<figure><img width="1050" height="655" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914110/636ba4659c7e80680e073666jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Prime Minister K P Oli launching the sale of shares for the Trisuli B hydroelectric project in March 2019, the first in the government’s Nepal’s Water, Nepalis’ Investment initiative. Energy Minister Barshaman Pun is on the right. Photo: PMO</figcaption></figure>Nepal’s hydropower sector, already stymied <a href="https://www.google.com/url?client=internal-element-cse&amp;cx=011870630917993763279:opm7uqsat-4&amp;q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-hydroelectricity-sector-gets-covid-19-shock/&amp;sa=U&amp;ved=2ahUKEwjFu_bFg__qAhUF_XMBHfAqAvUQFjAEegQIAxAC&amp;usg=AOvVaw0B_tYwmRm1tHBUVUnLifjc" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.google.com/url?client%3Dinternal-element-cse%26cx%3D011870630917993763279:opm7uqsat-4%26q%3Dhttps://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-hydroelectricity-sector-gets-covid-19-shock/%26sa%3DU%26ved%3D2ahUKEwjFu_bFg__qAhUF_XMBHfAqAvUQFjAEegQIAxAC%26usg%3DAOvVaw0B_tYwmRm1tHBUVUnLifjc&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596609376589000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEMkbfjV65U5ipi9fjYZ4myWul1Bg">by decades of construction delays </a>and budget constraints, is seeing its flagship Nepal’s Water, Nepalis’ Investment initiative pushed back further due to this year’s destructive monsoon rains and the economic fallout of the COVID-19 crisis.The initiative was part of the government’s ambitious masterplan to generate 15,000MW in ten years from 21 hydroelectric projects, and raise the income of Nepali shareholders in the process.“Nepal will have an energy surplus and see its economy grow, while the projects will bring the public quick rewards and allow them to prosper as well,” said the Energy Minister while launching the initiative in March last year.  <figure><img width="1500" height="839" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914110/636ba4689c7e80680e073667jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Some of the proposed projects under the Nepal’s Water, Nepalis’ Investment which will offer shares to the public to invest in: 1st row, left-right: Ghunsa Khola (72MW), Simbuwa Khola (70MW), Tamakosi-5 (96MW) Upper Trisuli 3-B (27MW). 2nd Row: Kimathangka Arun (482MW), Upper Arun (725MW), Ikhuwa (30MW), Arun 4 (372MW) 3rd row: Budi Gandaki Gwar Khola (60MW), Budi Gandaki Prok 1 (100MW), Budi Gandaki Prok 2 (240MW) Budi Gandaki A (75MW)</figcaption></figure>It was a bold target and a challenging task to sell shares to the public, but it was an attempt to make up for lost time on power projects delayed by the 2015 earthquake and the Indian Blockade. However, no one could have predicted that the country would face an even more serious crisis this year with the global pandemic.While landslides and flash floods this monsoon as well as the COVID-19 lockdown have taken a year off construction schedules, the global economic downturn is also expected to reduce the public's ability to invest in shares and attract foreign joint ventures in the hydropower projects. Even so, CEO Chhabiraj Pokharel of the Hydropower Investment and Development Company Limited (HIDCL) says the plan is to start construction on all 21 projects in the next four years so as to meet the intrim target of generating 3,500MW in five years.Despite his optimism, only one of the projects, the Upper Trisuli-3 (60MW), which went into operation in November, has been commissioned in the past year-and-half since the initiative was launched amidst much fanfare by Prime Minister Oli.The 111MW Rasuwagadi and 57MW Upper Sanjen are nearing completion, and have released shares to employees. Another project is halfway, but the other 14 have not gotten off the ground.  <figure><img width="1631" height="550" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914110/636ba46b9c7e80680e073668jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Rasuwagadhi Project site (111MW) on the Trisuli River, where construction has begun. </figcaption></figure>Even though many of these projects were delayed due to existing bureaucratic and technical hurdles, the government is blaming the COVID-19 crisis. Says Madhu Prasad Bhetuwal, convenor of the Nepal’s Water, Nepalis’ Investment initiative: “All the projects had been pushed back by six months already due to the COVID-19 crisis, and another six months because of the rainy season.”Nevertheless, the government’s plan is to begin construction on Upper Arun (725MW), Kimathangka Arun (482MW), Phukot Karnali (492MW), Tamakosi-5 (96MW), Chainpur Seti (201MW), and Jagadulla (157MW) as soon as the monsoon is over. Of these, Tamakosi-5 is putting shares up for sale to the public, now that its engineering and design work is complete. The modalities for the Rs33 billion Bheri-Babai Diversion Multipurpose Program are also complete. This project will irrigate 51,000ha in the eastern Tarai, while also generating 48.6MW of electricity. Five percent of the shares of this project will be open to local people, Karnali provincial government will have 20%, the project itself will have 26%, and the central government will have majority shares of 49%.  <figure><img width="1500" height="834" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914110/636ba46e9c7e80680e073669jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Bheri-Babai tunnel that will irrigate 51,000ha in the western Tarai, and generate 48MW of electricity.</figcaption></figure>The government’s plan is that 51% of the Nepal’s Water, Nepalis’ Investment initiative will be funded by the government, while 49% will have the public’s investment. Of this, 70% will be loan financed, while 30% will be paid for by investment in equities. Of that 30%, a little more than half will be bought up by the government while 49% will be public.Government agencies are also being directed to allocate funds for the initiative. The Employees’ Provident Fund, Citizens Investment Fund, HIDCL, Nepal Telecom, National Insurance Institute, Nepal Police, Nepal Army and the Armed Police Force have all been directed to invest Rs1-6 billion per year in the initiative. The total cost of the 21 projects is estimated to exceed Rs700 billion -- which is equal to more than half the annual national budget of Nepal. Banks and financial institutions have a 10% ceiling on hydropower investment in their total portfolio, and this is enough to only fund 50MW production every year. This means the most serious obstacle to the initiative will now be the funding crunch. This has been exacerbated by the fall in government revenue due to the pandemic, as seen in this<a href="https://www.google.com/url?client=internal-element-cse&amp;cx=011870630917993763279:opm7uqsat-4&amp;q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-unveils-covid-19-budget/&amp;sa=U&amp;ved=2ahUKEwjFu_bFg__qAhUF_XMBHfAqAvUQFjAFegQIARAC&amp;usg=AOvVaw0IyIrqaRrWGvlcvL74WQUS" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.google.com/url?client%3Dinternal-element-cse%26cx%3D011870630917993763279:opm7uqsat-4%26q%3Dhttps://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-unveils-covid-19-budget/%26sa%3DU%26ved%3D2ahUKEwjFu_bFg__qAhUF_XMBHfAqAvUQFjAFegQIARAC%26usg%3DAOvVaw0IyIrqaRrWGvlcvL74WQUS&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596609376589000&amp;usg=AFQjCNF97_uq5VhqvzbTa4EA79zdsQsuyQ"> fiscal year’s budget.</a> The government could rely on foreign loans and multilateral creditors, but they are also affected by the global recession.Normal hydropower regulations only allow for shares to be released once construction is half-complete. Under the provisions of the initiative, shares and IPOs (Initial Public Offerings) can be released once 10% of project funding is used.  <figure><img width="600" height="677" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110914110/636ba4759c7e80680e07366ajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Construction site of the Upper Trisuli 3B (37MW), one of the projects delayed by the COVID-19 lockdown.</figcaption></figure>Convenor Bhetuwal says construction of the 21 hydropower projects were deliberately staggered, keeping in mind the rise in nationwide energy demand. He adds: “Generating 3,500MW at once will lead to a glut in the market, may overwhelm consumers and waste energy, that is why projects are going into production in a phase-wise manner.” This is a legitimate concern, because national demand for electricity has dropped during he lockdown, prompting Nepal Electricity Authority Director Kul Man Ghising to call out the government on its U-turn on encouraging demand for electricity consumption, <a href="https://www.google.com/url?client=internal-element-cse&amp;cx=011870630917993763279:opm7uqsat-4&amp;q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-takes-3-steps-back-on-e-cars/&amp;sa=U&amp;ved=2ahUKEwjm3tT5g__qAhWd8HMBHRiHBzkQFjAAegQIBRAC&amp;usg=AOvVaw1WVWH_378BaBmM7FzPie46" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.google.com/url?client%3Dinternal-element-cse%26cx%3D011870630917993763279:opm7uqsat-4%26q%3Dhttps://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-takes-3-steps-back-on-e-cars/%26sa%3DU%26ved%3D2ahUKEwjm3tT5g__qAhWd8HMBHRiHBzkQFjAAegQIBRAC%26usg%3DAOvVaw1WVWH_378BaBmM7FzPie46&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1596609376589000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHFj7LD-yfyCCJ0ZeVWqLFX6NH2zw">including a hike on e-vehicle taxes. </a>

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Generating electricity (and cash) for Nepalis

<figure><img width="680" height="453" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110912114/636b8a0a9c7e80680e06b21bjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Nepal Police making an arrest using multifunctional rescue and arrest device during the lockdown. Photo: RSS</figcaption></figure>The calls started coming at 10:30 at night on 30 March, a week into the coronavirus lockdown. It was Jib Narayan Chaudhary, and he sounded frantic. Knowing I was a journalist, the day labourer was calling for help from the Koteswor traffic police office where he and 22 other co-workers were being held by police who would not let them travel to their homes in Saptari district. He said he had a police travel permit.I called the Koteswor police station, and the duty in-charge Sudarshan Thapa said: “People do not understand that lockdown means lockdown. You cannot leave the Valley.”<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/walking-3-days-to-get-home/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Walking 3 days to get home</a>, Sanjay MishraIn fact, Thapa said the rules had changed that day, and a permit did not suffice anymore. Travellers also needed a yellow card from the CDO office. Chaudhary and his friends did finally get the card from the Lalitpur District Office and got home on 2 April, after surviving on dry noodles and little money during their long bus journey.“If we had known that the government would extend the lockdown, we would have made other arrangements. It is always poor people like us who suffer the most in any national emergency,” Chaudhary told me.We were at the Lalitpur District Office (LDO) in Man Bhawan where there were many kinds of people caught in a lurch by the change in travel rules. Jit Jung Rana Magar from Sindhupalchowk, looked fed up. He needed to leave because his wife is alone with an infant and a two-year-old daughter. “I have to be there for them. The office asked me to get all the related documents yesterday but now they need more documents,” Rana Magar said, looking lost. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/lockdown-guidelines/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Lockdown guidelines</a>In a corner stood 31-year-old Chinna Maya Tamang who had just lost her 65-year-old mother in Dolalghat that morning. “I have to go home for my mother’s death rites, I don’t know what will happen with the new rules,” she said. By 10 in the morning, it had turned into a crowd at the LDO, while the policemen at the gate tried to separate them for physical distancing. Some were screaming to allow them in, others shouted through their masks to be allowed in. Suresh Thapa, the policeman was trying, not successfully, to calm the crowd. He said: “My body already feels sick. We also fear for our families, but it's our job to follow the rules.” The people here needed to travel for family emergencies, or because unlike the better-off they had run out of money and food. To travel during the lockdown they needed a permit, and the rules had just been changed. No one seemed to know what the rules were.“Confusion, confusion, confusion, why can’t there be an effective system?” fumed Rana Magar. “Sometimes, they say they need white pass, sometimes yellow and sometimes just an application.” <a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/lockdown-limbo-in-no-mans-land/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Lockdown limbo in no man's land</a>, Deepak KharelWhile some people continue to walk around at all times of day, others are snared by the ominously-named ‘Multifunctional Rescue and Arrest Device’ and locked up for three hours on the street. Others seem to be able to wangle travel permits fairly easily, while others pay vegetable truck drivers to hide in the back.The lockdown is supposed to end on <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-covid-19-lockdown-extended-till-7-april/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Tuesday 7 April at midnight</a>  and may be extended further. The desperation of ordinary people trapped in the city is greater than ever, and so is the confusion about what is allowed and what is not. Is it ok to walk out to shop for food? Can I head out to the pharmacy? What if I have a medical emergency?  I called the emergency hotline by dialling 100 just to clarify. “You can leave the house in the morning and evening, maybe just for an hour,” said the operator. But the police do not seem to know that. Maiya Nepal, 60, is a household help and was detained by police while shopping for groceries at 8:30 in the morning. “Thank god, I wasn’t asked to become a chicken for hours,” she said, alluding to the practice of police punishing people by making them do sit-ups in the middle of the street. “the police need to be sure about the rules and not punish us.”LOCKDOWN DO’S AND DONT’S As far as we could figure out from official sources, here is a list of what is allowed and not allowed during the lockdown. This list is not exhaustive, nor is there any guarantee that police themselves know the rules.According to a statement published by the Home Ministry:  <ol><li>The responsibility to ensure essential supplies is with local governments.</li><li>Everyone should maintain at least a 1m gap while visiting a store. </li><li>The ward chief to head a committee made up of police to decide on maintaining essential services.</li><li>The committee should trace daily wagers and support them with provisions.</li><li>Shops to create daily packages of essential items, depending on size of families. </li><li>Charities and social welfare groups should coordinate with ward office and the committee. </li><li>Organisations and individuals not allowed to raise money using the lockdown as excuse. </li><li>Double distribution prohibited. </li><li>The Ministry of Finance, Commerce and Health should ensure the supply of essential items and distribute them evenly to all. </li></ol>Statement by the Metropolitan City District offices:<ol><li>Funeral vehicles do not need permits. Except for security vehicles, public and private transport should be off the roads.</li><li>Only essential services like health, security, food supply, water supply, dairy, electricity, telecommunication, news and information, customs, quarantine, waste management will be in operation. All others to stay home.</li><li>People can still go out, but only for urgent medical reasons or to buy food.</li><li>Home delivery services will be given permits for Kathmandu Valley.</li><li>Department stores will be allowed to open for ‘certain hours’ in the morning and evening. </li><li>No vehicles or persons will be allowed to leave Kathmandu Valley unless it is a family emergency like deaths or pregnancies.  </li><li>All others need verification from municipalities and have it attested by the district offices.  </li></ol>Rules for vehicle permits: <ol><li>The application should be signed in red ink. </li><li>A clear description of why the permit is needed.</li><li>Duration of the permit.</li><li>Name and designation should be clearly mentioned.</li><li>The ward office and police must approve the application. </li><li>According to the subject and circumstances different colour permits will be issued. </li><li>Local authorities can over-ride permit if it is misused.</li></ol>Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/home-health-care-during-a-lockdown/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Home health care during lockdown</a>, Alisha Sijapati

Confusion persists about lockdown rules

This is the 81st 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. I went to Australia in 2008 because everyone was headed there. It was my first time leaving the country and my first job. My college helped me find work as a kitchen helper at a Brisbane restaurant.&nbsp; I did not know that being a kitchen helper meant washing dishes. I was young and did not know how to wash dishes or how to handle the steam, the hot water, and the busy kitchen. The utensils were thrown at the dishwashing station continuously, and water splashed on my face. My shoes and clothes were always wet. It was an on-call job. A couple of days into the job, I was asked to come in when I was at the movies. I refused. They fired me. That was that. I then worked on a farm, picking lemons and oranges. The lemon work was particularly hard because I would get cuts all over my hands. This hustle was not for me.&nbsp; Within a year in Australia, I decided to return to Nepal because the foreign life did not suit me. After spending eight months in Nepal, reality sank in. Nepal was not all that great either. I went back to Australia. On the plane, I befriended a Nepali woman who was homesick and a first time traveler. At the immigration in Australia, the officer noticed my long absence and started interrogating me. He noticed the Nepali woman waiting for me and asked who she was. Without thinking I lied that she was my girlfriend. That seemed to do the trick because he did not want us to be separated. He stamped my passport. She went her way. I went mine.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260127130112_5e7bfa6acc5f94d5f1905537e387c2d4169469679ace2b71de368912f3bd514f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260127130112_5e7bfa6acc5f94d5f1905537e387c2d4169469679ace2b71de368912f3bd514f" data-rendition-name="original" width="987" height="1004" loading="lazy" alt="DD 81 NT"> </figure>  In Sydney, I again found a dishwashing job at a fine dining restaurant. A Sri Lankan colleague helped me learn the job. The pace at which I had to do the dishes was insane but I got the hang of it in two weeks. I always dreamt of one day wearing the chef’s white coat. It commanded respect, I could tell. In addition to becoming good at my job washing dishes, I also had good language and networking skills so I built good relationships with colleagues. There was a need for a pizza chef at the restaurant. It was expensive to hire someone new, and they asked me if I was up for the job. I said yes even though I knew nothing about making pizzas. My Italian colleagues coached me and before I knew it, I became better than others at the job. Soon, I realised that I did not just want to make pizzas. Whatever I wanted to learn, I just asked seniors to take me under their wings and I would help without pay. They would agree but still pay me. It wasn’t a strategy per se, I genuinely wanted to learn. At some point, a Japanese sous chef in my restaurant and I had coincidentally applied to the same restaurant, and there, under him, I got to learn even more. Working with a Japanese chef is really difficult, but you learn a lot. He would sometimes even hold my hand with tongs dipped in hot water when I screwed something up. I worked in a few restaurants after this and was earning well. When one of my colleagues, a dishwasher, was let go unfairly, I decided to leave because I did not want to be a quiet bystander to this act. I returned to Nepal immediately after this.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012719010_f33ba38bb5f86f1d33262fd0d7ccd09ed01f6cc52148ca3d4cd66c434b695730.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2026012719010_f33ba38bb5f86f1d33262fd0d7ccd09ed01f6cc52148ca3d4cd66c434b695730" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="DD 82"> </figure>  I started a restaurant called Ghumti, but it was struggling. The location of the restaurants was not good and it failed. I bought another restaurant in Darbar Marg. I was managing two restaurants when Covid hit. The rent kept piling up, and there was no revenue. I took a huge loss. I gave them up and returned to Chitwan and started making migration plans. I came across a job vacancy for Alba in Qatar by the famous Enrico Crippa. I still remember the heat when I got out of the airport in Doha, it was like entering an oven. Thankfully, I had a Nepali roommate who showed me around and helped me adjust.&nbsp; The hotel was still under construction, but training had started. We worked really hard for the opening and things went well. In 2023, we even won the Best MENA Restaurant award. But at some point in 2024, the international Crippa chain decided to leave.&nbsp; Some colleagues including the head chef left and I suddenly was put in charge. I had some head chef experience from Australia and had previous experience working in high pressure environments, so I stepped up. We had to start from scratch again, this time as Alba in Raffles, Doha.&nbsp; The name of our restaurant comes from the Alba white truffle, which is the best available and is expensive, selling at around 40,000 QAR per kg. We had heard the official announcement that the Michelin was coming to Qatar, and we worked even harder.&nbsp; Michelin inspections are strict, highly secretive and you have no idea you are being investigated. Even then, we were up for the game. We were ‘selected’ which meant we had potential.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026012719010_bab3a904af69603e9e79f333aeea89b035401c0c8d1750930107f3594ff1f565.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2026012719010_bab3a904af69603e9e79f333aeea89b035401c0c8d1750930107f3594ff1f565" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="697" loading="lazy" alt="DD 81"> </figure>  I went to the award ceremony with low expectations. But because they announce the name alphabetically, Alba came first. I was very happy and felt validated. Being recognised as a Michelin one star restaurant is a huge achievement for us. My MD reminded me of a promise I had made of getting a Michelin tattoo if we got the award. I guess I will get it done when I come to Nepal next. My plan is to get a tattoo that captures my journey right from the dishwashing days.&nbsp; I have cooked for Obama, Beckham, Kaka, Trump, 50 Cent, Lindsay Lohan, you name it, because our restaurant is visited by high profile guests. At first, I used to feel the pressure. Now I view all guests as the same. The food you make is the same no matter who is eating it. I love the work. In fact, it does not feel like work. The rush in the kitchen, the atmosphere, the heat, the scent, I live for it. When I am not working, I get bored. It is like an addiction without which I get withdrawals. I want to contribute in introducing Nepali cuisine and ingredients in the worldstage. Nepalis overseas have a lot of potential in the hospitality sector. But my advice to youth is to focus on building a strong base and invest in learning. It is increasingly common for Nepalis to job hop for a salary jump. While other skills like language are also important, it is the hard skills that we really need to focus on. In our field of work, it is the plate that needs to speak.

Sky is the limit

During the 2022 election, populist candidates campaigned with algorithms and were elected mayors. In 2026, they are campaigning with AI-generated memes and videos. Four years ago, the idea that the most potent weapon in the next election in Nepal would be artificially generated clips of politicians beating each other up would have been science fiction. Yet, here we are: at a fever pitch of AI-based political content. Some are generated by the IT cells of political parties, while most are just produced and posted by young tech-savvy supporters of the new candidates. Most of them ridicule older leaders, and the predominant target is former prime minister K P Oli who was forced to resign after the September protests. On 20 January the TikTok account ‘iamfunnyman88’ posted a slapstick video in which former Kathmandu Mayor Balendra Shah is seen accosting ex-prime minister K P Oli with a giant bell (pictured), swinging it in Kung Fu Hustle style in what looks like Patan Darbar Square. Oli is sent splattered on the ground. K P Oli has become a symbol of the legacy parties and their aged leaders, and everything that is wrong with them. Balendra Shah represents the new protest candidate. The two are contesting from Jhapa-5, and it is turning out to be a prime ministerial race for 5 March. In another video, the RSP vs UML clash played out as a high-stakes war from the Mahabharat. Oli is a young warrior with a chiselled jaw and wearing a heavy golden armour ready to lead his followers to battle (pictured). A stylised Nepal flag flutters above him to the accompaniment of filmy dialogue.&nbsp; The videos are everywhere on TikTok, YouTube and Facebook. Many of the posts are hitting over 200,000 likes and 5 million views. Such content seems to be engaging more voters than speeches and door-to-door campaigning at the hustings. The videos are fake, but the numbers, and the attention they command, are very real.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026013014010_ed52fe3248b54eb4f9f391ee718e874a86c1b98297dde203800ad7b114bdacda.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2026013014010_ed52fe3248b54eb4f9f391ee718e874a86c1b98297dde203800ad7b114bdacda" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal election memes"> </figure>  At first, it looked like the RSP’s digital media presence was a joke aimed at getting easy-to-access publicity via the far-reaching arms of the algorithm. But it is looking like a carefully designed strategy promoting Balen Shah as the RSP’s star player in this election.&nbsp; In 2022, it was just for the mayor of Kathmandu. This time, Balen Shah is already being promoted in these videos as a winner who has defeated the legacy politicians.&nbsp; In previous elections in Nepal, political parties used to spend lavishly on the ‘masu bhat’ strategy — feeding heavy plates of mutton curry and rice to constituents in return for votes. Ideology was swapped for immediate caloric gratification often accompanied by free-flowing alcohol.&nbsp; But surely, the new voter is too sophisticated for this. Politicians insist they have rebooted their operating systems to serve this enlightened demographic. We are talking, after all, about the generation that brought down a government over 36 hours in September.&nbsp; The assumption is that young voters today are too aware and far too proud to trade democratic agency for something as crude as a plate of steaming mutton curry and rice.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026013014014_983476ba334f895b64cd8ea34bd0ad79c1632c428feb119c84477d8e929eb057.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2026013014014_983476ba334f895b64cd8ea34bd0ad79c1632c428feb119c84477d8e929eb057" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal elections meme"> </figure>  But the question is: are voters today any different? Aren’t these social media memes digital versions of the masu bhat that delivers a dopamine rush to voters? Watching the videos is entertainment that delivers a state of bliss, a protest against what is old but no enlightenment about how to get to the new. &nbsp; The I-cannot-go-a-single-minute-without-checking-my-phone demographic has leaned firmly towards politicians whose main focus is to be a social media star first, and an accountable politician second. More than 70% of Nepalis have smartphones now and most are hooked on data plans. The public has acquired a taste for a different kind of masu bhat - the digital kind. Instead of being made to slurp up the free spicy, fatty goat curry with deep guttural satisfaction, voters are being made to swallow easy-to-digest online clips to make serious voting decisions.&nbsp; After all, it is more fun than paying attention to a candidate’s policy proposals and actually thinking critically about the candidates.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026013014014_eb3a9e0c50f4a47706a6695e78ae41556c3d9754c15d564d42fb0de3f4199999.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2026013014014_eb3a9e0c50f4a47706a6695e78ae41556c3d9754c15d564d42fb0de3f4199999" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal elections meme"> </figure>  TURNING POINT An important moment for the evolution of this digital masu bhat is the 2020 pandemic. It was just six years ago that the entire population was cut off from physical interaction. The phone screen became the sole mediator of social existence.&nbsp; Technology changes what we see as important, and this prolonged immersion fundamentally alters our perception of reality, training us to accept the flattened, binary logic of the algorithm as a substitute for the complex, multisensory texture of political reality. What is on the phone has started to dictate the questions we ask and the answers we accept. If it is not on the phone, it is starting to look irrelevant. The memes manufacture consent. Gerontocratic politicians habituated to legacy media have not fathomed the implications of this new virtual world. Everyone has been swayed by a good story since the beginning of time. Now, the phone has allowed millions of Nepalis to tell, retell, consume, and remix stories that would traditionally have huge barriers to entry. Consider the vegetable vendor killing time between customers, Gen-Z youth with no memory of the Maoist conflict, or the grandad who cannot distinguish an AI video from real footage.&nbsp; When they finally step into the voting booth, what is guiding their hand? Is it a careful calculus of policy proposals, demonstrated competence, and leadership integrity? Or is it the cumulative impact of those AI-generated dopamine hits they have been fed on a loop? This digital fog of war cuts both ways. In a twist of supreme irony, actual footage of candidates behaving badly is now routinely dismissed as ‘AI-generated’ by their PR teams. This was a convenient get-out-of-jail-free card that Balen’s camp used when a video of him shoving cadres went viral.&nbsp; Meanwhile, completely fabricated tear-jerkers of old leaders like Prachanda weeping are consumed by the public as gospel truth. We have arrived at a point where the inconvenient real is dismissed as a glitch, and the emotional fake is embraced as history.&nbsp; In Society of the Spectacle, Guy Debord argued that images eventually replace real life. Today’s voters in Nepal and elsewhere are not even consuming the actual meat-and-bones of mutton curry; they are swallowing the 15 second digital imitations of it.&nbsp; Welcome to the age of digital मासु भात.

Nepal’s AI-generated election

We walk past familiar neighbourhoods and wonder how much it has changed. An ongoing exhibition at The Kalā Salon titled Changing Times by The Pagoda Group aims to do just that -- capture ever-changing society within a captivating display of colourful canvases. Brick-lined houses, local tea shops, ancient temples, quiet devotion are themes in Pradhumna Shrestha’s series Shangri-La, much of which is an imagined past filled with nostalgia of the place he grew up in. By keeping people out of the frame, he allows space for what he calls a divine aura to surface.&nbsp; “I was born and brought up here and my canvases echo the nostalgia of cities like Kathmandu, Bhaktapur, and Lalitpur which are dense with myth, folklore, religion, and an ever-present divinity. All of this is truly what is ours, and we must treasure it,” says Shrestha. “Whatever I truly felt in my heart, I translated it into my work.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260128100132_32a8f9e9816595f12ec0da357528feffbb249fd19adbb658c18e72e2b721f9df.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260128100132_32a8f9e9816595f12ec0da357528feffbb249fd19adbb658c18e72e2b721f9df" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="1036" loading="lazy" alt="The Kala Salon exhibition NT"> </figure>  The swirling clouds that drift across Shrestha’s canvases borrow from thangka and paubha traditions, lending the scenes a sense of mysticism and otherworldliness. Within this dreamscape are red circular forms which represent wheels of chariots. &nbsp;The presence of divinity dominates from above, its presence asserted in soft blue brushstrokes below, as if the deity’s gaze itself has seeped into the land. Gods linger as guardians and temples hum with enigma in his paintings. In his much earlier work, Cultural Bond, a lakhe masked dancer bursts forward in vibrant red, dancing against a backdrop of molten gold clouds. The lakhe’s trance signifies protection and where it steps, the evil cannot follow. Hence, the skulls that surround but never fall beneath its feet but, one leg hangs suspended in midair, suggesting uncertainty, raising questions.&nbsp; Is this a symbol of culture and tradition, secure, or is it endangered by modernity? The work captures a society at a crossroads, honouring tradition while grappling with the risk of drifting away from it.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260128100132_c78307920acc7b14fb9f469a011043661accec66c230b5e7587bcba0199bcbf1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260128100132_c78307920acc7b14fb9f469a011043661accec66c230b5e7587bcba0199bcbf1" data-rendition-name="original" width="979" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="The Kala Salon exhibition NT"> </figure>  In Panchatatva Mandala, Pasang Bikram Lama fuses two mandalas into a single visual meditation, suggesting unity where each colour carries symbolic weight: yellow evokes the soil of the earth, blue flows as water, red burns with fire, and black opens into the vastness of the spatial sky. Together, these elements form a quiet cosmology that speaks of creation and dissolution, of life folding endlessly into death and returning again. Says Lama, “Everyone has a mandala of their own being, and the elements represent their cycle of life.” Mala Shrestha’s works Water of the Divine Mother and The Spirit of Serenity unfold in a dreamy and delicate fusion of nature and religion, suggesting that divine forms are not separate from the natural world. Trees and branch-like motifs appear as origins of sacred sculptures and spiritual presences.&nbsp; Her goddesses, adorned in alluring ornaments, emerge from trunks and streams, painted in aqua green, pink pastels, and rustic browns, as if grown rather than created, affirming that the divine is inseparable from nature and present everywhere.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260128100132_1f8cce84b4515a0d6d8b8fc169367bf5d39a7479c2c30038dafe90ec2bb3c4c9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20260128100132_1f8cce84b4515a0d6d8b8fc169367bf5d39a7479c2c30038dafe90ec2bb3c4c9" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="The Kala Salon exhibition NT"> </figure>  Kishor Nakarmi’s Essence of Nepal, where Gautam Buddha appears embedded within leaves, brick walls, birds, and wilderness, dissolving boundaries between the sacred and the earthly. These canvases radiate calm and their subtlety is enriched by finely observed details. Similarly, Rudra Bahadur Pun captures the vitality of mask dances and ritual movements found in the monasteries of Mustang, weaving together tradition, landscape, and daily life. The essence of the exhibition comes together in Roshan Pradhan’s works. His paintings reflect a contemporary tension where technology collides with ancestral myth and the power of tradition. A fierce Garud rises within a landscape saturated by technological apparatuses, while at its feet a human form representing AI clings tightly, attempting to assert control.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260128100132_dc2c1ad4a4cefea6c6c7d02e9ed500309b7c862535247fe6451038e1d053d6b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20260128100132_dc2c1ad4a4cefea6c6c7d02e9ed500309b7c862535247fe6451038e1d053d6b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="The Kala Salon exhibition NT"> </figure>  In another work, Bhairab confronts a human embodiment of AI in a theatrical standoff, with the deity ultimately prevailing, reaffirming endurance over technological dominance. The human figures in Pradhan’s paintings are drawn from life with his friends volunteering as models, photographed and later translated onto canvas.&nbsp; “Technology has taken over our lives. Many can probably not even imagine life without it now. But, culture, too, is integral to human existence. Our life would be much different without our culture; it is a part of us,” notes the artist. Rather than framing technology as purely antagonistic, Pradhan explores coexistence, and while acknowledging its destructive potential, he affirms his belief in the power of our myths and traditions.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260128100132_bc831a663ca8977c39979a363a95bcae5e41cfe624d78152c546579caa3e680f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20260128100132_bc831a663ca8977c39979a363a95bcae5e41cfe624d78152c546579caa3e680f" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="The Kala Salon exhibition NT"> </figure>  Pradhan adds, “These paintings are also an archive of its time. Viewers centuries from now may read these paintings as records of the age we inhabit. While technology is important, cultural continuity must walk alongside it. Festivals must still be celebrated, oral traditions must be sustained, and our roots must be remembered, especially by future generations.” Curator Sophia L Pande says the exhibition took more than a year to put together:&nbsp; “It responds to a shifting world, seeking to capture both transformation and the quiet fear of loss. Its themes move fluidly across environment, technology, artificial intelligence, and climate change, reflecting the diverse yet interconnected practices of the artists, providing a glimpse into the evolving landscape of contemporary Nepali art.” Changing Times The Kalā Salon Chhaya Centre, Thamel 11AM-8PM

Time, transience, transition

The slow, arduous labour of democracy rarely announces itself with the fanfare of constitutional moments. &nbsp;It proceeds instead through committee rooms, ward meetings, half-attended assemblies, the awkward choreography of speech and silence, and the everyday compromises between aspiration and constraint.&nbsp; The book Nepal’s Federalism and the Pursuit of Deliberative Democracy attends precisely to this unglamorous terrain. In it, Vishnu Kumari Tandon does not ask whether democracy is desirable — an already settled question — but whether it can be made to think, to listen, and to endure under conditions of inequality, historical fracture, and institutional novelty.&nbsp; Her wager is modest yet demanding: that federalism, when tethered to participatory planning and deliberative fors, might recalibrate the relationship between state and citizen without promising redemption. Tandon’s Nepal is neither a site of democratic salvation nor a study in failure. It is a space of trial, where ideas migrate from constitutional text to municipal practice, altered by context, power, and expectation. Democracy here appears not as an ideal form but as a situated practice -- procedural, contested, and unfinished.&nbsp; The book’s quiet achievement lies in redirecting debates on deliberative democracy away from abstract normativity and toward the ethical friction of lived institutions. Federalism arrives in Nepal not as a technocratic reform but as a historical concession, wrested from conflict, exclusion, and prolonged political unrest. Tandon, who is a governance consultant at the World Bank, situates the 2015 Constitution within this unsettled genealogy, treating federalism less as an administrative innovation than as a moral response to longstanding claims of marginalisation.&nbsp; The constitutional recognition of local autonomy is thus freighted with ethical expectation. Yet the book refuses to equate decentralisation with empowerment. Federalism, Tandon insists, redistributes power without dissolving hierarchy. Domination may simply reappear closer to home. The central question, therefore, is not whether local governments exist, but how they govern: whether institutionalised participation genuinely alters the terms on which citizens speak, decide, and contest public priorities. Federalism emerges not as a stable structure but as a field of tension—between autonomy and dependence, inclusion and capture, aspiration and capacity. It is within this unstable terrain that the democratic experiment unfolds.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260127090120_62bd86d5cbb0dc9d199b797b2c90a5be37213b6c9236f79220706469cd3689a0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260127090120_62bd86d5cbb0dc9d199b797b2c90a5be37213b6c9236f79220706469cd3689a0" data-rendition-name="original" width="800" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Vishnu Kumari Tandon"> <figcaption>Vishnu Kumari Tandon</figcaption> </figure>  UNEQUAL SKIES&nbsp; Participation, one of democracy’s most invoked terms, often risks conceptual exhaustion. Tandon restores its weight by treating participation as labour rather than ritual. Drawing on fieldwork in Buddhabhumi and Dhanushadham municipalities, she reconstructs the choreography of local planning: assemblies, committees, and councils through which proposals circulate, stall, or vanish. Participation here is unevenly distributed. It is shaped by gendered expectations, caste hierarchies, economic precarity, and anticipations of return. Attendance becomes a calculation rather than a civic reflex. This analytical attention to motivation marks one of the book’s strengths.&nbsp; Citizens participate not out of abstract virtue but through pragmatic reasoning, moral obligation, and strategic interest. Participation thus appears neither ennobling nor cynical, but politically intelligible. If participation concerns presence, deliberation concerns voice — and, crucially, whose voice matters. Tandon’s engagement with deliberative democratic theory is respectful yet revisionist. Habermasian ideals of reasoned consensus are treated as aspirational rather than portable, strained by structural inequality. In municipal assemblies, deliberation is patterned by authority: who speaks first, who commands attention, whose claims are legitimised. Marginalised citizens may be present without influence, audible without consequence. Deliberation risks becoming procedural affirmation rather than substantive redistribution of voice. Yet Tandon does not abandon deliberation as a democratic practice. Instead, she broadens its normative horizon. Drawing on second-generation deliberative theory, she legitimises emotion, self-interest, and strategic speech as components of democratic reasoning. Deliberation becomes a contested exchange rather than a purified rationality. The common good, if it appears, emerges provisionally: negotiated rather than presumed. One of the book’s most original contributions lies in its treatment of fiscal decentralisation. Money is not merely a resource but a language through which priorities are articulated and participation structured. The devolution of budgetary authority transforms deliberation into distributive politics. Citizens attend assemblies not simply to speak but to secure roads, water systems, clinics, schools. Voice is tethered to material expectation. This proximity intensifies engagement while sharpening conflict. Fiscal autonomy thus amplifies the stakes of deliberation without guaranteeing its equity. Local representatives emerge as paradoxical figures: empowered yet constrained, accountable yet insulated. Tandon resists binary judgments, showing instead how fiscal decentralisation deepens democratic possibility while exposing institutional fragility. Threaded through the book is a sustained interrogation of the ‘common good’. Revered in theory and suspect in practice, the concept is neither discarded nor sanctified. In unequal societies, appeals to the common good can obscure asymmetries of sacrifice. Empirically, deliberation proceeds through articulated self-interests: neighbourhood demands, caste claims, gendered priorities. Far from undermining democracy, these claims animate it. Self-interest becomes deliberation’s motor rather than its negation. The book thus advances a quiet ethical argument: democracy does not require the transcendence of interest, but its articulation under conditions of mutual visibility. The common good, if it exists, is emergent, fragile, and revisable. Institutions, for Tandon, are moral technologies. Laws mandate participation, but they cannot generate trust, courage, or equality. Procedural compliance may coexist with substantive exclusion. Yet repetition matters. Even imperfect fora can cultivate habits of speaking and being heard. Deliberative democracy, the book suggests, is not an event but a discipline, learned slowly, unevenly, and reversibly. Federalism is less a solution than a condition: one that opens space for democratic learning without securing its outcome. Firmly grounded in Nepal’s political history, the book resists parochialism. Nepal functions as a mirror, reflecting broader dilemmas of democratic deepening across unequal societies. Comparative resonances with Brazil, India, and donor-driven governance reforms are handled without formula or prescription. Nepal is neither an exemplar nor an exception. It is a site where democracy reveals its ordinary difficulties. The prose mirrors the argument: careful, analytic, resistant to grand claims. What lingers is not a verdict but a sensibility: an attentiveness to democracy’s tempo. Deliberative democracy appears less as consensus achieved than as disagreement sustained without rupture. In an age of democratic impatience, Tandon offers a quieter ethic. Democracy must be allowed to think slowly, to falter, and to learn. This book stands as a thoughtful companion to that discipline, reminding us that democratic transformation often occurs far from the centre, in places where speaking itself remains an achievement.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260127090112_4bd0fdb8c4ef4e44c21e9cba4ae63a8481ca1d61bb20f716b29f649bcdf1a4bc.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260127090112_4bd0fdb8c4ef4e44c21e9cba4ae63a8481ca1d61bb20f716b29f649bcdf1a4bc" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Federalism book details NT"> </figure>  Aftab Husain is a Pakistan-born poet and literary and cultural critic. He teaches South Asian literature and culture at the University of Vienna.

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Sky is the limit

Nepal’s AI-generated election

Time, transience, transition

Nepal’s slow grammar of democracy