As the year draws to a close, Nepal once again stands at a defining juncture, caught between its constitutional obligations and the familiar temptations of political expediency.
The general elections, formally announced by the government, are meant to mark a democratic renewal after months of instability and public frustration. Yet whispers of possible postponement have begun to circulate among sections of the political elite. In a country where hesitation often masquerades as prudence, such a delay would be disastrous. It would not only violate the discipline of the Constitution but also send a devastating signal, that Nepal's young republic has already begun to lose faith in its own democratic rhythm. The time for action is now, not later.
The argument for delay is often presented in the language of caution, citing logistical hurdles, inadequate resources, and a lack of political consensus. But these are excuses for paralysis, not reasons for reflection. Every time Nepal has tolerated a delay in its democratic cycle, it has invited paralysis, corruption, and indifference. Postponing the election now would not only erode public confidence but also reward precisely the behaviour that has crippled governance, the avoidance of accountability. It would deepen the fatigue that has already settled over political life, feeding the notion that change in Nepal is an illusion rather than a possibility. The consequences of such a delay are dire and should not be taken lightly.
Much of the public anger today stems from the resurgence of old political figures whose relevance has long since expired. The so-called "political geriatric ward" has reopened across the political spectrum. The same leaders who failed to complete their terms, who turned coalition management into a national art form, and who have been publicly humiliated by waves of protests, have returned as if the past few years never happened. Their defiance of shame would be almost admirable if it were not so destructive. Many in Nepal genuinely believed that after the Gen Z protests of the past year, the most visible eruption of youth-led discontent since the republican transition, these politicians would have withdrawn into retirement or at least reflection. Instead, they are back at the centre of power negotiations, stitching together yet another improbable coalition, treating democratic exhaustion as a career opportunity.
For an entire generation of young citizens who took to the streets demanding integrity and change, this reappearance is a betrayal. The families of those who died or were maimed in the protests see these recycled elites returning without contrition or remorse. The entire episode confirms an old truth about Nepal's political class: shamelessness is their chief qualification. These men have endured scandals, defections, and public ridicule. Yet, they persist because they have mastered the art of trading relevance for survival.
The youth of Nepal are disengaged today not because they have lost faith in democracy, but because they can no longer recognise themselves in its practitioners. Indeed, for this generation to take note of these septu- and octogenarian power-brokers resurfacing from political hibernation, someone would have to switch off the internet for two days. The sense of betrayal felt by the younger generation is palpable and should not be ignored.
What deepens the disillusionment is not only the recycling of faces but also the refusal to modernise the culture of governance. Even in the appointment of the interim leadership, the state reverted to its most reflexive instinct-the conflation of age with wisdom. At a moment that demanded urgency, energy, and administrative clarity, Nepal chose symbolic seniority over strategic competence. A cursory glance at the decor of the interim prime minister's meetings captures the suffocating nostalgia that still defines official life. The heavy furniture, the choreographed seating of ministers, the portrait-lined walls, everything belongs to a Durbar more than a democracy. Age has become a substitute for vision, and performance has replaced substance.
The interim prime minister's pronouncements are themselves proof of this fatigue. Rather than outlining a roadmap for reform, her statements have been filled with generic promises and uncosted aspirations. The tone has often veered toward self-reassurance rather than leadership.
Instead of presenting an interim mandate grounded in policy discipline and governance reform, the leadership has chosen to recite the familiar wish list of every preceding government.
Outside the prime minister's office, another ecosystem thrives unchecked.
While India and China remain the visible powers competing for influence in Kathmandu, the quieter machinery of dependency lies elsewhere-in the offices of Western embassies and donor agencies. Through grants, development projects, and consultancies, they have entangled Nepal's political and bureaucratic classes in an economy of favours. The spouses and children of influential politicians often hold well-paid positions in these agencies, allowing diplomacy to become entangled with nepotism and international funding. Even appointments within national projects are increasingly determined by donor interests rather national interests.
At the root of every national ailment, from underemployment and poor public health to declining education and corruption in infrastructure, lies the corrosion of governance. Corruption is no longer an aberration in Nepal; it is the operating system. Yet, even now, no administration has dared to confront it head-on. The one institution that still commands some public credibility, the Nepal Army, could have been used as a stabilising partner in a national integrity initiative.
If the interim government had the courage, it could have established judicial committees to fast-track high-profile corruption cases, with logistical support from the Army to ensure security and enforcement. Such a collaboration would have signalled that the state remains serious about accountability even in a transitional phase. Instead, reform has been delayed, and cynicism deepens.
The story repeated in Kathmandu's drawing rooms, that bureaucrats are sabotaging reform, is a convenient diversion. Bureaucrats are opportunists by design; they recognise longevity. In a system where political instability is chronic, they respond not to principles but to prospects. They cooperate with whoever looks likely to last. They know which files matter and which bribes will travel up the chain. Treating them as scapegoats misses the point.
The risk now is that the call for postponement will become a convenient cover for political self-preservation. Who benefits if the elections are delayed? Certainly not citizens. The victims would be the majority of Nepalis who depend on the promise of democratic renewal to maintain any faith in governance. Elections delayed once can always be delayed again. In a fragile system, that is the first step toward democratic decomposition.
The regional parallels are sobering. Bangladesh's democracy has hollowed out through manipulated elections and shrinking civic space. Pakistan's repeated postponements and caretaker governments have created a democracy permanently on pause, Sri Lanka's reluctance to confront corruption and economic mismanagement led to financial ruin and mass protests. Even India, once the region's democratic template, now exhibits growing authoritarian tendencies, with institutions yielding to populist spectacle and silence replacing dissent. Nepal's instinct to mimic India, with the usual lag, should therefore inspire alarm rather than comfort. The country must decide what to learn from its neighbours and what to avoid at all costs.
Delaying elections will only compound these risks. In a region increasingly marked by leadership vanity and institutional erosion, Nepal has an opportunity to stand out by adhering to constitutional punctuality. Elections held on time would demonstrate the republic's resolve to both citizens and observers that it still functions. Postponement, by contrast, would brand Nepal as yet another state in South Asia's growing gallery of managed democracies, sovereign in form, captive in function.
There is also a generational imperative. Nearly half of Nepal's citizens are under the age of thirty. This youth cohort has no personal memory of monarchy or civil war. For them, democracy is not a hard-won aspiration but a birthright. To postpone elections would be to declare that birthright negotiable.
The risks are profound: apathy could turn into antagonism, and activism into emigration. The streets that were once filled with protest may fall silent. Still, silence born of disillusionment is far more dangerous than noise born of anger.
The interim administration's mandate should now focus solely on ensuring a credible, transparent, and timely election. This means insulating the Election Commission from political interference, adequately financing it, and providing regional and local readiness. It also means introducing visible acts of integrity.
Nepal's democracy does not require perfection; it requires persistence. Elections, flawed as they may be, remain the only instrument through which legitimacy can be renewed. Postponing them is not an act of caution but of capitulation. It would arrest not merely the political calendar but the public imagination.
Postponing the general elections would not stabilise Nepal; it would dismantle the fragile scaffolding of trust on which its democracy rests. The country has kept its date with history through crisis after crisis. It must now keep its date with democracy, on time and without excuse.
Prof C.K. Peela is a geopolitical and security expert on South Asia and Asia Pacific.
