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It has been three years since the Covid-19 pandemic subsided, but more than 95,000 are still awaiting their promised insurance payouts. The government has yet to release over Rs 11.34bn in covid insurance claims, leaving many policyholders in limbo.

During the pandemic, around 1.75m policies were issued under the covid insurance scheme, with nearly 165,059 claims filed. While 69,765 policyholders have received payments totaling around Rs 6.58bn, the remaining 95,294 have received nothing. Insurance companies say that they are unable to make the payments because the government, which had promised to cover liabilities beyond a certain threshold, has not allocated the necessary funds. The Ministry of Finance, meanwhile, cites a lack of resources amid ongoing budget constraints.

“The covid insurance issue is a priority,” said Ambika Prasad Khanal, the spokesperson for the Ministry of Finance. “However, due to the pressure on resources, nothing can be said about insurance payout at the moment.” The finance ministry has failed to commit funds, despite repeated requests from both insurance companies and the Nepal Insurance Authority (NIA)—the insurance market regulator.

“Insurance companies have done what they could. The rest is up to the government,” said Nirmal Adhikari, spokesperson for the Nepal Insurance Authority. “We are mere coordinators; it is the government’s responsibility.”

Frustrated by the government's inaction, insurance companies and policyholders have taken the matter to the Supreme Court. They have filed lawsuits against both the NIA and the government.  The Nepal Insurers Association, the umbrella body of 14 non-life insurance companies, has said that the government has failed to honor its financial obligations.

“We were told the government would shoulder the burden beyond Rs 3.5bn,” said Chunky Kshetri, former chairperson of the association. “But after years of waiting, we have been left with no choice but to seek justice in court.” The lack of payment has not only affected individual policyholders but also had broader implications for the insurance sector, which is grappling with reduced credibility and operational challenges.

Complicating matters further are allegations of fraud. At least 669 cases of duplicate or fraudulent claims, amounting to Rs 63.9 million in irregular payouts, have been identified. However, insurance expert Rabindra Ghimire said this was largely due to the lack of strong oversight mechanisms and clear policy limits. “Insurance fraud is common all over the world, especially in health insurance,” Ghimire said. “Here, the government did not set timeframes or caps on covid insurance payouts, unlike Thailand and Singapore, which managed expectations and liabilities from the beginning.”

Thailand and Singapore limited their coverage to small amounts and set deadlines for claims which helped prevent excessive liabilities. Nepal, however, offered up to Rs 100,000 per person with no clear claim deadlines which led to overwhelming demand and a ballooning fiscal responsibility. The covid insurance scheme was launched in April 2020 with premium rates as low as Rs 300 for coverage of Rs 50,000.

From a distance, the Himalayas appear eternal—majestic peaks piercing the sky, shrouded in snow and silence. But beneath their postcard perfection lies a truth far more unsettling. The Himalayas are changing—rapidly, dangerously, and perhaps irreversibly.

As glaciers melt, ecosystems shift, and traditional climbing routes become unstable, Nepal’s mountaineering industry—a vital pillar of its economy and identity—now teeters at a precarious crossroads.

At the recent Sagarmatha Sambaad, the theme “Climate Change, Mountains, and the Future of Humanity” cast a grim spotlight on the rapidly evolving crisis. Nepal’s Minister for Forests and Environment, Ain Bahadur Shahi Thakuri, said,“These mountains are now on the frontline of a rapidly intensifying climate emergency.”

Often called the “Third Pole,” the Himalayas house the largest volume of ice outside the Arctic and Antarctic. This frozen reserve—Earth’s cryosphere—feeds the rivers that sustain nearly two billion people across South Asia. Yet, as global temperatures rise, this critical water source is vanishing. A recent study showed that glaciers in the eastern Himalayas are retreating at an alarming rate. 

“What begins in the mountains ripples downstream,” Thakuri warned. “The fate of humanity is intertwined with the fate of these mountains.” Every spring, hundreds of climbers descend on Nepal with one ambition: to conquer Sagarmatha, the world’s highest peak. For many, summiting Sagarmatha is the ultimate badge of honor, a feat of endurance and courage. For Nepal, it’s also a crucial economic engine. In the spring 2025 season alone, the government issued climbing permits to 456 climbers from 57 countries, generating over Rs 676m in royalties from Sagarmatha. The total revenue from 26 peaks, including Lhotse, Makalu, and Annapurna, exceeded Rs 773m.

But Sagarmatha is changing, and not just in popularity. The Khumbu Glacier—home to the iconic base camp—is retreating by more than a meter every year. A 2022 scientific assessment even recommended relocating the base camp due to the increasing instability of the ice. Crevasses now open earlier in the season. The “death zone,” already perilous, is now compounded by unpredictable weather patterns and melting permafrost. The mountain is no longer what it once was—neither in form nor in spirit.

For many climbers, Sagarmatha no longer symbolizes adventure, but excess. The commercialization of the climb has led to an influx of “tourist climbers”—individuals who may lack adequate experience or preparation but are eager to reach the summit, often at any cost.

Nepal’s current mountaineering policy allows anyone to climb Sagarmatha analyzing their physical or technical ability. The only formal requirement is that climbers must climb 7,000 meters mountain before climbing Sagarmatha. However, in practice, enforcement is often lax, and underprepared climbers continue to receive permits.

In spring 2025, over 1,100 climbing permits were issued. The infamous 2019 photo of a human queue snaking toward the summit remains etched in public memory. “The mountain is littered with garbage, human waste, and even the bodies of those who never made it down,” says Purnima Shrestha, a renowned Nepali climber and photojournalist. “Not all the people there are physically and emotionally ready to climb the peak. That is being disrespectful to Sagarmatha.”

From 1950 to 2023, at least 353 climbers died on Sagarmatha. The deadliest years—2023 (18 deaths), 2014 (17), and 1996 (15)—were marked by avalanches, collapsing icefalls, and extreme weather events. All are exacerbated by climate change, according to Himalayan Database.

Avalanches have claimed 78 lives, falls have taken 75, and altitude sickness has led to 46 deaths. The cost of rescue missions is escalating. So are insurance premiums and operational logistics. Many Sherpas now refuse certain routes that were once considered routine. “We are playing roulette with nature,” says Pasang Sherpa, a senior guide who has summited Sagarmatha nine times. “There are places we used to trust that we now fear.”

Renowned mountaineer and Guinness World Record holder Mingma David Sherpa stressed the urgent need for better regulation and preparedness in high-altitude climbing. “Climbers must have technical knowledge before attempting any major ascent,” he said. “Only those with prior high-altitude experience should be granted permission to climb.”

While the risks are growing, so are the innovations to address them. One notable development this season is the use of xenon gas treatments to aid climbers in coping with altitude sickness. Furtenbach Adventures, a high-end expedition company, introduced the method after months of training and hypoxia acclimatization in Europe.

“The only reason why we are working with xenon is to make climbing safer, to protect climbers from high altitude sickness,” said company founder Lukas Furtenbach upon his return to Kathmandu. “This may be one step to improve the situation to make climbing high altitude mountains safer.” While the treatment was administered in Germany before the expedition, Nepal’s mountaineering authorities have launched an inquiry into its use to ensure climber safety and ethical standards.

“We are committed to protecting the natural beauty of our peaks and helping local communities grow alongside the spirit of adventure,” said Nepal’s Tourism Minister Badri Prasad Pandey. But he added that regulation must evolve alongside the industry.

Meanwhile, initiatives to improve mountain sustainability have struggled to move beyond discussion. One such proposal, presented by ICIMOD, suggested that each major mountain be given a “one-year rest” period to recover from the environmental toll of human activity—including waste, overuse, and trail degradation. But despite its strong focus on pollution control and garbage management, the idea remains stalled at the discussion level, with no concrete implementation to date.

Dipendra Gurung, communication officer at the Nepal Mountaineering Association (NMA), shared concerns about the current state of mountain waste management. “Garbage management was previously handled entirely by the NMA,” he said. “But over the past two years, Nepal Army has taken responsibility.” However, this year, their involvement hasn’t been visible either.”

Gurung explained the logistical and financial challenges involved. “It takes a significant amount of funding to carry out proper cleanup operations. We are doing what we can with limited resources, but bringing all the waste—and in some cases, even dead bodies—down to lower altitudes is extremely difficult.”

Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee (SPCC), a local organization based in the Khumbu region, plays a key role in managing waste generated by climbers. The SPCC monitors how much garbage each expedition team takes up the mountain and ensures that an equivalent amount is brought back down. If climbers return with less waste than they were registered to carry, they are fined according to the committee’s waste management policy. This system is designed to discourage dumping and promote accountability on the mountain.

Nepal’s economy leans heavily on tourism, particularly mountaineering and trekking. Thousands of porters, guides, hoteliers, and service workers depend on seasonal climbing income. But with increasing climate volatility, the very bedrock of this industry is cracking.

Glacial lake outburst floods (GLOFs) pose a catastrophic threat. One such flood could wipe out entire villages, bridges, and key trekking routes. The infrastructure built over decades could vanish in minutes. And yet, Nepal remains one of the world’s lowest carbon emitters—contributing just 0.57 tons of CO₂ per capita in 2023, far below the global average of 6.76. Despite this, it bears a disproportionate brunt of climate impacts.

Nepal is not watching this disaster unfold passively. Through frameworks like the National Adaptation Plan (NAP) and Local Adaptation Plans of Action (LAPAs), the government is empowering grassroots efforts—especially among women and Indigenous groups who have long been custodians of mountain ecology.

Community forestry programs have flourished. Women’s cooperatives are promoting climate-smart agriculture. Young entrepreneurs are designing eco-lodges, clean trekking initiatives, and sustainable tourism models that merge tradition with innovation.

One such effort is “Clean Himalaya,” a Sherpa-led waste collection campaign that retrieves several tons of garbage from Sagarmatha each year. Another is “Green Peak,” a startup that offers biodegradable gear to reduce mountaineering’s environmental footprint.

The Himalayas have long been more than just a geographic landmark. They are the spine of Asia, the source of sacred rivers, the abode of gods, and the mirror of our planetary health. The melting of these mountains is not a distant problem. It demands global cooperation, corporate responsibility, and individual restraint. The mountain economy must be reimagined—not just for profit, but for preservation.

Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak is under pressure from opposition parties to resign, taking moral responsibility for last week’s reported visit visa scam. Though no concrete evidence of Lekhak’s involvement has emerged, opposition parties are demanding his resignation and the formation of a high-level judicial commission to investigate the issue.

Opposition parties, particularly the CPN (Maoist Center), Rastriya Swatantra Party, and CPN (Unified Socialist), obstructed Parliament on Tuesday and Wednesday over the matter. Within his party, the Nepali Congress (NC), Lekhak is known as a politician with a clean image and integrity, having played a pivotal role in Nepal’s peace and constitution-drafting process. A key architect of the current NC-UML coalition, Lekhak is a close confidant of NC President Sher Bahadur Deuba. The NC insists he should be allowed to speak in Parliament to clarify the accusations, but opposition parties remain adamant about his resignation.

The parliamentary obstruction comes at a critical time—the government is set to present its budget on May 29, the constitutionally mandated deadline. Opposition parties have hinted they may allow the budget presentation, acknowledging that failure to do so could trigger a constitutional crisis.

Lekhak faces pressure not only from opposition parties but also from within his own party. Senior NC leader Shekhar Koirala publicly suggested he resign to facilitate an independent probe into the scam. On Wednesday, NC General Secretary Gagan Kumar Thapa stated that the home minister should step down, calling it a “political and moral issue.” Despite internal dissent, the NC’s official stance is that Lekhak will not resign, nor will a judicial commission be formed. NC Chief Whip Shyam Ghimire said that since only some officials have been implicated so far, seeking home minister’s resignation is unjustified.

On May 21, Tirtha Raj Bhattarai, chief of the Tribhuvan International Airport (TIA) Immigration Office, was interrogated by the Commission for the Investigation of Abuse of Authority (CIAA) for allegedly facilitating illegal foreign travel on visit visas. Officials describe the scam as potentially involving billions, with suspicions of senior home ministry officials’ involvement. Bhattarai’s abrupt transfer from the airport to the home ministry—followed by his arrest the next day—has raised questions. Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli and the NC continue to support Lekhak, citing a lack of direct evidence linking him to the case. However, prolonged parliamentary disruption could intensify pressure for his resignation.

The Home Ministry’s reputation has suffered in recent years due to successive corruption scandals. Former Home Minister Bal Krishna Khand faces charges in the fake Bhutanese refugee scandal, alongside the home secretary and other high-level officials. Former Home Minister Rabi Lamichhane is also embroiled in cases involving cooperative fraud and passport misuse. After being denied the chance to speak in Parliament, Lekhak held a press conference to defend his position on Wednesday.

"It is unjust to drag leadership into controversy before the CIAA completes its investigation," he said. "I will not resign based on media and social media reports. No complaints have been filed against me. I deserve justice like any ordinary citizen." He also argued that past investigations into senior Home Ministry officials and the chief secretary did not prompt calls for political leadership to step down. Lekhak assured the Home Ministry would fully cooperate with the CIAA’s probe.

My journey with sharbat began on a bright day in a television studio. During an interview on Nepal Television, the discussion touched many topics, but my heart kept returning to one subject—our humble, refreshing, and deeply traditional drink: sharbat. It was then I realized this drink is more than a thirst-quencher. It’s a symbol of our identity and a reflection of our heritage. 

The word ‘sharbat’ comes from the Arabic word sharba, meaning ‘a sip’ or ‘something to drink.’ Its roots trace back to ancient Persia and the Arab world, where it was more than a cool refreshment. It was believed to have healing powers. Scholars and traditional healers used ingredients like rose, lemon, cardamom, and fennel to prepare these sweet herbal drinks.

As it traveled across the Islamic world—from Baghdad to Cairo, and later into the Ottoman Empire and Mughal India—sharbat was refined and reinvented. In India, Emperor Babur famously had ice brought from the mountains of Kabul just to enjoy sharbat in the summer heat. Regional ingredients like bael fruit and raw mango gave rise to new variations like aam panna.

Sharbat eventually made its way into Nepali kitchens and local culture. Here, it evolved again—crafted from ingredients found in our own soil, like khudo (traditional sugarcane molasses) and native lemons such as kagati and sun kagati. Today, sharbat is part of many Nepali households, but it deserves a more honored place in our national identity.

Nepal is a land rich in natural beauty, biodiversity, and culture. But some of our simplest traditions remain underappreciated. Sharbat is one of them. In a world full of imported soft drinks that are unhealthy, expensive, and harmful to local economies, sharbat offers a refreshing and sustainable alternative.

It’s healthy, easy to make, and full of local flavors. It energizes and cools the body, thanks to its natural ingredients. The molasses (khudo) provides organic sweetness, while the fresh lemon juice adds a zesty boost of vitamin C—good for digestion and immunity.

And sharbat is versatile. You can serve it chilled at a roadside tea shop, mix it into a cocktail at a luxury hotel, or enjoy it with momo during family gatherings. It belongs everywhere.

Here is a basic recipe that anyone can make at home, in restaurants, or at events:

Ingredients:

• 1 liter of natural or spring water
• 2–3 tablespoons of khudo (sugarcane molasses)
• Juice of 3–4 kagati or sun kagati lemons
• Optional: A few crushed mint leaves or a dash of rose syrup

Instructions:

• Mix water and khudo until fully dissolved.
• Add freshly squeezed lemon juice.
• (Optional) Add mint or rose syrup for extra flavor.
• Chill in the fridge or serve over ice.

This is more than just a recipe—it’s a taste of Nepal’s soil and spirit.

On that day at Nepal Television, I found myself passionately speaking about why sharbat should be served in every embassy, hotel, and street corner in the country. Imagine welcoming foreign guests at international conferences with a glass of chilled sharbat. Picture tourists arriving at resorts in Chitwan or trekking lodges in the Himalayas, greeted with this simple, delightful drink. What better way to share a piece of our culture?

With rising health concerns around sugary sodas and energy drinks, Nepali sharbat stands out as a natural and nutritious alternative. It hydrates, refreshes, and nourishes. It’s free from chemicals and full of the natural goodness of local lemons and molasses.

Sharbat can be enjoyed any time of day. It doesn’t spike blood sugar the way sodas do. And because it uses ingredients found across Nepal, it supports a healthy lifestyle while also supporting local farmers.

Promoting sharbat means investing in Nepal’s local economy. If more people start using khudo, it increases demand for locally grown sugarcane. If restaurants and hotels serve lemon-based sharbat, it helps citrus farmers. If street vendors sell sharbat, they gain income while sharing local flavors with visitors.

More than that, it’s about pride. In a globalized world dominated by multinational brands, serving sharbat is a way of saying: ‘This is who we are.’ It’s our version of Japan’s matcha tea, India’s lassi, or Qatar’s lemon-mint. It’s uniquely Nepali.

During the FIFA World Cup in Qatar, I was part of the culinary team that helped upgrade the Qatar Airways inflight menu. One of the highlights was introducing the Qatari drink ‘lemon mint’—simple, refreshing, and rooted in identity. That moment made me think: why shouldn’t Nepal have its own national drink?

We already do. It’s in our homes, our farms, and our traditions. It’s called sarbat—our version of sharbat.

This is more than a campaign for a drink. It’s a campaign for national pride, health, and economic empowerment. I urge families, restaurants, tourism operators, and government officials to make sharbat part of everyday life.

Let’s serve it at international events. Let’s include it on hotel menus. Let’s encourage farmers to grow more lemons and sugarcane. Let’s support local producers of khudo. Let’s inspire young entrepreneurs to bottle Nepali sharbat and sell it to the world.

Every glass of sharbat we serve is a step toward self-reliance. It’s a drink that quenches more than thirst—it speaks to our roots, our resilience, and our rich culture. It’s affordable, accessible, and full of potential.

The author is a London-based R&D chef