As with all spheres of national life that make up our social and cultural fabric, Nepal’s film industry has also been hit hard. Cinemas are closed, shooting has stopped, and there is even less investment in new movies.As with the global film industry, Nepali producers are also disseminating directly through YouTube and other streaming platforms. Film festivals are being held online.The Kathmandu International Mountain Film Festival (KIMFF) <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/business/kimff-2020/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">took place virtually</a> from 10-14 December and had 300 entries this year, out of which 12 films were chosen for the Nepal Panorama and 18 for the international competition.“Because we went virtual, many people outside Nepal were able to see the films, and the number of entries was surprisingly high even given the times we’re in,” KIMFF director Ramyata Limbu told Nepali Times.“If you can’t get people to the hall in terms of logistics and time, doing festivals online in this multimedia era would make it more accessible for people who don’t have the time or inclination to make it to the theatres,” says Limbu. “The more accessible we can make it, the more people will take the time to view independent films.A selection of notable films from 2020: <figure><img width="1920" height="1080" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf0284b0ad905ca02eff4jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Photo: NISHON SHAKYA</figcaption></figure>The CrematorNishon Shakya’s, documentary which <a href="https://kimff.org/the-cremator/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">premiered at KIMFF</a>, follows elderly cremator Gyan Bahadur, who is nearing the end of his professional life at the Bhasmeshwar ghat at Pashupati. Gyan Bahadur’s narration of his life is accompanied by powerful visuals of cremations at Pashupati. Caution: Viewer Discretion Advised. Shakya is uncompromising in his visuals of the dead, in a way a macabre reminder of the times we live in.  Gyan Bahadur cremates the dead, a cigarette held tight between his lips, discusses politics, offers medical advice, and tells the story of his life. Having himself lost two of his sons in their childhood, Gyan Bahadur says he makes money off other people’s losses. At times, he is scathing about the living, who like to send off their dead with style but have no words of kindness to the people who help them pass on. Surrounded by mortality, he speaks matter-of-factly about his own death, accepting that he will eventually find his way back to Pashupati and move on from this world the same way he helped countless others. <figure><img width="1440" height="645" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf02b4b0ad905ca02eff5jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Day 33Filmed in the throes of the Covid-19 lockdown, LSM’s (Sailesh RC) <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSFRDsh9kX8" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">relevant short film</a> captures a young man’s increasing agitation as he searches for food in his room on the 33rd day of the shutdown. In the barely furnished space, surrounded by empty food containers and an empty wallet, he doesn’t find any. And so, he must settle for anything that he can find within the space that he can move in.The brevity of the film works in its favour — there are no unnecessary drawn-out scenes that attempt to force more meaning or gravitas to the story. There are no dialogues, no angry soliloquies, not one word from the protagonist. The film doesn’t need them. There is just weariness and resignation. <figure><img width="733" height="620" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf02d4b0ad905ca02eff6jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Come Over for a Drink, Kanchhi Sikuma Rai’s documentary played at the Pame Film Festival, NHRIFF, and KIMFF. <a href="https://festival.kimff.org/nepal-panorama/come-over-for-a-drink-kanchhi/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Come over for a drink, Kanchhi</a> is a deeply personal narrative of the Rai women of Bhojpur for whom alcohol is woven into the fabric of their daily lives. The women sing and smile and drink in groups throughout the film, even as they hold immense sadness within themselves. Weathered by the loss of children and loved ones to disease and suicide, they make and drink alcohol to deal with grief and trauma. Because alcohol is as much a part of ceremony and celebration as much as melancholy, the women are not apologetic about drinking. “There is a big hole in my heart,” says one of the women, who all suffer from depression. In a country where mental health is stigmatised, the film shines a light on how people deal with depression in rural areas. <figure><img width="1991" height="1000" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf02f4b0ad905ca02eff7jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Snow Leopards CallingTshiring Lhamu Lama was inspired to work for the conservation of snow leopards when she saw how the endangered Himalayan cats were tortured and poisoned by locals in Dolpo in retaliation for killing their livestock. Sonam Choekyi Lama’s award-winning short documentary is <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/trekking-to-save-nepals-snow-leopards/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the story of her sister Tshring’s drive and determination</a> to save and protect a part of her world through snow leopard conservation. Tshiring treks across the freezing, harsh but stunning winter landscape of Phoksundo to capture the movement of Snow Leopards, recognising the importance of the footage for conservation as well as much-needed tourism in the area.The film includes heartbreaking footage of snow leopards being dragged by their tails and kicked by locals into holes in the ground. However, Tshiring’s joy and enthusiasm at having captured snow leopards on film end the visually beautiful documentary on a hopeful, optimistic note. <figure><img width="1600" height="592" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf0324b0ad905ca02eff8jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Bare Trees in the MistFilmmaker Rajan Kathet’s Bare Trees in the Mist made its rounds in festivals around the world, including <a href="https://tiff.net/events/bare-trees-in-the-mist" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Toronto in 2019</a>, South Korea, Turkey, Italy, the UK, Finland and India before being screened at home during KIMFF 2020. In this stunning drama, Kaali’s son informs his mother that a neighbour’s husband has returned from abroad bearing gifts for the two of them. Kaali, whose own husband has left home telling his wife that he’s going to Arab (“Which Arab?” her neighbour’s husband asks. Kaali doesn’t know) makes the journey to visit them. Kaali’s tense yet hopeful wait in silence, the choice of aspect ratio, everything adds to the film’s atmosphere, underlying urgency and anxiety of the protagonists. <figure><img width="1440" height="773" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf0354b0ad905ca02eff9jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>BabuIn <a href="http://www.arpafilmfestival.com/short-film-babu-by-eelum-dixit-2020-arpa-iff/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Eelum Mani Dixit’s film</a>, the eponymous Babu finds his village and home torn apart by the 2015 earthquake that takes the life of his mother, and takes his desperate father away to India in search for work. A story of three generations of men in post-earthquake Nepal, the film brims with a young boy’s anger and heartbreak, a father’s helplessness, and a grandfather’s sorrow.Dixit packs a lot of emotion into subtle gestures throughout the film, like when Babu’s father hands him sweets before he leaves for India. Or when Babu gives a marble to the girl he likes-- someone he is probably never going to see again-- as she and her family move away to India. And especially when Babu buys his grandfather, with whom he has a tumultuous relationship, a pen for his journal with the money he had painstakingly saved up working to bring his father back home sooner. The film is not only emblematic of the mass exodus of Nepali men and women to foreign lands, but also a look at how out-migration can be a ‘trend’ that turns working-class Nepalis into hard-bitten cynics unwilling to work their own land, even when it is available and possible.  <figure><img width="734" height="543" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf0384b0ad905ca02effajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Song of CloudsAnkit Poudel’s film is an ethereal, empathetic, abstract story of life and death shifting from this world to the next as the dead communicate with the living they leave behind. Described as a fever dream, there is no plot or narrative structure to the film. There are long stretches of silence punctuated by sudden disjointed communications about regret and longing. A story without direction or an end told through still photographs.Premiering at Sundance earlier this year and making rounds in <a href="https://www.sundance.org/projects/song-of-clouds" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">festival circuits around the world</a>, Poudel’s film has garnered multiple awards, including the Grand Prix at the Split Film festival in Croatia and the Best Fiction award in Nepal Panorama at KIMFF 2020. <figure><img width="1422" height="794" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf03a4b0ad905ca02effbjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Winter Tap In the hills of Sankhwasabha, a young man has undertaken the solo task of building a water tap that will take water right to his home during the dry winter. Working methodically in silence, he cuts bamboo into pipes and tree branches to prop up the bamboo against. He then cuts strips out of some more bamboo and ties the pipe and the branches to make a long and winding canal wrapped around the hills.  As with Day 33, words are unnecessary, the only sound is the wind blowing across the hills as the man lays his bamboo pipe, the rhythmic thwack of his khukuri as he cuts branches to support his canal, and the final, musical sound of the water flowing through the pipes toward his home. Simple, meaningful, and immensely satisfying, this film by Aashish Limbu and Debin Rai won Best student film at <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/film-southasia-2019/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Film South Asia 2019</a> and was screened during KIMFF 2020. <figure><img width="500" height="260" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bf03d4b0ad905ca02effcjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Big-headed Boy<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.idfa.nl/en/film/17008744-6908-4c0a-bbee-b06b148431a6/the-big-headed-boy-shamans-samurais" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The Big-Headed Boy, Shamans &amp; Samurais</a> was screened at the International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam this November. Made by Pooja Gurung and Bibhusan Basnet, award-winning creative minds behind The Contagious Apparitions of Dambarey Dendrite and Dadyaa, the black-and-white travelogue is an account of the filmmakers’ quest to find an actor for their movie. When they do find an actor, the village Shaman is reluctant to let him go.

Shristi Karki

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2020 vision

As with all spheres of national life that make up our social and cultural fabric, Nepal’s film industry has also been hit hard. Cinemas are closed, shooting has stopped, and there is even less investment in new movies.As with the global film industry, Nepali producers are also disseminating directly through YouTube and other streaming platforms. Film festivals are being held online.The Kathmandu International Mountain Film Festival (KIMFF) <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/business/kimff-2020/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">took place virtually</a> from 10-14 December and had 300 entries this year, out of which 12 films were chosen for the Nepal Panorama and 18 for the international competition.“Because we went virtual, many people outside Nepal were able to see the films, and the number of entries was surprisingly high even given the times we’re in,” KIMFF director Ramyata Limbu told Nepali Times.“If you can’t get people to the hall in terms of logistics and time, doing festivals online in this multimedia era would make it more accessible for people who don’t have the time or inclination to make it to the theatres,” says Limbu. “The more accessible we can make it, the more people will take the time to view independent films.A selection of notable films from 2020: <figure><img width="1920" height="1080" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be93b9c7e80680e0878abjpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Photo: NISHON SHAKYA</figcaption></figure>The CrematorNishon Shakya’s, documentary which <a href="https://kimff.org/the-cremator/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">premiered at KIMFF</a>, follows elderly cremator Gyan Bahadur, who is nearing the end of his professional life at the Bhasmeshwar ghat at Pashupati. Gyan Bahadur’s narration of his life is accompanied by powerful visuals of cremations at Pashupati. Caution: Viewer Discretion Advised. Shakya is uncompromising in his visuals of the dead, in a way a macabre reminder of the times we live in.  Gyan Bahadur cremates the dead, a cigarette held tight between his lips, discusses politics, offers medical advice, and tells the story of his life. Having himself lost two of his sons in their childhood, Gyan Bahadur says he makes money off other people’s losses. At times, he is scathing about the living, who like to send off their dead with style but have no words of kindness to the people who help them pass on. Surrounded by mortality, he speaks matter-of-factly about his own death, accepting that he will eventually find his way back to Pashupati and move on from this world the same way he helped countless others. <figure><img width="1440" height="645" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be93f9c7e80680e0878acjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Day 33Filmed in the throes of the Covid-19 lockdown, LSM’s (Sailesh RC) <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSFRDsh9kX8" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">relevant short film</a> captures a young man’s increasing agitation as he searches for food in his room on the 33rd day of the shutdown. In the barely furnished space, surrounded by empty food containers and an empty wallet, he doesn’t find any. And so, he must settle for anything that he can find within the space that he can move in.The brevity of the film works in its favour — there are no unnecessary drawn-out scenes that attempt to force more meaning or gravitas to the story. There are no dialogues, no angry soliloquies, not one word from the protagonist. The film doesn’t need them. There is just weariness and resignation. <figure><img width="733" height="620" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be9429c7e80680e0878adjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Come Over for a Drink, Kanchhi Sikuma Rai’s documentary played at the Pame Film Festival, NHRIFF, and KIMFF. <a href="https://festival.kimff.org/nepal-panorama/come-over-for-a-drink-kanchhi/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Come over for a drink, Kanchhi</a> is a deeply personal narrative of the Rai women of Bhojpur for whom alcohol is woven into the fabric of their daily lives. The women sing and smile and drink in groups throughout the film, even as they hold immense sadness within themselves. Weathered by the loss of children and loved ones to disease and suicide, they make and drink alcohol to deal with grief and trauma. Because alcohol is as much a part of ceremony and celebration as much as melancholy, the women are not apologetic about drinking. “There is a big hole in my heart,” says one of the women, who all suffer from depression. In a country where mental health is stigmatised, the film shines a light on how people deal with depression in rural areas. <figure><img width="1991" height="1000" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be9449c7e80680e0878aejpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Snow Leopards CallingTshiring Lhamu Lama was inspired to work for the conservation of snow leopards when she saw how the endangered Himalayan cats were tortured and poisoned by locals in Dolpo in retaliation for killing their livestock. Sonam Choekyi Lama’s award-winning short documentary is <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/trekking-to-save-nepals-snow-leopards/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the story of her sister Tshring’s drive and determination</a> to save and protect a part of her world through snow leopard conservation. Tshiring treks across the freezing, harsh but stunning winter landscape of Phoksundo to capture the movement of Snow Leopards, recognising the importance of the footage for conservation as well as much-needed tourism in the area.The film includes heartbreaking footage of snow leopards being dragged by their tails and kicked by locals into holes in the ground. However, Tshiring’s joy and enthusiasm at having captured snow leopards on film end the visually beautiful documentary on a hopeful, optimistic note. <figure><img width="1600" height="592" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be9479c7e80680e0878afjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Bare Trees in the MistFilmmaker Rajan Kathet’s Bare Trees in the Mist made its rounds in festivals around the world, including <a href="https://tiff.net/events/bare-trees-in-the-mist" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Toronto in 2019</a>, South Korea, Turkey, Italy, the UK, Finland and India before being screened at home during KIMFF 2020. In this stunning drama, Kaali’s son informs his mother that a neighbour’s husband has returned from abroad bearing gifts for the two of them. Kaali, whose own husband has left home telling his wife that he’s going to Arab (“Which Arab?” her neighbour’s husband asks. Kaali doesn’t know) makes the journey to visit them. Kaali’s tense yet hopeful wait in silence, the choice of aspect ratio, everything adds to the film’s atmosphere, underlying urgency and anxiety of the protagonists. <figure><img width="1440" height="773" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be9499c7e80680e0878b0jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>BabuIn <a href="http://www.arpafilmfestival.com/short-film-babu-by-eelum-dixit-2020-arpa-iff/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Eelum Mani Dixit’s film</a>, the eponymous Babu finds his village and home torn apart by the 2015 earthquake that takes the life of his mother, and takes his desperate father away to India in search for work. A story of three generations of men in post-earthquake Nepal, the film brims with a young boy’s anger and heartbreak, a father’s helplessness, and a grandfather’s sorrow.Dixit packs a lot of emotion into subtle gestures throughout the film, like when Babu’s father hands him sweets before he leaves for India. Or when Babu gives a marble to the girl he likes-- someone he is probably never going to see again-- as she and her family move away to India. And especially when Babu buys his grandfather, with whom he has a tumultuous relationship, a pen for his journal with the money he had painstakingly saved up working to bring his father back home sooner. The film is not only emblematic of the mass exodus of Nepali men and women to foreign lands, but also a look at how out-migration can be a ‘trend’ that turns working-class Nepalis into hard-bitten cynics unwilling to work their own land, even when it is available and possible.  <figure><img width="734" height="543" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be94c9c7e80680e0878b1jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Song of CloudsAnkit Poudel’s film is an ethereal, empathetic, abstract story of life and death shifting from this world to the next as the dead communicate with the living they leave behind. Described as a fever dream, there is no plot or narrative structure to the film. There are long stretches of silence punctuated by sudden disjointed communications about regret and longing. A story without direction or an end told through still photographs.Premiering at Sundance earlier this year and making rounds in <a href="https://www.sundance.org/projects/song-of-clouds" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">festival circuits around the world</a>, Poudel’s film has garnered multiple awards, including the Grand Prix at the Split Film festival in Croatia and the Best Fiction award in Nepal Panorama at KIMFF 2020. <figure><img width="1422" height="794" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be94f9c7e80680e0878b2jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Winter Tap In the hills of Sankhwasabha, a young man has undertaken the solo task of building a water tap that will take water right to his home during the dry winter. Working methodically in silence, he cuts bamboo into pipes and tree branches to prop up the bamboo against. He then cuts strips out of some more bamboo and ties the pipe and the branches to make a long and winding canal wrapped around the hills.  As with Day 33, words are unnecessary, the only sound is the wind blowing across the hills as the man lays his bamboo pipe, the rhythmic thwack of his khukuri as he cuts branches to support his canal, and the final, musical sound of the water flowing through the pipes toward his home. Simple, meaningful, and immensely satisfying, this film by Aashish Limbu and Debin Rai won Best student film at <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/film-southasia-2019/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Film South Asia 2019</a> and was screened during KIMFF 2020. <figure><img width="500" height="260" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181152/636be9529c7e80680e0878b3jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Big-headed Boy<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.idfa.nl/en/film/17008744-6908-4c0a-bbee-b06b148431a6/the-big-headed-boy-shamans-samurais" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The Big-Headed Boy, Shamans &amp; Samurais</a> was screened at the International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam this November. Made by Pooja Gurung and Bibhusan Basnet, award-winning creative minds behind The Contagious Apparitions of Dambarey Dendrite and Dadyaa, the black-and-white travelogue is an account of the filmmakers’ quest to find an actor for their movie. When they do find an actor, the village Shaman is reluctant to let him go.

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;

the-winter-tap

2020 vision

2020 vision

A new normal

Things eventually work out

My father’s son

Stages of denial