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When Balendra Shah was sworn in as Nepal’s prime minister on March 27, the image was almost impossibly cinematic. A 36-year-old structural engineer and former rapper, standing where four-time prime ministers and Maoist commanders had stood before him, promising to do things differently. His Rastriya Swatantra Party had just won 182 of 275 parliamentary seats—something Nepal had not seen since 1959. The message from the Nepali public was unmistakable: we are done with the old order.

The RSP has since worked hard to project a single, coherent image—a technocratic, performance-driven government that has broken decisively with Nepal's culture of corruption and cronyism. The 100-point governance reform agenda, the youth-heavy cabinet, the swift sacking of a minister who appointed his own wife to a public board—all of it feeds a narrative of competence and accountability.

But beneath that united front, something more complicated is happening. The RSP is not one political project. It is three—held together, for now, by the shared euphoria of a landslide victory and the mutual convenience of power. And to understand why this matters, it helps to reach for a framework that political scientists have spent the last two decades developing: the study of populism itself.

The meaning of populism

Populism has become one of the most overused and misunderstood words in political commentary. Used loosely, it is little more than an insult—a way of calling a politician reckless or demagogic. But scholars define it more precisely, and their definitions are useful here.

The most influential academic framework, developed by political theorists Cas Mudde and Cristóbal Kaltwasser, describes populism as a ‘thin ideology’—a set of ideas that divides the world into two camps: a pure, virtuous ‘people’ and a corrupt ‘elite’. The populist leader claims to speak for the former against the latter. What makes populism ‘thin’ is that it can attach to almost any substantive political program. A left-wing party can be populist. So can a right-wing one. So can a technocrat. The ideology fills in the details; populism provides the structure.

Beyond this core definition, scholars have identified distinct varieties of populism that operate through different channels and appeal to different publics. Understanding Nepal's new government requires distinguishing between three of them—because Balen Shah, Rabi Lamichhane, and Sudan Gurung each embody one.

Balen Shah: The techno-populist

Political scientist Benjamin Moffitt, in his work on populism's global rise, identifies a variant he calls techno-populism—leaders who claim that the system's problem is not structural injustice but simple incompetence, and who position themselves as the capable outsider who can fix what the corrupt insiders broke. The appeal is neither left nor right. It is managerial. Think of it as: the people deserve better—and I know how to deliver it.

Balen Shah is the closest contemporary embodiment of this type in South Asia. A structural engineer by training, a rapper by creative instinct, he built his political reputation as Kathmandu's mayor by setting measurable targets for waste management and traffic, posting updates directly to 4m Facebook followers, and projecting an image of relentless competence unbendable to any party or patron. His 100-point governance agenda—with performance indicators for every ministry—is essentially techno-populism institutionalised.

His populism is also unusually broad in its geographic and ethnic reach. Unlike most Nepali politicians who build their base within a caste or regional bloc, he launched his national campaign from Janakpur, presenting himself as a ‘son of Madhes’, a symbolically charged move for a Kathmandu-born politician of Hill origin. He won support across communities—urban youth, women, diaspora Nepalis—in a way that consciously resists identity-based outbidding.

The risk embedded in this model is one that scholars have documented repeatedly. Moffitt and others note that techno-populist leaders, confident their mandate represents the direct will of the people, tend to grow impatient with the slow, contentious machinery of democratic institutions. Within weeks of taking office, Balen announced the abolition of party-affiliated trade unions in government bodies and the removal of political student unions from campuses, replacing them with non-partisan councils. Both are defended as anti-corruption reforms. 

Critics counter that dismantling workers’ organisations and depoliticising student life weakens the intermediary structures that democracies depend on—a familiar early warning sign in the literature on democratic backsliding.

Rabi Lamichhane: The performative populist

Lamichhane fits a different and older archetype in the scholarly literature—what Moffitt calls spectacle populism and what Latin American political scientists have analysed as the caudillo variant: the charismatic outsider who channels public fury through theatrical confrontation, making the exposure and punishment of the corrupt elite the central act of his politics.

Lamichhane built his career on precisely this. As a television host, he made a name for himself by cornering officials on camera. He founded the RSP in 2022 as a vehicle for anti-corruption outrage and won 21 seats on his first attempt. His style is combative, moralistic, and deeply personalised—politics as a crusade with him as its protagonist.

The profound irony, of course, is that Lamichhane arrived at power trailing active embezzlement charges, multiple stints in pre-trial custody, and a documented record of using an earlier stint as Home Minister to pursue journalists who criticised him. 

A leaked commission report on last September’s protest violence was conspicuously silent on episodes connected to his controversial prison break and the burning of media offices belonging to a publisher he had previously had arrested. As scholars of populism from Jan-Werner Müller to Nadia Urbinati have long observed, performative populism carries within it an authoritarian temptation: once the leader is the embodiment of the people’s will, scrutiny of the leader becomes, by definition, an attack on the people.

Lamichhane remains RSP chair and controls the party’s organisational machinery. He was widely expected to claim the Home Ministry—giving him oversight of Nepal’s police, intelligence services, and the very investigative institutions that might scrutinise his own legal exposure. In the event, the portfolio went to Sudan Gurung, reportedly over Lamichhane’s resistance. 

Sudan Gurung: The movement populist

Sudan Gurung belongs to a third scholarly category—what researchers of the Global South, from Ernesto Laclau onwards, have analysed as movement populism or mobilisation populism: leaders who emerge not from established parties or media platforms but from the streets, whose authority derives from their claimed role as the authentic voice of an uprising rather than any formal mandate.

Gurung rose to national prominence by distributing water to protesters in September 2025, before becoming a central negotiator in the crisis—reportedly engaging directly with the army leadership in the days leading to Sushila Karki’s appointment as interim prime minister. His biography is one of civic mobilisation: earthquake relief volunteer, pandemic aid organiser, youth NGO founder. His populism speaks in the language of sacrifice and solidarity rather than competence or outrage.

But his conduct since taking the Home Ministry—one of Nepal’s most powerful portfolios—has generated immediate concern. Within hours of taking oath, Gurung personally went to police headquarters and, according to reports, effectively pressured the inspector general to arrest former prime minister KP Sharma Oli that same night. 

The arrests may well be legally justified. But a senior commentator put the problem precisely in an op-ed: “The home minister himself releasing arrest warrants and posting updates on social media suggests political leadership stepping into police work.” This, the piece observed, risks casting doubt on the impartiality of investigations—and fits a pattern the scholar Mudde identifies as ‘democratic illiberalism’: popular legitimacy used to bypass institutional process.

Gurung’s own past contains unresolved ambiguities, newspapers have noted: questions about his proximity to the coordination of the September protests, his role in the violence that followed on the second day, and allegations about the opacity of relief funds managed through his NGO. None of these establishes wrongdoing. What they establish, as one commentator noted drily, are “ambiguities that have neither been publicly resolved nor institutionally interrogated before the conferral of one of the most sensitive offices in the state.”

Three populisms, one roof

These are not abstract typological differences. They translate directly into competing instincts on the most important governance questions Nepal now faces.

Accountability: Balen’s techno-populist agenda promises to investigate political figures going back to 1991. Lamichhane's legal exposure creates a structural incentive for the accountability drive to stop well short of RSP’s own leadership. The battle over the Home Ministry was the first visible expression of this tension—and it was resolved in Balen’s favor, for now, by installing Gurung rather than a Lamichhane loyalist. But Lamichhane retains the party chair and is not going anywhere.

Institutional process versus decisive action: Gurung’s movement-populist instincts—arrest warrants announced on Facebook, sleeping on a ministry sofa for public effect, personally dictating police operations—represent a governing style that deliberately prioritises visible decisiveness over procedural integrity. Balen’s agenda, by contrast, is built on systematic institutional reform. These two impulses, sharing a cabinet, will eventually collide.

The federalism question: The snap elections of March 2026 covered only the federal parliament; provincial assembly elections were deferred. For the Janajati and Madhesi communities whose political voice is most directly exercised at the provincial level, this is not a procedural footnote. It is an early signal about whether the RSP's promised ‘new Nepal’ actually includes the communities that Nepal's 2015 constitution was supposed to empower.

The paradox of the majority

Nepal’s previous governments were undone by coalition fragility. The RSP’s extraordinary majority was supposed to solve that. But here is the paradox: that majority removes the external pressure that might otherwise have forced internal coherence. When you must manage a five-party coalition, you are compelled to articulate shared ground in explicit terms. When you hold 66 percent of parliament yourself, you can defer internal contradictions indefinitely—until they detonate.

Three types of populism can, in theory, complement each other. A government that delivers results, holds corrupt elites accountable, and genuinely includes the previously marginalised would be a formidable and legitimate political force. But that outcome requires more than a seven-point power-sharing agreement and a 100-point to-do list. It requires a shared theory of the state—an agreed answer to who governs, for whom, through what institutions, and constrained by what rules.

That the RSP does not yet have. What the next twelve months reveal about whether Lamichhane’s cases are quietly buried, whether Gurung’s decisiveness respects institutional boundaries, and whether Balen’s reform agenda survives contact with his own party will tell us whether Nepal has produced a genuine rupture—or simply replaced one set of elites with another, newer, and for the moment more popular set.

The author is a PhD candidate at the School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He is also a life member of the Delhi-based International Centre for Peace Studies

Last March, the author of this article was sitting at the Everest Cafe; in Kathmandu, talking to one of Nepal's very senior journalists, amidst subsequent waves of pro-monarchy protests that had engulfed the country in recent months. In casual conversation, the journalist mentioned the Rashtriya Swatantra Party (RSP) and its dwindling fortunes under Oli’s Prime Ministerial regime.

Cut to the present times, Nepal has given one of the most historic mandates to the RSP since the inception of democracy in the country: for the first time in the hill country, any party has gotten an absolute majority in a very difficult representation system, and just two seats short of a two-thirds supermajority. The election has also been historic for the Prime Ministerial candidate from RSP, Balendra Shah, and Kathmandu’s ex-mayor, who became the first Madhesi person to sit in the Prime Minister's chair. 

Born out of chaos, post-Gen-Z protests occurred in September 2025, Nepal’s unelected government, led by former chief justice Sushila Karki, has also done an impressive job of delivering elections in the earlier decided timeline, unlike in Bangladesh.

In the volatile neighborhood, elections and the return of stable democracy are obviously a sigh of relief for New Delhi. Nevertheless, in Nepal, the winners are new to foreign policy and diplomacy, and their implications will be important to unpack from Delhi’s side. 

Since the inception of the democratic movement in Nepal with the establishment of the Nepal Congress in 1950, India has been supportive of it. At times, future prominent leaders of Nepal have studied in Indian Universities and then returned home with a strong democratic enthusiasm.

During the monarchy’s time, when these leaders faced persecution, they took shelter in India. During the civil war, India played a critical role in bringing the mainstream political parties and the Maoist rebels together, culminating in the 12-point understanding in Delhi (2005) and the 2006 Comprehensive Peace Agreement.

After the end of the bloody civil war in Nepal and the agreement between all parties to abolish the monarchy, it pushed for an inclusive constitution that addressed the rights of the Madhesi people in the Terai region. 2015 marked a critical juncture in India-Nepal relations, when the Madhesi agitation over Nepal’s constitution drew India into the fray. Since then, India-Nepal relations have been driven more by a sectoral, compartmentalised approach than by a holistic one.

The situation has been complicated by political instability and the musical chairs of politics among three main political parties: Nepal Congress, Communist Party of Nepal (UML), and Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist). To even complicate matters, the head of CPN UML and 2015 Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli’s populist anti-India rhetoric surely helped him win the elections, but ruptured India-Nepal relations.

At the same time, Nepal's joining the Belt and Road Initiative also alerted India. Nevertheless, the political instability has undermined many good diplomatic efforts on both sides and fuelled each other’s insecurities time and again. It also needs to be mentioned here that to err is human, and humans run states and diplomacy.

So, between neighbours in the future as well, there will be issues that may feel contentious, but both sides need to understand that making a populist political rhetoric out of it will not help. Shishir Khanal in one interview has also clearly mentioned that his party will try to find diplomatic solutions to the contentious issues rather than making it an overt political confrontation, which is a very welcoming step. 

It is also critical here to mention that for Balendra and RSP, this is going to be a difficult time geopolitically beyond the neighborhood, given the war in West Asia, and a significant chunk of the diaspora of both India and Nepal works there in different sector will surely ask leaders to work together in the tough times. 

The mandate for the RSP is a sign of a generational change in Nepal's politics. It shows that the people want to move on from the cycles of instability and political rhetoric that have defined the country's recent past. India should see this change as less of a strategic puzzle and more of a chance to fix a relationship that has been strong in the past but has been strained by political mistakes on both sides. A leadership that is new to foreign policy may also be less rigid in its ideas about diplomacy, which could make it easier to deal with difficult issues in a more practical way. For Kathmandu, governing with such a strong mandate will also mean finding a balance between what people want and what is possible given the geography and the fact that the economy is linked to other countries. India is still Nepal's most important trading partner, and Nepal's political stability is just as important for India's own neighborhood policy. 

In this situation, the new government's success will depend in part on how well it can keep working with New Delhi while also working on its own reform agenda. If both sides stay away from populist language and focus on steady diplomatic talks instead, the current political change in Nepal could quietly mark the start of a more stable and mature phase in India–Nepal relations.

*Harsh Pandey is a PhD Candidate at the School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, He is also a Life member of Delhi Based International Centre for Peace Studies.

As the so-called wave of revolutions has swept across South Asia, it is now set to culminate in elections in Bangladesh and Nepal. In Nepal, the interim government led by former Chief Justice Sushila Karki has proceeded without delay in conducting elections. The country’s politics have remained in flux since the last polls, marked by shifting coalitions and Gen Z–led anti-corruption protests that culminated in the dissolution of Parliament in September 2025. As Nepal’s 30 million citizens prepare to vote amid a fragmented field of 125 parties and more than 2,500 candidates, neighbouring India is watching closely. The outcome carries significant implications for India’s interests—from the reliability of governance and Kathmandu’s foreign policy orientation to regional stability and the future of bilateral cooperation.

While Nepal’s traditional parties retain strong cadre bases, a powerful youth wave has emerged, one that every party is now trying to capture. This churn has produced internal upheavals across the three major parties: the Nepali Congress (NC), the Communist Party of Nepal (Unified Marxist–Leninist), and the Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist Centre). Within the Nepali Congress, General Secretaries Gagan Thapa and Bishwa Prakash Sharma led a high-profile revolt against the ageing leadership of Sher Bahadur Deuba. This culminated in a January 2026 “Special General Convention,” where Thapa was elected party president, effectively ending Deuba’s decades-long tenure after the Election Commission recognized Thapa’s reformist faction as the legitimate party leadership.

In the CPN-UML, Senior Vice-Chair Ishwar Pokharel, backed significantly by former President Bidhya Devi Bhandari, mounted a direct challenge to KP Sharma Oli during the party’s December 2025 general convention. Pokharel and his supporters criticized Oli’s handling of the GenZ protests and his refusal to step down as prime minister until forced by the uprising. Despite this, Oli retained the party chairmanship by a wide margin.

Meanwhile, the CPN (Maoist Centre) faced a similar crisis. Deputy General Secretary Janardan Sharma openly demanded that Pushpa Kamal Dahal ‘Prachanda’ resign and take responsibility for the party’s declining credibility and its growing disconnect from youth aspirations. Although Sharma eventually quit to launch his own Pragatisheel Loktantrik Party, his dissent accelerated the Maoists’ merger into the broader Nepali Communist Party (NCP) in November 2025. Formally established on 5 Nov 2025, the NCP is a broad alliance of ten leftist factions seeking to consolidate influence ahead of the March 2026 elections. Its core comprises the Maoist Centre and the CPN (Unified Socialist), with Prachanda remaining a dominant—though increasingly scrutinized—figure.

The youth-led movement itself is now split between high-stakes party politics and independent activism. The most prominent “alternative” force has emerged in the alliance between Balen Shah and the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP). In a bold attempt to break with the old political order, Shah resigned as mayor of Kathmandu to contest a parliamentary seat in Jhapa-5, directly challenging UML’s Oli on his home turf. The alliance has positioned Shah as its prime ministerial candidate, betting that the momentum of the protests can unseat the country’s most entrenched leaders.

At the same time, many original GenZ organizers, such as Rakshya Bam, have chosen to stay away from large party structures altogether. Running as independents or under smaller banners like the “GenZ Front,” they argue that joining any major party, even newer ones, inevitably leads to the same compromises. Their focus remains accountability: demanding justice for those killed during the September protests and acting as a “moral watchdog” to ensure the movement’s anti-corruption message is not diluted by electoral politics.

From India’s perspective, New Delhi has historically supported a democratic and stable Nepal, a position reaffirmed after the GenZ protests, when the Indian establishment swiftly recognized the interim government and began working with it. That said, no state welcomes unpredictability in its foreign relations, and predictability is built through continuity, trust, and sustained engagement. From this standpoint, India would prefer that the current political churn ultimately leads to a measure of stability.

India would first and foremost hope that these elections serve as a stabilising force in Nepal’s fractured politics, preventing a relapse into chaos that could raise security concerns along the open border. Elections are also moments when populist and nationalist rhetoric tends to peak, sometimes straining bilateral ties. While such rhetoric deserves attention, it is ultimately the post-election government that matters. Given the current geopolitical climate, a reset grounded in pragmatism and mutual interest will be essential. For now, it is time to let democracy, and the people of Nepal, do their work, while others watch and wait.

The author is a PhD Candidate at the School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He is also a Life member of Delhi Based the Delhi-based International Centre for Peace Studies

The absence of the United States, China and Russia from recent G20 leaders’ meetings has often been treated as a sign that the forum has outlived its usefulness. That reading misses what is actually changing. The G20 has not disappeared from global economic diplomacy, nor has it been formally sidelined. What has shifted is the kind of work it is expected to do. Where it once functioned as a space for high-level coordination among the largest economies, it now operates more clearly as a forum sustained by those states that continue to depend on institutional stability.

This change reflects the erosion of the conditions that made the G20 indispensable in the first place. The forum took shape at a moment when financial instability moved quickly across borders and reduced the effectiveness of national responses. During that period, coordination was not a matter of preference, it was imposed by circumstance. That sense of mutual exposure no longer carries the same force. Economic policy is now shaped far more openly by strategic rivalry, domestic politics and security concerns. Subsidies, sanctions and trade restrictions are increasingly deployed without serious expectation of collective restraint. Under these conditions, broad consensus-based settings offer limited influence while imposing visible constraints.

The consequences of this shift were visible well before Johannesburg. The New Delhi summit showed that agreement was still possible, but only by narrowing the range of issues treated as appropriate for collective engagement. Disruptions linked to geopolitical conflict were acknowledged indirectly, if at all. This allowed the meeting to remain orderly, but it also reduced the forum’s capacity to engage with the sources of economic instability rather than its symptoms. Once this approach became routine, leader-level participation lost some of its urgency. Johannesburg made that clear.

The effects of selective disengagement have not been evenly distributed. For countries such as India, the European Union and Brazil, participation in multilateral institutions remains closely tied to economic and political strategy. Their economies are deeply embedded in global markets, and their policy objectives rely on predictable regulatory and financial environments. Institutional credibility matters more to these states than unilateral leverage. Unlike the great powers, they cannot easily replace multilateral engagement with bilateral or bloc-based arrangements without incurring costs.

This dependence has also increased their visibility within the G20. India, the EU and Brazil have become central to maintaining continuity in the forum not because they exercise coercive power, but because they retain a material interest in its operation. Their economic weight gives substance to this role. India’s expanding domestic market and manufacturing ambitions place it at the center of debates on development and technology. The European Union brings regulatory capacity and financial depth that influence global standards regardless of geopolitical fragmentation. Brazil’s position in commodity, energy and agricultural markets connects development concerns with climate and food security in ways few other actors can.

India’s recent engagement illustrates how an emerging great-power leadership now tends to function. Its emphasis on digital public infrastructure and development finance draws directly on policies already deployed domestically. Rather than relying exclusively on aspirational commitments, India has used practical experience to structure discussion. This does not compensate for the absence of great-power coordination, but it keeps multilateral engagement connected to implementation rather than rhetoric alone. The European Union operates through a different channel. Its influence rests less on mediation and more on scale. Through trade regimes, climate regulation, and digital standards, the EU shapes economic behavior well beyond its immediate membership. Within the G20, it provides a degree of policy continuity at a time when economic governance is increasingly shaped by short-term strategic considerations. Brazil’s contribution lies largely in its diplomatic positioning. Its engagement with institutional negotiation, the size of its economy, and South–South cooperation allows it to frame issues such as debt relief, food security and climate adaptation as shared economic challenges. In a polarized environment, this ability to keep discussions from sliding into distributive conflict has practical value.

Together, these states help prevent strategic rivalry from overwhelming multilateral settings altogether. They cannot resolve competition between the largest powers, nor can they substitute for the resources those powers control. Major initiatives in areas such as debt restructuring or climate finance still depend on actors with greater influence over capital and markets. Middle powers can align positions and sustain discussion, but compulsion remains beyond their reach.

What has happened to the G20 cannot be separated from what has happened to the political order that made it possible. The United States has already moved away from the model of leadership that sustained this forum in its early years. It still participates selectively, but its priorities now lie elsewhere: domestic industrial policy, security-driven trade decisions and tightly-managed alliances. The assumption that global economic stability requires sustained engagement in universal forums no longer shapes American behaviour in any consistent way.

China’s trajectory is different, but no less consequential. Beijing has not withdrawn from multilateralism. Instead, it has become increasingly selective about the kinds of institutions it is willing to invest in. Where rules, agendas and hierarchies are inherited from an earlier order, China engages cautiously. Where institutions can be designed, expanded or reshaped, its commitment is far more visible. This does not amount to abandonment, but it does reflect an effort to reconfigure the institutional landscape around Chinese preferences rather than adapt to existing constraints. Russia’s position is shaped by yet another set of pressures. Prolonged sanctions and political isolation have reduced any incentive to preserve institutions associated with Western economic dominance. Its alignment with China is less about shared economic vision than about mutual dissatisfaction with the current system. For Moscow, weakening the authority of existing frameworks has become a strategy in itself, particularly where those frameworks are seen as enforcing exclusion.

Taken together, these trajectories point to an uncomfortable reality. There is no major power waiting in the wings to restore the conditions under which the G20 once functioned. The idea that a hegemonic actor will step in to stabilize multilateral economic governance now belongs to an earlier period. That world has already passed. This is why the role of countries and entities such as India, the European Union, Brazil, and others matters more than is often acknowledged. These actors continue to benefit directly from stable, predictable economic frameworks. Their growth strategies, regulatory environments and external engagements depend on institutions that manage friction rather than amplify it. For them, the erosion of multilateral forums is not an abstract concern but a practical problem.

Sustaining the G20, then, is not about nostalgia for an earlier order or faith in institutional idealism. It is about interest. In the absence of great-power custodianship, responsibility shifts to those who still gain from continuity. Whether this responsibility can be translated into real influence remains uncertain. What seems clear is that multilateralism will no longer be upheld by those with the greatest power, but by those with the greatest stake in keeping the system from fragmenting further.

The author is a PhD Candidate at the School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He is also a Life Member of Delhi based International Centre for Peace Studies

India’s neighborhood policy is often described in shorthand: “relative decline,” “looking beyond South Asia,” “losing the periphery.” That lens misses something important about the last four years. In Afghanistan and Myanmar, India has been dealing not with normal neighbors but with collapsing or radically transformed states. The question, then, is not whether India has expanded its influence, but whether it has managed to stay engaged, protect its basic interests, and avoid strategic paralysis. On that narrower, but more realistic, metric, India’s record since 2021 in both theaters looks more constructive than the declinist narrative suggests.

Afghanistan is the sharper break. When the Taliban took Kabul in August 2021, India essentially lost a twenty-year investment in the Islamic Republic and had to evacuate its missions. For almost a year, New Delhi kept a formal distance, while routing limited assistance through multilateral channels and the UN. That phase ended in mid-2022. In June 2022, India sent its first official delegation to Kabul under Joint-secretary JP Singh, who met with the acting Foreign Minister, Amir Khan Muttaqi, and reviewed India’s humanitarian projects and security concerns. Shortly afterwards, India deployed a “technical team” to Kabul, re-establishing a minimal diplomatic presence focused on aid delivery and the safety of Indian projects and personnel. 

Humanitarian assistance became the main language of engagement. Between 2021 and 2023, India transported large consignments of wheat, medicines and COVID-19 vaccines to Afghanistan. By mid-2022, New Delhi had already shipped 33,000 metric tonnes of wheat against a commitment of 50,000 MT. Subsequent statements and reports show that this was not a one-off gesture, but a sustained effort: budget documents for 2023–24 earmarked fresh aid for Afghanistan, and Indian officials emphasised that assistance was being coordinated with international agencies to reach ordinary Afghans, despite political complications. 

Shipments of wheat, essential medicines and winter supplies continued through 2023 and 2024, with Indian media framing this as part of a broader humanitarian posture. In 2025, when earthquakes hit western Afghanistan, India again sent emergency consignments of food, tents and medical kits, reinforcing a pattern where India presents itself not as a patron of any faction, but as a consistent responder to Afghan crises.

Alongside aid, there has been a slow but deliberate upgrade of political contact. After the initial 2022 visit, Indian officials made at least two more trips to Kabul; in March 2024, JP Singh again met Muttaqi in Kabul to discuss economic cooperation, including Afghan use of the Chabahar port. In January 2025, Foreign Secretary Vinay Mohan Kwatra met Muttaqi in Dubai, signaling that Afghanistan had been moved back up to the higher levels of India’s diplomatic bandwidth.  

The real inflexion point, though, came in Oct 2025, when Muttaqi finally traveled to New Delhi after the UN Security Council temporarily lifted his travel ban. This was the first visit by a senior Taliban leader to India since 2021; he met External Affairs Minister S Jaishankar for discussions covering trade, health, terrorism and consular issues. During this visit, India announced that its technical mission in Kabul would be upgraded to a full embassy, effectively restoring normal diplomatic status, while still insisting that recognition of the Taliban government would depend on its internal conduct, particularly on issues such as women’s rights.

If you line up that chronology, from complete withdrawal in 2021 to humanitarian re-entry in 2022, to working-level political contact in 2022–24, to foreign minister-level engagement and full embassy restoration in 2025. At each step, New Delhi has been careful to frame its actions as support for the Afghan people rather than endorsement of the regime. But it has also accepted that a neighborhood policy that pretends the Taliban do not exist would only hand Afghanistan entirely to Pakistan, China, and Iran. In that limited sense, India’s Afghan engagement since 2021 appears relatively successful: New Delhi has managed to extricate itself from strategic irrelevance without compromising all of its normative positions.

Myanmar presents a unique challenge: not regime change, but a state fragmenting under the weight of a civil war. The February 2021 coup overthrew the elected National League for Democracy government and restored direct military rule, pushing the country into a nationwide conflict between the junta, multiple Ethnic Armed Organisations (EAOs), and the People’s Defence Forces (PDFs) aligned with the national unity government. Over four years later, studies such as the International Crisis Group (ICG)’s 2025 briefing argue that the junta still controls the capital and some urban nodes but is losing ground across much of the periphery, where armed groups now hold extensive territory and run parallel administrations.

For India, this is not a distant issue. The conflict washes directly onto a 1,643-kilometer border, feeding refugee flows, arms trafficking and insurgent sanctuary, and complicating major connectivity projects like the India-Myanmar-Thailand Trilateral Highway and the Kaladan Multimodal Transit Transport Project. India’s first instinct after the coup was conservative: to maintain lines of communication with the State Administration Council in Naypyitaw, privately push for restraint, and try to insulate border cooperation and infrastructure projects from the turmoil. That approach reflected habits built over decades of working with Myanmar’s military on counter-insurgency along the North-East frontier and on connectivity to Southeast Asia. At the same time, New Delhi avoided endorsing the coup. Its public statements called for the restoration of democracy and the release of political prisoners, but unlike Western capitals, it did not cut off engagement.

As the conflict deepened and armed resistance spread into Chin, Sagaing, Kachin and Rakhine, that one-dimensional strategy became untenable. New Delhi has gradually moved toward a multi-vector engagement. On one track, it has continued to host and engage with junta-linked actors; for example, in November 2024, India received a delegation of Myanmar military officers and allied politicians for discussions on federalism and conflict resolution. On another front, India has begun to engage with the opposition and ethnic groups. In September 2024, New Delhi quietly invited political and military opponents of the junta, including representatives of anti-regime EAOs, to a seminar on constitutionalism and federalism, an unprecedented step for a state that has usually treated the Myanmar military as its primary counterpart.

The ICG’s 2025 analysis goes further, arguing that Indian officials have established regular channels with several border-based insurgent groups to manage cross-border security and maintain some leverage in territories the junta no longer controls. A striking example of this adaptive posture is found in the realm of critical minerals. In 2025, Reuters reported that India was exploring a rare-earth supply arrangement with the Kachin Independence Army, which controls a key rare-earth mining hub on the Chinese border, having pushed out junta-aligned forces. The Ministry of Mines has reportedly requested that Indian Rare Earths Limited and a private firm collect and test samples from KIA-held mines. This is highly unusual: India is contemplating a resource partnership not with a recognized government but with a non-state armed group that happens to control the ground. It tells you something about how far Myanmar’s internal map has shifted, and how India is willing to adjust when rigid state-centric instruments no longer work.

At the same time, India is tightening the formal border architecture in response to the spillover of Myanmar’s war into the Northeast. In 2024, the Home Ministry announced plans to fence the entire India–Myanmar border and review the Free Movement Regime that allowed hill communities to cross relatively freely within a limited radius. The aim is to reduce the flow of armed fighters, narcotics and illicit arms that have been feeding violence in Manipur and elsewhere. A Reuters investigation in late 2024 documented how Indian militants who had taken refuge in Myanmar and fought in its civil war were now returning with sophisticated weapons, aggravating ethnic conflict in Manipur. From New Delhi’s vantage point, border management is not a narrow policing issue but a core component of its neighborhood strategy in the face of Myanmar’s internal disintegration.

Put together, India’s Myanmar policy today has three layers: continued engagement with the junta to keep projects and basic state-to-state mechanisms alive; calibrated outreach to anti-regime forces where they are the de facto authorities, especially along the border and in resource-rich zones; and a hardening of its own border in response to security externalities. None of this is pretty, and it does not resolve Myanmar’s crisis. However, it has allowed India to retain access and negotiating rights across the spectrum of actors, rather than placing all its bets on a regime that no longer controls the country it claims to rule.

A broader assessment of India’s neighborhood policy must therefore account for the conditions under which diplomacy is being conducted. Afghanistan and Myanmar are not ordinary neighbors; both are undergoing profound state fragility, contested sovereignties and intense external penetration. In such environments, the conventional metrics of influence, regime change, policy alignment or political stabilisation are neither realistic nor analytically useful. A more appropriate benchmark is whether India has been able to retain strategic access, preserve essential equities and construct channels of engagement that prevent its marginalization. Judged against this criterion, India’s post-2021 approach appears less a story of retreat and more an example of calibrated adaptation to structural volatility.

In Afghanistan, India has established a minimal yet resilient diplomatic presence, centered on humanitarian assistance and selective diplomatic engagement, while maintaining a deliberate distance from formal recognition. This approach has enabled New Delhi to remain part of the evolving regional conversation on Afghanistan, at a time when the distribution of influence is fluid and subject to shifts in Taliban-Pakistan and Taliban-China relations. In Myanmar, India has moved beyond a strictly state-centric posture and acknowledged the empirical reality of dispersed authority. Its engagement with the junta, border-based ethnic organizations and local administrative actors reflects an attempt to craft a multilayered diplomatic strategy suited to a fragmented political landscape, while simultaneously protecting its own border stability and connectivity ambitions.

These approaches do not resolve the underlying crises in either country, nor do they eliminate the normative tensions that accompany engagement with contested authorities. However, they do illustrate a broader transformation in India’s neighborhood policy: a willingness to operate within imperfect political conditions, to utilize multiple diplomatic vectors simultaneously, and to safeguard long-term interests through pragmatic, rather than maximalist, means. In that sense, India’s conduct in Afghanistan and Myanmar demonstrates that constructive engagement remains possible even in the most inhospitable corners of its neighbourhood, provided the goals are recalibrated to match the constraints of the regional environment.

The author is a PhD candidate at the School of International Studies, JNU, New Delhi

China’s Fourth Plenary Session of the 20th Central Committee and the Xi–Trump meeting in Busan took place only days apart. On paper, one was a domestic political gathering and the other a diplomatic encounter on the sidelines of a multilateral summit. They were not linked in official statements, and neither attracted feverish global commentary. Yet, taken together, they offer a glimpse into how Beijing is adapting to a complex international environment.

Fourth plenums traditionally focus on governance questions, party discipline and institutional direction rather than dramatic policy launches. This session followed that pattern. The messaging centered on maintaining steady political control, ensuring policy continuity and fostering cautious confidence. It suggested a leadership that sees no benefit in abrupt moves, either domestically or externally, at a time of uneven economic recovery and external pushback. Three themes stood out.

First, the reaffirmation of party-led governance was not performative symbolism. In Beijing’s worldview, political cohesion and long-term planning are assets in a period marked by technological disruption and geopolitical frictions. The leadership continues to believe that diffuse decision-making would leave China vulnerable to external pressure. Second, economic language emphasised pragmatic adjustment. China did not deny its financial challenges, ranging from corrections in the property sector to demographic shifts. However, rather than promising a sudden return to high-speed growth, the plenum signalled an acceptance that the next phase will be steadier, more industrial policy-driven, and oriented around the security of supply chains and financial stability. 

Third, technology remains the core battleground. US-led restrictions on advanced chips, export controls and scrutiny of Chinese tech companies have clearly been internalized. The Plenum’s language underscored ongoing efforts to reduce reliance on foreign tech inputs and build resilience in critical sectors. This is not isolationism; it is preparation for a world where access to advanced technologies is increasingly politicized. None of this was presented as a crisis response. It reflected a system that was preparing for long-term competition, rather than one that was overwhelmed by it.

The Xi-Trump meeting in Busan fit into this context of calibrated pacing. The discussions did not produce groundbreaking agreements, nor were they expected to. Tariffs, agricultural purchases and fentanyl precursors figured in public remarks. The more telling aspect, however, was tone—measured, practical and devoid of the sharpness seen in earlier phases of US–China confrontation. For Beijing, arriving in Busan after the plenum mattered. It allowed Xi to approach talks from a position of internal consolidation, not defensive anxiety. For Washington, under a Trump return that values transactional gestures, a calmer exchange made tactical sense too.

The meeting illustrated a shared recognition: neither country benefits from sustained escalation at this moment. China is navigating an economic transition and rebuilding confidence, while the United States is focused on industrial reshoring, alliance repair, and domestic political contests. Strategic rivalry continues, especially in technology and security, but uninterrupted confrontation is costly, and both sides appear willing to slow the tempo. This was not détente. It was a way to test whether channels can stay open without implying softness.

If one looks at global alignments, markets and diplomatic behavior since these events, the picture that emerges is not sudden stability but a more predictable cadence. Supply chains are diversifying, not breaking. Export controls evolve, but trade persists. Security partnerships deepen, yet complete economic decoupling remains improbable. The US–China rivalry remains as real as it was a few years ago. It simply appears to be settling into a slower, steadier phase one, where each side tests its structural endurance. This rhythm benefits nobody spectacularly, but it also harms nobody dramatically. It suits countries that want time to build capacity, especially powers striving for strategic autonomy, including India and the European Union. 

For New Delhi, the Plenum-Busan period did not signal a change in thaw with China or a weakening Western alignment. Instead, it reinforced an approach that India had already adopted: steady engagement with the West on critical technology and defense, alongside measured management of the China relationship to avoid avoidable shocks.

India’s border concerns with China have not lessened. Military deployments remain robust; infrastructure development in border regions continues. At the same time, diplomatic channels remain open, and senior-level military talks continue. People-to-people and business-to-business ties have also begun growing in the past few months, signalling that both countries are understanding and navigating turbulent geopolitical spaces. 

India is not repositioning away from the United States. Strategic cooperation on supply chains, advanced manufacturing, space and maritime security has only deepened. The expectation that any external partner, even the United States, will perfectly align with India’s priorities has faded. Statements from Washington after Operation Sindoor served as a reminder that every partnership has its chafing points. So, India is doing what rising powers with long memories do: building capability, banking partnerships, and keeping options open. Instead of dramatic swings, we see incremental strengthening in areas such as semiconductor policy, defence co-production, digital infrastructure exports, energy corridors, and tighter coordination with Europe and the Indo-Pacific. 

Ultimately, neither the Fourth Plenum nor the Busan meeting reveals the future. What they tell us, instead, is how major powers behave when they don’t fully trust the world and aren't entirely sure of themselves, either. China tightened its seams before it stepped onto the diplomatic stage. The United States played along, not because it suddenly believes in strategic harmony, but because endless confrontation is exhausting and expensive. And India, watching both, is quietly filing away lessons. Nobody is “winning” here; nobody is collapsing either. This is a moment of political adulthood where states learn to live with discomfort, ambiguity, and the slow grind of structural rivalry. It’s not dramatic, and that’s precisely the point. The future is being shaped in paperwork, quiet conversations and long-term investments, not in summit fireworks.

For India and the region, the task is not to predict which way the wind blows, but to build so that whichever way it blows, you don’t get swept off your feet. Great power politics right now is less a game of grand moves, more like distance running: steady breathing, keeping pace, occasionally accelerating, never collapsing from your own adrenaline. In the years ahead, we can expect headlines, crises, breakthroughs, and provocations again. But these quieter phases matter too.

The author is a PhD candidate at the School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University. He is also a life member of the International Center for Peace Studies

In addition to highlighting the long-simmering generational resentment in the nation, the GenZ protests in Sept 2025 brought about one of the worst economic shocks in Nepal’s recent history. What started as youth-led protests against political stagnation, unemployment, and corruption swiftly descended into violence, resulting in dozens of fatalities, thousands of injuries, and an enormous financial loss. The actual question now is whether Nepal can withstand these shocks without spiralling into more severe cycles of instability. The protests’ financial toll is already apparent: direct damages totalling billions of rupees, a decline in investor confidence, a contraction in essential industries, and an increase in unemployment. These losses, if ignored, will worsen the very circumstances that pushed young Nepalis onto the streets, raising the possibility of future unrest.

The most apparent and agonizing toll is the human one. Over two thousand people were injured during the protests, and at least seventy-four people were killed nationwide, including protesters and security personnel. Public trust in the state’s ability to maintain law and order was broken and prison breakouts contributed to the growing sense of lawlessness. The less obvious but no less terrible tale of economic devastation, however, is hidden behind these headlines. According to estimates from economists, the collateral damage caused by the protests is approximately Rs 3trn, which is nearly half of the nation’s GDP and equal to the government’s budget for almost one and a half fiscal years. The foundation of Nepal’s economy, the tourism industry, has been especially severely affected. According to tourism officials, the industry lost approximately Rs 25bn during and immediately following the protests, as thousands of cancellations destroyed what was supposed to be a prosperous season. With reported losses exceeding Rs 25bn and damage exceeding Rs 8bn at the Hilton in Kathmandu alone, the hotel industry has been disproportionately affected. These numbers are more than just statistics; they reflect the closure of businesses, unpaid workers, and a decline in Nepal’s reputation as a safe and secure travel destination abroad. When order is restored, the effects won’t go away; damage to a tourism industry's reputation may persist for years, discouraging subsequent tourism and investment in associated infrastructure.

The entire private sector has also suffered greatly. An estimated 15,000 jobs were directly impacted, and businesses reported losses of about Rs 80bn. These new job losses run the risk of escalating the cycle of economic despair in a nation already beset by pervasive underemployment and a significant reliance on foreign migration for employment. In addition to undermining household incomes, unemployment increases outbound migration and strengthens Nepal's reliance on remittances from abroad. Due to business closures or reductions during the unrest, nearly 10,000 Nepalis reportedly lost their jobs within a short period. This weakens the very demographic advantage Nepal should use for development, exacerbating an already precarious situation where the young, skilled labour force sees greater prospects abroad than at home.

The losses extended beyond small businesses and the tourism sector. Due to increased consumer demand, the automobile industry, which has been one of the most dynamic in recent years, sustained damages totalling about Rs 15bn. Along with interrupted imports and supply chains, the destruction of showrooms and warehouses runs the risk of slowing down a market that was previously growing. Consumer confidence and purchasing power might take some time to recover, even with the reconstruction of physical infrastructure, particularly as inflationary pressures increase and household incomes remain stagnant. This illustrates how instability undermines long-term growth prospects: years of gradual progress in industries that reflect the burgeoning middle-class economy can be reversed by a single wave of violence.

The cumulative effect of these losses has negatively impacted the macroeconomic outlook for Nepal. The economy was expected to grow by 3.5 to 4 percent this fiscal year, but growth forecasts have since been drastically reduced; some economists now predict growth of less than one percent. Others note that if reconstruction is postponed or funded carelessly, Nepal might experience complete contraction. According to one estimate, the protests caused losses of $22.5bn, or nearly half of Nepal’s GDP. As a result, the GenZ protests would rank among the most severe economic shocks to South Asia during a period of peace in recent memory, in addition to being a disruptive episode. This magnitude of loss runs the risk of igniting a fiscal and monetary crisis for a nation still recuperating from the pandemic and having trouble managing its debt.

The state is already feeling the financial strain. The government has been forced to reallocate funds for increased security spending, emergency relief, and compensation for the families of the victims. The fiscal deficit has widened as a result of the collapse of tourism and commerce revenues. Nepal may have to borrow more money as a result of declining revenues and growing debt. However, borrowing now runs the risk of trapping the nation in a debt cycle, particularly if grants and concessional loans from outside partners are not forthcoming. The burden will only get worse if borrowing costs increase, especially if credit rating agencies reduce Nepal’s risk profile in reaction to political and economic unrest. A declining rupee and growing import prices could cause inflationary pressures that further reduce real incomes and exacerbate public annoyance.

A new generation of Nepalis has taken to the streets to vent their frustration because they are better educated, more globally connected, and more conscious of the shortcomings of the government. Disillusionment will increase if their complaints are only addressed through repression and short-term fixes rather than structural changes. That might undermine democratic stability by opening the door for frequent demonstrations or more extreme forms of mobilisation. Nepal runs the risk of becoming caught in a vicious cycle where protests erode the economy further, which in turn leads to more protests. Economic despair and political alienation are a volatile combination.

Consequently, Nepal cannot meet the challenge on its own. Being a landlocked nation sandwiched between two powerful countries, Nepal’s instability will unavoidably impact its neighbours, and it needs outside assistance to recover. India, Nepal’s closest neighbour and biggest trading partner, has a special obligation to provide concessional credit lines for reconstruction and investment in industries that create jobs. Targeted assistance in border areas, primarily through cross-border trade hubs and renewable energy projects, may be able to absorb some of the young people without jobs and lessen the pressures of migration. In order to guarantee the transparent use of reconstruction funds, India can simultaneously offer technical expertise in auditing and public finance.

Beijing must put community-sensitive projects that meet local needs ahead of purely strategic objectives if it hopes to be regarded as a reliable development partner. Coordination with Nepali stakeholders, grants rather than high-interest loans, and transparent funding will be essential. The time demands that multilateral organisations like the World Bank and Asian Development Bank reevaluate their priorities, allocating funds not only to infrastructure but also to rural development, youth employment, and governance reforms. Through direct investments in healthcare and education, development bonds backed by remittances, or emergency compensation funds for impacted families, Western donors and Nepal’s diaspora communities can also make a significant contribution.

Nepal’s recent history has taught us that crises rarely come to an end with a single incident. The monarchy was overthrown by the People's Movement of 2006, but federalism and ethnic grievances remained unresolved. Although it alienated important groups, the 2015 Constitution established a new order. The GenZ protests follow this pattern: if youth grievances are not addressed, today’s instability will only serve as the catalyst for tomorrow’s upheaval. Now, structural reform is required in addition to reconstruction. The bare minimum of stability requires the transparent rebuilding of damaged infrastructure, a youth-focused national employment mission, institutional reforms to fight corruption, and sincere communication with younger generations and civil society.

If these economic wounds are allowed to worsen, there is a risk that they will exacerbate disenchantment, accelerate migration, erode the fiscal system, and create the conditions for further upheavals. Nepal and its neighbours, who would unavoidably be affected, cannot afford such a course. It is now the duty of Nepali leaders and outside partners to take note of the possibility to not only restore what has been destroyed but also to establish the framework for a more resilient, inclusive, and stable order. The GenZ protests might be seen as a sign of long-term decline rather than a turning point towards reform in the absence of such a concerted and systemic response.

The author is a PhD Candidate at the School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi

The recent GenZ protests in Nepal caused profound political changes in Nepal, including the resignation of Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli, dissolution of Parliament, and appointment of former Chief Justice of Nepal Supreme Court, Sushila Karki, as interim Prime Minister. Nevertheless, the process is far from complete, as the President has announced 5 March 2026 to be the date of the next general elections. It will be interesting to note what kind of reform the interim Prime Minister will be taking, which may be added once the new parliament is constituted. It will also call for constitutional reforms in Nepal, which has been a foremost demand of GenZ protestors. In light of these changes, it is essential to stocktake the journey of constitutional reforms that Nepal has taken in the past seven to eight decades, and what the friction points were back then. 

Nepal’s constitutional journey since the 1940s reads less like a tidy sequence of institutional reforms and more like a long, uneven negotiations over where sovereignty should sit and what it should look like. King or people. Party or palace. Kathmandu or the Tarai. Hill heartland or the periphery. Each text, from the first experiments under the Ranas to the 2015 charter and beyond, is a record of bargains struck and bargains deferred. To understand why Nepal is once again on the verge of serious change after a youth-led uprising, we need to trace how these bargains have shifted, which problems were solved, and which were simply moved down the road.

The starting point is the late Rana rule. Under pressure at home and from winds blowing across the subcontinent, Prime Minister Padma Shumsher announced constitutional reforms in the late 1940s. The Government of Nepal Constitution Act of 1948 floated the idea of a bicameral legislature and ministerial responsibility. It was carefully drafted. Selection powers sat with the prime minister, and the edifice rested on executive discretion. Still, it broke a tradition by acknowledging that state power might be shared. That act was followed by the Interim Government of Nepal Act of 1951, issued as the Rana oligarchy fell and a broad coalition ushered in a constitutional monarchy and multiparty politics. The 1951 text listed civil liberties, set out a provisional institutional design, and promised a fuller democratic settlement to come. It also carried the first seed of a recurring problem: lofty rights were planted in thin soil. Institutions to protect them were weak, and the balance between palace and parties was unsettled.

The 1959 Constitution tried to make good on the promise. Nepal held its first general elections. BP Koirala became the first democratically elected prime minister. For a moment, parliamentary democracy had a constitutional home. Alas, it did not last. In December 1960, King Mahendra dismissed the government, jailed elected leaders, and moved the country into a partyless Panchayat system. The 1962 Constitution codified the Panchayat system, concentrating sovereignty in the crown and constructing a pyramidal set of assemblies that were consultative in form and royalist in effect. This was not an aberration but a full constitutional project. It sought to bring nationhood, religion, and monarchy into a single frame and to define politics as social harmony under royal guardianship. Its longevity came from that ideological glue; its undoing came from the same source when economic change, social mobility, and a rising political class found the frame too tight.

The popular movement of 1990 was the first decisive mass amendment to that project. The protest forced a bargain. The palace would remain, but power would flow through elected institutions. The 1990 Constitution restored multiparty democracy, expanded fundamental rights, and set up an independent judiciary. It looked European in design, and for a while, it delivered plural politics. Yet the monarchy still held reserve powers. Identity-based claims were largely absorbed into the language of national unity rather than represented as constitutional pluralism. Federalism was absent. These omissions did not cause the insurgency that began in 1996, but they certainly narrowed the channels through which socioeconomic grievances and peripheral voices could be routed into policy. The palace’s 2005 coup temporarily snapped even the 1990 compromise, convincing many that a constitutional monarchy could never be safely caged.

The 2006 people’s movement broke the last link. The 2007 Interim Constitution disempowered the king and reoriented the state toward an elected sovereign Constituent Assembly. When the monarchy was abolished in 2008, it was less a leap into republicanism than an acceptance that the 1990 dualism had failed. From that point forward, legitimacy would be negotiated not between palace and parties but within a widening circle of political and social actors: Maoists now in suits, Madhesi parties galvanized by long exclusion, indigenous nationalities, women’s movements, and a younger generation that had grown up inside conflict and transition. The first Constituent Assembly collapsed under the weight of that diversity. The second produced the 2015 Constitution, a republican, federal, secular settlement that promised inclusion, proportional representation, and a new map of provinces. It was a bold step, but once again, some bargains were patched rather than resolved.

Two pressures immediately exposed those seams. The first was identity and representation. Many Madhesi and Tharu groups protested that the federal boundaries and electoral formulae diluted their political weight. Protests in the plains and a crippling impediment to cross-border trade followed. The new constitution’s legitimacy arrived with a caveat attached. Kathmandu amended the text on proportional inclusion and constituency delineation, but the deeper question, whether federal design tracks social geography closely enough to make people feel represented, was left for politics to answer. It still has not. The second pressure was state capacity under stress. The 2015 earthquake devastated infrastructure and livelihoods. A new federal republic with developing democratic institutions was suddenly tasked to deliver large-scale reconstruction, manage competing party interests across new provincial layers, and keep the economy afloat. The constitution’s promise of devolution and local empowerment was good, but the administrative reforms could not pick up the pace. This gap between constitutional aspiration and everyday governance seeded the frustration that now fuels youth anger: a sense that no matter which coalition takes Singha Durbar, services remain patchy, jobs scarce, and integrity negotiable.

Since 2015, constitutional politics has not rested. A 2022–23 set of amendments eased pathways for citizenship by descent for children of those who held citizenship by birth, and opened a narrow door for non-resident citizenship without political rights. Each change eased one pressure while stirring another. That pattern, addressing the immediate grievance and postponing the structural fix, has been the through-line of the last decade.

With this grand rupture, what can be expected from the constitutional positioning of new political actors is a timely question that needs to be asked. How federal should the state be? What mix of electoral system and party democracy can ensure accountability? How can conflicts of interest be managed in a political sphere where networks are tight and incentives distorted? These are some essential questions that the new democratic political elite of Nepal will be dealing with for quite some time. Nevertheless, in the opinion of this author, the 2015 constitution provides a good roadmap with some recalibrations to work upon, more importantly, in the areas of safeguarding human and digital rights. Along with this, a serious approach needs to be taken to tackle corruption by developing more constitutional checks and balances. Nevertheless, it also needs to be kept in mind that constitutional and legal reforms need to be done in parallel with overhauling already existing institutions as well as serious bureaucratic and institutional reforms; only then can long-term stability be achieved.