NakarmiKhanalAF in all our content drawing from my parents’ last names although they did not need to know what ‘AF’ stood for.&nbsp; My first viral content involving a humorous take on a Marvel character hit over 500k. That fusion combining international trends with Nepali humor worked really well, and I started making it my niche, adapting content.&nbsp; My father was always thick-skinned and did not have to try to be cool or tough. He was unapologetically himself, sometimes to the point where my sister and I felt embarrassed. When he was invited as a chief guest at a cricket game, for example, I remember feeling proud to be the child of an ‘important person’, but he grabbed the mic and told everyone to start cleaning the ground.&nbsp; Many of our friends came from wealthy families because of the schools we attended, and he proudly lectured them about our humble background and the importance of social service. Growing up, we tried hard to get his validity. My proudest moment was gifting him a shirt bought with my first salary. My father did not get to see our rise on social media, but I know he is watching over us just as he always did. The first brand deal I got was memorable but awkward. It was for a grooming package for private parts. I used to think about how movie actors start their journeys with advertisements for underwear, and this was going to be my story, my ‘humble beginning’ as a content creator.&nbsp; They did not even pay me money but just gave me the items. Other brands started coming in and with them, money. I earned as much as Rs40,000 per content and tried to make one every day. This was a big contrast to my monthly salary of Rs35,000 in a clothing store. All along, I was acutely aware that fame would not last forever. Just like one of my singer friends Wangden had said in a podcast: he was going to have fun while fame lasted.&nbsp; After TikTok was banned in India, there was even more uncertainty about social media. The alternates were also not assuring: people running businesses had to close up or were stuck, and the political uncertainty was scary. This pushed me to think about migrating, and Australia was a safe backup. I uploaded content right upto two hours before my flight from Kathmandu. I wanted to have enough savings so I did not have to start working right away in Australia. I was buying freedom. Since I had to change schools frequently, Rodin was one of few enduring friends I had. He was in Australia and assured me that he would take care of everything, and he did. He was my family there, and I did not have to go through the initial struggle that other international students had to endure.&nbsp; In Australia, I have done multiple jobs over the last two years and completed my MBA. My interviewer challenged me to make him laugh with one of my content videos. He did and I started work the very next day though I know I got the job because a hardworking friend had recommended me. To the boss, I was just another Nepali who could work swiftly. I mopped floors, washed dishes, and served customers. This was Australia, and I hustled. But I knew there had to be more to life. The long hours and little sleep eventually caught up with me. One day I slept 14–15 hours straight, and when I woke up, it hit me that I should try networking.&nbsp; I reached out to admins of Australia-based Facebook groups. Some replied, some did not, some offered jobs that were not for me. Then came an email from 8848 Momo House, and I travelled to Brisbane to meet the owner Hom Pyashi.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1548" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  “Do you want momos?” was the first thing he asked warmly. He told me to stop by one of his new outlets and make a video. I did, and I was hired the next day.&nbsp; It was that easy, and I have been working there ever since. My boss would later share in a conversation that he did not hire me because of the video but because I was young and he saw hunger in my eyes. To him, I was clay that he could help shape. I am now the marketing head, and the chain is doing well. Content creation is still a side job that brings in money. But just as my parents said, it remains a side passion.&nbsp; Then came the GenZ protests. On social media I compared Nepal’s youth to relaxed backbenchers who finally act when provoked enough to get things done. I could relate to the rage and suffocation. A song I was featured in was supposed to be released just when social media was banned in Nepal, and that fuelled my anger. But from the onset, I was wary of the headless nature of this movement, there was no ठुलो मान्छे leading and no one would be accountable if something went wrong. There was so much uncertainty, and I am not comfortable with uncertainty. We were glued to social media as the protests happened, at work and in the gym. When we learnt of the deaths of young Nepalis back home, a part of me died. The grief of unexpectedly losing my father came back.&nbsp; I left the gym early because I just could not take it. My friend and I just drove quietly to a nearby waterside. We did not even sit together because neither of us wanted to notice that we were in tears.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  One of the messages I received was a GoFundMe link to support the victims. I shared it, but someone asked if it was genuine. That is when it hit me that I had a large social media following and could not just share things without verifying them. I removed the link. The only person I felt I could trust was myself, so I decided to start my own fundraiser. I felt emotional and helpless, and had to do something.&nbsp; I assumed we could raise around AUD5,000. I was wrong. Within hours, we had raised nearly AUD60,000. Fellow content creators Avash and Manzil from Minority Report had also started a GoFundMe, and we decided to join forces.&nbsp; Partnering with them was going to be a lifesaver because I was not at all prepared for what was ahead. Over 11,000 people contributed across our two campaigns, raising AUD514,386. But we had not thought through the logistical challenge, the online hate and the delays. We needed to release the money to the right organisations in Nepal, get complete information about the families of the martyrs and injured — our primary target groups.&nbsp; We faced a huge amount of backlash after a hate narrative instigated by a few people spread online. We just could not get our message across that it was not as simple as raising the money and handing it over. People believed what they wanted to believe. Internet hate can take you to very dark places, even when you believe in your cause and know it can bring some comfort to grieving families. You try to focus on the positive message, because many people did support us, but the hate and accusations do bring you down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98" data-rendition-name="original" width="1320" height="2868" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  When I was paralysed by the internet hate to carry out even the most mundane activities like cooking and cleaning, my roommate Bibek took over. He even made me watch an episode from the Mahabharat capturing Krishna’s teachings on karma without worrying about the fruits, a lesson that did not just help me get out of that depressive episode but has become a guiding principle for life. How would I have emerged out of that darkness when I was battling with suicidal thoughts if people had not showed up for me? We worked day and night to find the right partners, and because of the large amount of money and the level of transparency we asked for, many influencers or organisations turned us down.&nbsp; This was not easy because we had our own jobs to take care of, our own bills to worry about that were not linked to the fundraiser. It helped that my team at 8848 let me deal with this during work hours, and assured me that they will stand by me no matter what. Thankfully, we finally partnered with Nepal Rising (Daayitwa US), a professional and transparent organisation that stepped in and saved the day. GoFundme finally released the funds to their account and it has begun reaching the right people. My sister helped ensure the money is delivered properly. As a final check, I speak with the families in Nepal and offer my condolences. I honour their loved one’s contribution to our country and we will make sure it is never forgotten. But no matter what we say or how much we try to help, the heartbreaking truth is that their young son or sibling is not coming back. The narrative is slowly changing. Slaps are now claps. But the trauma of the public hate is so great that it still gnaws at me, I have anxiety about attending Nepali gatherings like concerts here. I remember when a dance I had created for Bola Maya went viral on TikTok, with tens of thousands of people picking it up. A chef friend told me it was time to use that influence for a social cause. Those words stayed with me. As I navigated the backlash, I was also reminded of my parents who worked on social causes and asked my mother if they had faced similar cases. She had, and she reminded me that all we can do is stay focused on the cause and drown out the noise. Things will eventually work out.

Things eventually work out

This is the 76th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

My father’s son

In a democracy, governments come and go. But Nepal had become so entangled in the triangular affair between Sher Bahadur Deuba, K P Oli and Pushpa Kamal Dahal that it was becoming impossible to tell who was canoodling with whom.&nbsp;
All three had long since abandoned their party ideologies. Staying in power was all that mattered as they turned Nepal’s democracy into a kleptocracy.&nbsp;
For the past at least 20 years, we have warned them to mend their ways. Democracy had to be rescued from the hands of such kakistocrats. Waiting to pounce were monarchists and anarchists of every ilk, outcast Maoists, and supporters of a leader jailed for fraud. Tycoon Durga Prasai said his rally in March was to restore a Hindu monarchy, but he was just a temporary royalist whom even the ex-king spurned.&nbsp;
All this converged into a perfect storm on 8 September. Commandos shot and killed 19 innocent young people outside Parliament, the anger boiled over into targetted arson and vandalism the next day. The government fell, and Sushila Karki was elected interim prime minister through Discord.&nbsp;
With not just their monopoly on power but also their very lives in danger, the triumvirate was at first in total shock. Then came conspiracy theories and an inability to gauge the rage from decades of misrule.
Nepalis had assumed that after September the old parties would see their folly, and step down to hand over the leadership to a new generation. But 10 weeks later, there is no sign of any act of contrition.
In the NC, Sher Bahadur Deuba has sidelined the caretaker he himself appointed, Purna Bahadur Khadka, and is active again as the party prepares for a showdown in its Convention next month. The UML is proceeding with its own General Convention, where Oli is fully assured of a third term as party boss. Dahal sees no alternative to himself in his newly-forged Nepali Communist Party and is eagerly eyeing becoming prime minister for the fourth time.&nbsp;
The three leaders who everyone had hoped would finally retire have reincarnated. It is obscene for obsolete politicians to still hanker for power after all that has happened.&nbsp;
SHOCK AND AWE
The three leaders who have been prime minister a dozen times between themselves want to cling on, but this is not abnormal if we apply <a href="https://www.bbc.com/audio/play/w3cszmjz" target="_blank">Elisabeth Kübler-Ross</a>’ theory of the five stages of grief. The author of <a href="https://www.google.com.np/books/edition/On_Death_and_Dying/GlSq0AEACAAJ?hl=en" target="_blank">On Death and Dying</a> was analysing how people with terminal illness deal with their situation, but her 5-stage theory may be applicable to the way heads of the NC, UML and NCP are reacting to the shock of being overthrown — first with denial, then anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.&nbsp;
On 9 September, distressed by what had befallen them, the three were in total denial. Then began the stage of anger. Oli ranted in public about a conspiracy to install an ‘unconstitutional’ interim government, blaming the Nepal Army, and vowing not to take part in election even while preparing for it.
The NC has decided to participate in elections, although it has to first sort out its internal power struggle. The NCP and the RSP have united with smaller parties and are actively preparing to campaign. GenZ groups are speaking in different voices, with Sudan Gurung and Miraj Dhungana openly trying to unseat an interim government they themselves installed.&nbsp;
The parties are now in the third stage: bargaining. Instead of asking himself in hindsight what he should have done, Oli wants Parliament restored but has also registered his party for elections. The UML won't allow elections unless the government lifts restrictions on Oli’s movement.
Likewise, GenZ groups are putting up conditions for supporting polls: arrest Oli and others. Karki is single-mindedly focussed on elections, even if it has to be put off by two months. The Army would also like polls on time because it does not want a repeat of September when it had to intervene to form the interim government.
If Karki’s 6-month mandate ends without elections, and if by then the GenZ’s trust in the interim government collapses, then UML and NC could plan to press for an all-party election government, restoration of Parliament which would then dissolve itself to appoint a new prime minister that Karki would also be agreeable to.
The current state of affairs makes it difficult to imagine elections being held on 5 March — mainly because polls would be incomplete without the three main parties taking part, and it is unlikely they would participate in polls that they are certain to lose since they have not reformed themselves. Amidst these ifs and buts, the role of the Army will be critical.&nbsp;
The fourth stage of grief is depression, and that is what will happen to the parties when the reality of their unpopularity finally hits them. Only then will they finally accept their fate, realise that it was all their own doing, and perhaps reinvent themselves.
Kübler-Ross said the five stages did not necessarily have to be in that order, or that sometimes there may only be three phases, which may be applicable to the parties. What is for sure is that the three leaders are in no mood to atone for their sins.
Rabin Giri is an editor with <a href="http://nepalnews.com/" target="_blank">nepalnews.com</a>.&nbsp;

cremation

Life after death

Social media elated by Nepali in BBC list

Social media elated by Nepali in BBC list

A new normal

Things eventually work out

My father’s son

Stages of denial