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Dec 12, 

Shantinagar, Kathmandu

When I entered the teashop, five young boys in their early twenties were seated at a corner table. Two of them were busy filling out forms, seemingly immersed in their task. After observing for a while, I realized they were preparing documents to apply for a loan from the microfinance next door, as they were planning to fly abroad for employment.

Their intentions became clearer when a staff member from the microfinance joined them, assisting with the paperwork. A young woman from the same office reassured the boys that their loan would be approved within a day if they submitted all required documents immediately. Over cups of tea and light snacks, the boys began discussing their future plans once they started earning abroad.

“I need to support my two brothers with their education,” one said. “So, I might not save money for the next five years.” Another shared his priorities: repairing his house and preparing for marriage. These boys, hailing from Madhes province, had arrived in Kathmandu two weeks earlier, chasing the dream of better opportunities abroad. Their candid conversation painted a picture of aspirations entwined with familial responsibilities.

As I listened to their discussion, two men walked into the teashop. They were familiar with the owner, who greeted them warmly. Their conversation veered into an unusual topic: the divorce case of a mutual friend. The man in question, aged 72, had remarried three months ago but had divorced only days earlier. The tea shop owner shared that the man had since stopped visiting the establishment, and the conversation quickly turned to rising divorce rates.

“At a time when divorces among young couples are increasing, it’s hardly surprising to see it happening among older couples too,” remarked one man. They discussed possible reasons behind these trends but focused disproportionately on blaming women. I refrained from delving deeper into their views, noting the deeply entrenched gender bias that lingered in their comments—an issue pervasive from tea shops to workplaces.

The four boys had left by this point, heading to the microfinance, and the two men exited shortly after, leaving just me and the shop owner. The owner struck up a conversation, commenting on the bitter cold and how it doubled the time needed to prepare tea. Then, out of the blue, he asked, “Sir, what’s going to happen to Rabi Lamichhane? Will the court free him or convict him?”

I replied cautiously, “There are multiple allegations; it’s hard to predict the outcome.” He nodded, adding, “Today, Kantipur reported allegations about misappropriated funds meant for charity. Do you think the news is true?” His curiosity was palpable, but I had no definitive answer for him. The case had clearly piqued public interest.

As I sipped my tea, two men entered and began discussing the stagnant real estate sector. From their conversation, it was clear they were investors struggling to sell land and meet their interest payments. The market slowdown had left them in distress, their voices heavy with worry.

Soon, five morning walkers entered the teashop, their familiarity with the owner evident. They didn’t bother specifying their tea preferences; the owner already knew their choices. One of them brought up former President Bidya Devi Bhandari and Vice-President Nanda Kishor Pun rumored plans to re-enter active politics.

“It’s absurd,” one of them exclaimed. “After holding such high offices, why would they join party politics?”

This sparked a lively debate. Some cited examples from India, the US, and other countries, pointing out how rare it is for former presidents or vice presidents to return to party politics. “If they join,” one argued, “it’ll cast doubt on their neutrality while in office and weaken the presidency’s integrity in the future.”

Another participant added, “They should follow the example of former President Ram Baran Yadav, who hasn’t rejoined party politics. Instead, they could focus on philanthropic work, like American presidents do after retirement.”

The conversation shifted to CPN (Maoist Center) Chair Pushpa Kamal Dahal. One of the men speculated that after signing the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) agreement with China, the government was under pressure. “Dahal is supporting Rabi Lamichhane to form a new government,” he claimed.

Another participant countered, suggesting there wouldn’t be a new government but rather a cabinet reshuffle. “Youth leader Gagan Thapa might become deputy prime minister and finance minister,” he predicted. The room fell silent, except for one man who expressed concern over the potential impact on the stock market.

Their discussion reminded me of a conversation I’d had earlier in the week with a senior Rastriya Prajatantra Party leader. He had hinted at murmurs within political circles about a potential government change and the need for his party to be ready to take a role if invited.

Returning to the teashop chatter, the focus shifted to the government’s decision to take a concessional loan from the Asian Development Bank (ADB). Someone pointed out the irony: “The Nepali Congress had said it wouldn’t take loans under the current circumstances. Now, they’ve changed their stance.”

This triggered laughter among the group. One man quipped, “Our politicians care more about commissions than loans or grants.” His comment drew nods and chuckles before everyone began leaving to start their day.

By then, it was already 9 am. I finished my tea, paid Rs 20, and stepped out. The mix of conversations I witnessed at the teashop was a microcosm of Nepal’s society. From aspirations of young men seeking opportunities abroad to discussions about real estate woes and political dynamics, it reflected the concerns, challenges, and debates shaping the nation today. Even the lighthearted moments and humor, like the comment about politicians’ commissions, underscored a deeper truth about public perception of leadership and governance.

Almost a decade has passed since an earthquake-ravaged Nepal adopted a federal democratic constitution, exhibiting strong political will in the face of adversities, seismic or otherwise. The charter aside, the country has not been able to introduce laws that can make way for a smooth transition from an ages-old unitary system of governance to a federal system.

Let’s go 15 months back, at least, when the National Assembly, the upper chamber of the bicameral parliament, drew the attention of the government of the day, directing it to do the needful for making laws. The directive and successive governments’ commitments to drafting the laws aside, there are, at present, only two regulations under the consideration of the lower chamber of the parliament (the House of Representatives): School Education Regulation, 2080 and Federal Civil Service Regulation, 2080. The process of making scores of laws is ‘moving’ at a snail’s pace, giving an indication of the status of implementation of the new constitution.   

Out of these laws, the Center has been literally sitting on the task of making around 40 laws, followed by provinces (24) and local levels (6).  

The laws awaiting the light of the day cover a wide range of important topics such as citizenship, right to property, acquisition and compensation, and impeachment motion. 

They come under the ambit of different ministries such as home, law, justice and parliamentary affairs, and finance. 

Department ministries aside, it is the ultimate responsibility of the top government leadership to draft these laws and present them in the Parliament, making way for enlightened discussions, changes and authentication. 

Delays, inadvertent or otherwise, in introducing laws will only come in the way of devolution of state powers so crucial for taking the state at the doorsteps of the citizenry. Not only that, such delays will only bolster forces opposed to federalism and the new constitution, thereby contributing to a growing disenchantment against the system and its destabilization. 

So, the onus is on the government leadership to take decisive steps toward implementation of the new constitution by giving momentum to the stalled lawmaking process. 

Along the banks of the Sunkoshi River in Sindhuli, the Majhi people have long relied on fishing for their livelihood. Their relationship with the waterways is more than just economic; it is cultural, intricately woven into their identity and way of life.

However, in recent years, this vital resource and tradition have been threatened by the increasing plastic pollution in rivers and the resulting fall in fish population. Most community members have had to seek alternative sources of livelihood, with many working as daily wage labourers and subsistence farmers. According to a local, currently, only 30–40 percent of the community remains partly dependent on fishing, with just 5 percent relying solely on it, while the rest have had to seek alternative sources of income.

In the face of this looming environmental crisis and cultural threat, there also lies an opportunity: to work closely with the Majhi people to keep the rivers clean, uphold the long-held tradition of fishing, and create an alternative source of income for the community. Few are as attuned to the importance of clean rivers as the Majhis. They could become key agents in preserving the health of our rivers while also generating economic value from them to support themselves.

A test of resilience

But just as the community was beginning to embrace these new skills and ideas, disaster struck. In Oct 2024, heavy rains caused the Sunkoshi River to swell, destroying many parts of the Khurkot and Mulkot areas of Sindhuli. Homes were submerged, farmlands were washed away, and the community faced significant destruction, with many families having to reside in temporary settlements. 

“The floodwaters had completely entered our homes,” recalls Mina Majhi, a 21-year-old trainee living in Khurkot’s Majhi Basti. “Our community was nearly swept away. But we didn’t lose hope.”

Like Mina, other trainees also faced significant personal damage. Kalu Man Majhi, a 56-year-old farmer, explained how the flood had ravaged much of his farmland. During our scoping visit in July, he had generously offered us some fresh watermelons he had just begun cultivating, alongside corn, legumes, and paddy on his once-fertile land.

“Most of my farmland has been swept away by the floods, but I’m still hopeful I can grow watermelons on what remains.” Despite the devastation, Kalu Man has found a way to remain optimistic.

He also shared that he has started making additional cash by selling high-value plastic to local buyers.

Hope amid disaster

Amid the flood’s devastation, many members of the Majhi community have already started putting what they learnt from the training to use. They have embraced the concept of plastic recovery and are actively collecting plastic waste from their homes, surroundings, and riverbanks.

During our visit in late November, we discovered that all trainees had begun collecting plastic waste, with many also selling it to local waste buyers and aggregators, generating extra income at varying levels.

Ek Bahadur Majhi now earns an additional Rs 1,200 per week from selling PET bottles. While it is a small amount, he says, the extra income has provided a positive boost as he rebuilds from the flood-induced damages. He had recently completed the construction of seven fishponds on his land by the Sunkoshi river bank with plans to start commercial fish farming. The venture had just begun generating income when the floods damaged the fishponds. He had also opened a hotel in Khurkot Bazar a few years ago, which was yielding good profits, but the damage along the highway has severely impacted his business.

Ek Bahadur explained that before the training, he often overlooked the plastic bottles left by customers at his hotel. Now, he makes a conscious effort to collect them and sell them to local buyers.

“Due to pollution and other climatic factors, the fish population in the Sunkoshi River has significantly decreased, but the demand for fish from customers is increasing. So, I am determined to continue my plans for fish farming. I am positive it will happen,” he claimed.

In another example, Chankhey Majhi now earns an average of Rs 1,300 per week from selling recyclable waste, adding up to Rs 5,200 per month. He has been employed as a waste collector by the Golanjor Rural Municipality for the past four years, where his work entails collecting waste from Khurkot Bazar and disposing of it at a designated site. He shared, “I learnt about the negative impact of plastic pollution. Plastic has become an integral part of our lives, and we’ve been using it excessively. We need to be more mindful of our plastic use, especially single-use plastics, which should be avoided whenever possible.”

He continued, “I also learnt that waste can be used to earn money. Previously, my team and I would dump all the waste collected at the disposal site. Now, we separate and collect recyclable materials and sell them to local buyers.”

From his additional income, he has started saving roughly Rs 1,500 per month in a local cooperative.

In another somewhat different instance, 32-year-old Binu Majhi has started collecting plastic waste from her household and the surrounding area, storing it in a net, and selling it to small-scale buyers, earning a modest supplementary income. Her main motivation is to maintain a clean environment around her home, especially after learning about the damaging effects of plastic pollution. Keeping up with the household chores and subsistence farming takes up most of her time, but the additional income has been an added bonus. Occasionally, she donates the collected plastic to informal waste collectors, feeling satisfied knowing her contribution supports their livelihood.

Vision for future

These experiences of the Majhis in Khurkot showcase their resilience, not just in bouncing back from disaster but also in adapting and evolving in ways that benefit both the environment and the local economy. However, the path forward requires more than just individual will and effort. 

While the immediate benefits of plastic waste collection, such as supplementary income, are clear, the broader impact can go far beyond temporary financial incentives. The Majhis have demonstrated that local communities can offer an important insight into how we can leverage local knowledge and community engagement to tackle pressing global challenges like plastic pollution. The next critical step lies in strengthening the plastic waste value chain and achieving systemic integration. This involves improving waste collection infrastructures at the local level, capacitating local waste aggregators, and implementing policies that incentivise recycling and promote circular economies. By creating a more supportive system for plastic waste management, we can ensure that efforts like those of Ek Bahadur, Kalu Man, and Binu have a broader, lasting impact on both the environment and the livelihoods of people in Khurkot and other regions facing similar challenges.

When the old businessman sat at the table overlooking the streets, Regmi ji, without glancing at the clock hung in the far corner, knew it was 6:05 am. His timing was so precise that Regmi ji could bet his life on it. By the time the old gentleman arrived, Regmi ji’s kitchen sink would be filled with tea cups—some with a mouthful of tea left, others untouched because of phone calls stating urgency. Once the sunlight dispersed on the dew-drenched grass and joggers started returning from the nearby park, all the tables would be occupied, and more stools were brought in from the rooms at the back of the hotel—the same rooms where Regmi ji’s family of three ate and slept every night.

While Regmi ji poured tea into cups each morning, his wife would be in the back room, peeling potatoes. She was rarely seen at the hotel in the mornings, and if she was called to serve tea, it meant there were too many customers for Regmi ji to handle alone. In the other room, their daughter, a bright student, would underline her law books with red and pink markers. An eloquent speaker of English, she walked with an air of confidence. She didn’t play a big part in the small business of her parents, but Regmi ji wasn’t bothered a bit by her indifference. Deep inside, he knew that his daughter wasn’t someone who could sit behind the gas stove, smiling or feigning a friendly demeanor just to sell some cups of tea. 

And then there was Kanchhi with her broad face betraying no emotions whatsoever. She wore an expression so blank that it was impossible to tell whether she was delighted or downcast. Thanks to her, Regmi ji wouldn’t have sold as much tea if she hadn’t shown up every morning to do the dishes. Kanchhi, who had come from the hills of Parbat, mostly kept to herself, communicating through gestures. She was just the kind of worker Regmi ji appreciated—no big talk, always focused on her task.

When the clock ticked past 10, as every tea-lover headed home for their meal, the business would slow down a bit. And just after noon, workers, students, and those who couldn’t afford the luxury of Lakeside would enter the hotel, ordering samosas, cigarettes, and other cheap snacks.

When the tables inside the hotel were crammed, it was on the wide pavement outside that people would gather in circles, sitting on stools, changing topics of discussion with every round of tea. A sip of tea and ideas rushed out in a flurry. Over the years, Regmi ji had served tea to countless people, from politicians to beggars, thieves to saints—and, in a way, to the entire neighborhood of Lakeside.

On a Sunday morning, just like every other day, the old businessman came and sat at the table overlooking the desolate streets. Presently, Regmi ji began to prepare the special tea for his loyal customer. For Regmi ji, this routine affair induced a sense of calmness within him. It reminded him of the normalcy of the life he was leading. After all, it only takes a little for a man to feel content: a family of his own, a roof over his head, and a society that respects him. Regmi ji took pride in knowing the amount of sugar his regular customers preferred in their tea. For the businessman, it was half a spoon of sugar along with two seeds of cardamom. Ashok Sharma, who showed up in the afternoon, liked his tea bitter, with a strong smell of clove.

This morning, just when Regmi ji was pouring tea into the cup for the businessman, he heard a loud choke coming from inside the room. Was it his wife? No, it was the sound of someone young, so it must be the daughter. Even without delivering tea to the businessman, Regmi ji advanced toward the back end of the hotel, to the room where his daughter locked herself studying for hours. The businessman glanced at the door in amazement, and when he cleared his throat, Kanchhi mechanically gave up the dishes and fetched tea for him. There were no other customers to deal with, so Kanchhi, curiously, walked into the back room to figure out what the matter was. It was unusual for Regmi ji to not let Kanchhi enter their family confines. Kanchhi had no idea when Regmi ji and his family had drawn a boundary for her, a line that she was prohibited to cross. Had it been a sharper woman in place of Kanchhi, she would have understood that there was a reason why Regmi ji didn’t allow her inside. Of course, there was something fishy. The businessman drank his tea and left. He would come back and pay the next day. A wounded Kanchhi returned to her chore, and with the passing of time, more customers streamed in for a warm cup of tea. Inside the dingy room of the daughter, the father and the mother kept looking at each other, the words seemingly stuck in their throats, while the daughter kept pressing her neck as if some sharp object would materialize by her action and then things would be the way they were before.

“Can you ask her who it is that she has been going out with?” Regmi ji didn’t even look at his wife as he posed the question.

The wife, a scowl on her lips, looked down at where the daughter was sitting, her hands still pressed to her neck. When the daughter had thrown up and the mother had seen the thin, watery liquid, she had suspected outright that it was not a cold or sickness, and that there was more to it. She could keep her father in the dark, but with her mother, it was impossible to keep things hidden, especially when the case was so sensitive and required urgent attention. Had she not choked so loudly, Regmi ji might never have known that his daughter was pregnant.

Now, when the wife seemed reluctant to answer Regmi ji’s concern, he nimbly raced toward his daughter, placed his palms on the contours of her face, and slapped her so loudly that she nearly lost her balance. He had never felt so humiliated, not even when he used to work as a dishwasher at someone’s hotel when he was young. The slapping continued until his fingers throbbed. The wife had never witnessed this infuriated side of Regmi ji in their 25 years of marriage. She could have interrupted between the father and the daughter, but given the situation, her efforts would have been futile. Though she was a strict mother, she had never laid her hands on her daughter—it was the same with Regmi ji. At this point, the mother wanted to slap her, torture her, and maybe throw her out of the house. The parents knew that their daughter had her bold ways, and they always thought her exposure to the outer world in the form of books had made her so. They were privy to so many secrets that Nistha, their daughter, had kept to herself. But then, one was not supposed to tell that she smoked cigarettes every morning outside her college in a hotel identical to her parents’. There was no way Nistha could tell her parents that when she went out making the excuse of her friends’ birthday parties, she would spend the night in a hotel room at Lakeside, some 500 meters away, before dancing her heart out with strangers. The irony was that Nistha didn’t even know who had caused her belly to swell.

Regmi ji, after an angry episode that involved both physical and verbal attacks, went outside his room to face the world. A few regulars were already seated in their usual places and, by the looks on their faces, Regmi ji could tell that they had been listening to the family matters all along. He cursed himself, regretting his angry reactions. Couldn’t he have dealt with the matter in a different way? After weighing the situation, all the customers decided not to stay for tea in his tea shop, leaving him and his family to sort out the issue. As soon as the customers left, Regmi ji pulled down the metal shutters. There would be no tea today in his hotel. Meanwhile, the other hotels nearby would see a surge in customers, and this time around, there would be no talks about the coalition, the corrupt leaders, and the misguided media. People would pass this morning talking about the pregnant daughter of Regmi ji. Thinking of his ruined dignity, Regmi ji went to his daughter’s room, where the daughter, wiping her tears, was contemplating—drafting a plan to escape to some city where no soul would know her and the other being growing inside her.