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The sun is just coming up in a green village in Parsa. Outside the small cooperative warehouse, farmers have already formed a long line and kept their sack since night. Some are holding old plastic sacks, others folded slips of paper that have been used too many times. No one knows if the fertilizer truck will arrive today. Still, they wait. Some walked for hours from outlying hamlets. By midday the stock’s gone again, leaving most to head home with nothing but frustration and another promise for ‘tomorrow’. It’s the same story over several years, and it hits harder than any drought.

On that same morning, an old bus heads toward Kathmandu. Young people fill the seats, looking out of the windows, quiet. They are going for coaching classes, for English lessons, or to talk to agents about work outside the country. Months later, many of them leave by plane. The fields in the village remain. The hands that worked them do not.

This is how daily life looks in much of rural Nepal. People line up for the basics. Others pack bags and leave, hoping for something better. Watching it is tiring, living through it worse.

Once again, elections are around the corner with politicians arriving in every village with their loud promises. They talk about roads, culverts, footbridges, gates, sometimes even statues in the chowk. These promises are easy to show and easy to photograph. But things that matter in the long run—science labs, agricultural research, better ways of farming—are rarely part of the conversation because these are not easy to show by cutting a ribbon within a month. Research and innovation take time.

Where are the pledges for serious money into R&D? For at least building local innovation centers or research centers at the province or district level, linking universities with actual farmer communities or small industries, bringing in better seeds or techniques that don’t depend on waiting for the next subsidy truck? Politicians talk about development like it’s all about pouring cement, as if a new highway, freebies alone will keep our kids from packing up and leaving.

Fixing potholes and handling local works is the role of ward offices and local governments. An MP’s role is at the national level: shaping laws, framing long-term policies, setting budget priorities, and deciding which sectors need investment for national development. This is where real direction is set, not in day-to-day local problem solving. Election discussions in Nepal rarely move beyond small, visible wins—contracts, local projects, things that photograph well on posters. Meanwhile, the underlying problems stay where they are. Farmers still struggle to get fertilizer, students struggle to get placed even after university degree because research, planning, and supply systems are nowhere in the priorities of any of the political parties.

Young people keep leaving. According to our national data and figures over the past few years, more than 2.5m of our people have gone abroad for work or study, and nearly 900,000 left in just the last year. Student migration has followed the same pattern. Last year alone, over 112,000 students received no-objection certificates to study overseas, almost twice the number before covid. These are not abstract figures. They show a steady loss of people who might otherwise have built their lives here.

Universities play a role in this. Most continue to focus on theory, with limited emphasis on applied research or problem-solving that could create jobs locally. In 2019-20, when countries around the world were under lockdown, universities elsewhere redirected their laboratories and research capacity toward vaccines, treatment, and public health solutions. In Nepal, political attention during that period was on something else—donations, commissions, and short-term gains. It was the time that should have pushed their mentality towards investment in science and research, but even after that public money continued to flow mainly into roads, buildings, and temples, after the end of that deadly time no one again thought about what if this happens again, who are we going to depend upon? Not only that but if the world itself fights the battle who will really be ready to invest their research and innovation into us if that is not for trial and testing?

Science and research don’t give quick photo-ops. A bridge goes up fast and gets a plaque with the politician’s name. A good R&D program might take 8-10 years to show real results—no one gets credit for the slow build. That's why manifestos chase the fast and flashy instead of the patient work that actually builds a future.

It’s time to look around the world. Countries that pour money into research pull ahead. South Korea went from dirt-poor after the war to a tech giant by pushing R&D spending to nearly five percent of GDP. Israel tops the charts at over six percent, turning itself into a startup hub that actually pulls talent back in. China didn’t grow overnight; it has ramped up massively and lifted hundreds of millions out of poverty while building its own research powerhouses from physics to material science and what not. Even now, places like the UK are talking about hitting three percent for R&D, focusing on AI and green tech.

What about Nepal? Our politicians look in a different mood from decades ago. Our government official data show R&D at around 0.3 percent of GDP back in 2010, and recent reports (including from ministers) suggest it's dropped even lower—maybe under 0.1 percent in places. Our research institutes have more administrative expenditures than the research budget. That’s why we are below the global average of about 2.6 percent. We stay stuck importing seeds, tools, medicines, expertise—always buyers, never sellers. Reports from the Ministry of Education science and Technology indicate that the National Academy of Science and Technology (NAST) spends the vast majority of its budget on ‘mandatory obligations’ like salaries and administration (recurrent expenditure), leaving very little for actual research. In FY 2021-22, for instance, the recurrent expenditure rate was 95 percent, while capital expenditure (needed for research infrastructure) lagged significantly. At Nepal Agricultural Research Council (NARC), the operational budget available for actual research projects is a small fraction of the total allocation, with one analysis showing ‘real investment’ in specific research components as low as 3.5 percent of the total budget.

Our best minds go abroad for better labs, better pay, better chances. They don’t come back not because they hate Nepal, but because there’s no place here to use what they’ve learned. We call it brain drain, but it’s really a failure to create the soil where talent can grow.

Imagine election promises that actually say: “We’ll aim for 1–2 percent of GDP in R&D within a decade. We promise to set up regional innovation hubs focused on agriculture, chemistry, AI, biotech, renewables. We'll pass laws to immediately link universities to startups and farms, fund real research (obviously with less administrative budget and more research budget like now) instead of just buildings." Labs could matter as much as roads—better seeds that cut fertilizer needs, new techniques that make farming pay enough to keep families on the land, skilled jobs that make staying home feel like progress. Infrastructure still matters—roads get goods to market. But without the ideas and innovation to go with them, those roads just speed up the exodus.

Nepal’s dependence on imported seeds, medicines, technologies, and expertise did not happen overnight. It is the result of years of political choices that treated self-reliance as optional. What should worry policymakers as a strategic weakness is often handled as a convenient arrangement—import today, postpone reform tomorrow. The problem is that this mindset keeps the country permanently unprepared. Every global disruption exposes how fragile this dependence really is, yet the lesson is rarely taken seriously.

At the same time, our politics still measures development by what can be seen and inaugurated. Roads, buildings, gates, statues—these are easy to explain to voters and easy to photograph. Science does not fit into this style of politics. Laboratories take years to mature. Research outcomes are uncertain. Patents and pilot projects do not offer instant visibility. So they are pushed aside, even though they shape long-term economic strength far more than another stretch of concrete. Migration adds another layer of denial. Political discussions continue to frame it as a success story of remittance inflows rather than as a warning sign that the system is failing its own people. When the exit of skilled youth is normalized, there is little pressure to build research environments that give them reasons to stay. Science funding then becomes a “nice-to-have,” not a necessity.

As new political faces seek public trust in this election, this silence matters. Real change will not come from new slogans or younger candidates repeating the same priorities. The real question is whether anyone is willing to shift the agenda—to treat science and research as matters of economic survival, strategic security, and political responsibility. Without that shift, Nepal may get new leaders, but it will remain stuck with the same future.

We voters share the blame too. We cheer for the quick fixes, the inaugurations, the handouts. Politicians know the game well and they give us what we reward. If we keep settling for short-term bandaids and freebees, we’ll keep getting them.

As a GenZ in science, I think it’s time to ask for more. Demand manifests that don’t only talk about happiness, freebees but talk about science labs, innovations as urgently as they talk about highways. Real progress isn't just concrete—it's breakthroughs, knowledge, people building things here instead of wiring money from thousands of miles away.

In that Parsa village tomorrow, the queue will form again, another young person will pack a bag. Whether that changes depends on what we insist our leaders promise—and what we hold them to after the votes are counted.

Nepal’s future isn’t in more statues. It’s in the ideas we dare to invest in. Let’s start demanding the kind of vision that keeps our kids home, working in labs and fields that actually thrive.

Every year on Women’s Day, we celebrate strength. We celebrate resilience. We celebrate how far women have come. And yet, I often find myself reflecting on what these celebrations might overlook: whose rights are acknowledged, and whose freedoms remain conditional?

I have seen what it looks like when a woman slowly disappears. Not physically, but piece by piece, in the name of keeping peace, staying agreeable, remaining acceptable. I have seen how easily a confident woman is reduced, her success scrutinized, her choices dissected, her story retold in ways that make others comfortable.

I first noticed this when I was 13 or 14. I had been invited to judge a children’s competition, having won a similar one before. I do not remember the details of the discussion that day, but one moment stands out vividly. A female doctor on the panel made a thoughtful point. A male judge immediately disagreed. Even at that age, I could see that her argument was valid. But she did not respond. She shut down.

What stayed with me was not the disagreement. It was the silence that followed. It felt unsettling, almost disorienting. Why did she not insist? Why did she not clarify? She was accomplished, experienced, far more qualified than I was. And yet I felt something collapse in the room. Almost instinctively, I spoke up to defend her view while she remained quiet.

That moment lingered long after the event ended. It left behind a quiet discomfort I could not name at the time. The realization that being right is not always enough. That sometimes the cost of speaking feels heavier than the cost of stepping back.

Over time, I began to understand what I had witnessed. The pressure was not loud. No one silenced her directly. But subtler forces were at work,  expectations about tone, likeability, deference. Societal conditions can quietly squeeze out a woman’s voice, even when she is right. The freedom to speak is rarely unconditional; it is often measured against how one will be perceived.

It is this question, not of strength but of permission, that has stayed with me. The issue is not whether women are strong. Women have always been strong. The deeper question is whether they can be ambitious without being labeled difficult, assertive without being disliked, emotional without being diminished, successful without being reduced.

I do not claim to speak for all women. My life has been shaped by education, opportunity, and a family that gave me confidence. Many women navigate realities far harsher than mine. But even within privilege, the quiet enforcement of roles is visible.

Women learn to preface opinions with apologies. They soften their language to avoid appearing harsh. They measure their tone before expressing disagreement. Men, in turn, learn to swallow emotion, to equate vulnerability with weakness, to maintain composure at all costs. Both, in different ways, learn to edit themselves. Children absorb these patterns long before they understand policy or ideology. They notice when confident women are labeled “disagreeable” or “difficult to work with.” They notice when boys are told to “man up” instead of “talk about it.” These small corrections accumulate. They become internal rules.

The leadership-likeability dilemma is one expression of this. A decisive man is respected. A decisive woman is often disliked and dismissed. A man who prioritizes work is ambitious. A woman who does the same is expected to justify herself,  especially if she is also a mother. The standard is not neutrality; it is negotiation.

The societal norms that stifle women’s voices do not exist in isolation; they shape men’s lives too.  When a father chooses to be the primary caregiver to raise children and manage a household,  his decision is still met with surprise and skepticism. His choices are questioned. His masculinity is subtly measured. In that quiet measurement lies a mirror of the pressures women face in professional and social spaces: the freedoms we claim for one are often conditional, and the rules quietly constrain both.

This is not simply about women or men. It is about the narrow definitions we assign to both. The boundaries imposed on one inevitably affect the other, and the small, uneven victories we celebrate are often short-lived when they depend on limiting someone else. True equality requires questioning these scripts, not shifting them from one side of the scale to the other.

Equality is not about making women stronger than men. It is about making both free. Free from inherited scripts, free from conditional respect, free from shrinking or hardening simply to survive. Only when we see that women’s rights are human rights,  inseparable from men’s, will change be lasting. Only when both are allowed to live fully, without judgment, expectation, or compromise, will these freedoms endure. Too often, women give parts of themselves away to preserve peace until they barely recognize who they are. Too often, men carry emotional burdens in silence to preserve pride. In different ways, both are constrained.

Dignity is not measured by how loudly we prove ourselves. It is measured by whether we are allowed to exist without constant proof. Perhaps that is what Women’s Day should remind us of. Not that women are extraordinary, but that being fully human should not be extraordinary at all.

When roles loosen, equality deepens. And when daughters and sons grow up unafraid to inhabit their whole selves, without explanation, reduction, or apology,  we may finally stop arguing about whose rights matter more, and begin recognizing that dignity was never meant to be divided.

Nepal’s political landscape is dominated by long-standing parties: the Nepali Congress (NC), the CPN (Unified Marxist–Leninist), and the Nepali Community Party (NCP) with many names and faces remaining the same. Despite the emergence of reformist challengers like the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP), the nation’s most persistent developmental hurdle, the management of hydropower and water resources remains unresolved. While investments in this sector have exceeded Rs 7trn, hydropower has yet to catalyze the transformative economic prosperity once envisioned. Today, the electorate is increasingly scrutinizing the systemic failures of traditional parties, the rising appeal of the RSP, and the broader implications for governance, transparency, and the future of Nepali democracy.

The paradox of ‘white gold’

Hydropower is frequently hailed as Nepal’s ‘white gold’. With its network of high-altitude rivers and steep gradients, the country possesses the natural capacity to generate tens of thousands of megawatts of electricity. If properly harnessed, these resources could power domestic industrialization, eliminate import dependency, and stimulate a diverse energy-based economy rather than merely generating revenue through cross-border trade. Furthermore, integrated water resource management encompassing irrigation, potable water, flood control, mitigating risks of glacier lakes’ outburst, public health, environment and tourism could fundamentally restructure the national economy.

However, despite decades of political rhetoric, the sector remains significantly underdeveloped. Managing the technical, regulatory, and administrative complexities of hydropower is a monumental task. As hydropower shares are now traded on the public market, the need for scientifically grounded, independent regulation has become critical. Without robust oversight, public and private investments risk being squandered. To date, over the Rs 7trn invested has yielded disappointing results, characterized by: infrastructure gaps, chronic delays and weak transmission grids; operational inefficiency: plants operating well below capacity and underutilization of domestic end-use remains minimal relative to the potential. This disconnect between massive capital expenditure and tangible outcomes has fueled a deep-seated public skepticism. Citizens are left asking a fundamental question: if such vast sums have been spent, why has prosperity remained out of reach?

Systemic failures of governance

For over three decades, the NC, UML, and NCP (Maoist) merged with UML factions have governed Nepal, often through musical chair coalitions. While leaders of these parties promised structural transformation, practical progress has been stifled by corruption, a lack of transparency, and the politicization of state institutions. Singhadurbar, the seat of the government, has become a symbol of bureaucratic apathy and political patronage. 

The electorate has grown weary of a cycle of broken and false promises regarding ‘load-shedding’ (power outages), irrigation expansion, infrastructures and export growth. Governance concerns are paramount; public procurement in the energy sector is frequently manipulated by political elites, leading to inflated costs and substandard infrastructure. Because regulatory bodies often lack the independence to provide true oversight, public trust in the state’s capacity to manage large-scale projects and public economy has eroded.

Rising appeal of the RSP

In response to this stagnation, the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) has emerged as a disruptive political force. Unlike traditional entities, the RSP positions itself as a technocratic and reformist movement, emphasizing: depoliticization: removing party influence from civil and regulatory institutions; digital governance by increasing accountability through technology and economic geography by leveraging regional advantages for growth like Karnali. 

This platform resonates strongly with younger voters and the vast community of Nepali migrant workers abroad. These laborers, who left the country due to a lack of domestic employment opportunity, are increasingly urging their families and keen at home to reject the status quo. Their logic is pragmatic: since traditional parties have failed repeatedly, the nation must test a new alternative.

Voter sentiments

The prevailing public mood is one of palpable frustration. Voters are questioning the moral authority of legacy parties to seek re-election after decades of unmet goals with the same faces but changing color like lizards. This anger extends beyond hydropower to a general failure in delivering public goods, services, and accountability. The upcoming elections will serve as a referendum on governance. The stakes are historically high: if the RSP can translate its reformist rhetoric into measurable action, it could redefine Nepal’s political trajectory. 

However, caution is necessary. New parties often encounter the same structural constraints such as rooted patronage networks that hampered their predecessors. Realizing Nepal’s hydropower potential requires more than just a change in leadership; it requires technical expertise, financial discipline, and a total overhaul of the regulatory framework.

Conclusion

The hydropower sector is a microcosm of Nepal’s broader struggle: immense natural potential hamstrung by chronic governance failures. While trillions have been spent, true prosperity remains elusive due to corruption and a lack of strategic vision. As traditional parties struggle to justify their track records, the RSP offers a glimmer of hope for an electorate desperate for transparency. Ultimately, Nepal’s future depends on whether its leaders can move beyond political maneuvering to implement the transparent, productive policies necessary to turn its water resources into national wealth.

The author is a hydropower engineer and multiple gold medalist with an MSc in Hydropower Engineering from the AIT, Thailand. Laxman Neupane, PhD is the former chairman of the Nepal Stock Exchange (NEPSE). The opinions expressed here are strictly personal and do not represent any political party, institution, or organization

Across South Asia, the concept of ‘expressway’ has shifted from a luxury to a logistical necessity. While these high-speed corridors require immense financial investment, the region has realized that the cost of slow connectivity is far higher. For a country like Nepal, geographical barriers have historically crippled the state’s ability to fulfill its core commitments. Whether it is the timely delivery of life-saving medicines, providing urgent healthcare to remote regions, or ensuring that educational materials reach students on schedule, the lack of reliable connectivity remains our greatest hurdle.

Currently, Nepal’s primary economic and tourism centers remain isolated, often marooned at least five hours away from the rest of the country by road. This distance is compounded by a fragile geography that suffers from frequent landslides and road blockages. In this landscape of uncertainty, the Kathmandu-Tarai Fast Track has emerged as a symbol of hope. However, this 72.5 km project primarily serves to link the capital with the eastern parts of the country. This raises a critical question: what about the western region and our premier tourist hub, Pokhara? The time has come to envision an alternative connectivity model that brings the Western Tarai closer to both Pokhara and Kathmandu. 

At the heart of our current struggle is the ‘Muglin Bottleneck’. The stretch between Narayangarh and Muglin has become a national pain point, plagued by geological instability and constant traffic congestion. To move forward, we cannot simply repair the old; we must build the new. Just as the Kathmandu-Tarai Expressway is set to redefine eastern travel, a similar vision is required to unlock the potential of the west.

The Kawasoti–Shuklagandaki expressway alternative

Gandaki Province is establishing itself as an economic, tourism, and cultural hub of Nepal. Extending from the Tibetan border in the north to Narayani River and Nawalpur in the south, this region is a vital ecological and cultural center. Its importance is growing in terms of economy, academic research, agriculture production, and tourism. Historically, this area was among the first to have a dense road network, including the Siddhartha Highway (linking Pokhara to Butwal) and the Prithvi Highway (linking Pokhara to Kathmandu). 

However, in the current context of increased traffic and changes in mode of travel, people are constantly seeking alternatives and expressing dissatisfaction with the conventional mode of travel, which is time consuming and often lacking in adequate safety standards. 

Various options are being discussed to make the road network from Pokhara to Jomsom, Muktinath, and the Korala border easier and safer. Some projects are already underway. Upgrading work on the Siddhartha Highway is gaining momentum, and the Kaligandaki Corridor project is progressing in stages from Gaidakot to Beni. Despite all this, there has been no fundamental change in Pokhara’s road connectivity with the eastern and western Tarai.

Decades of upgrades have failed to break the cycle of long travel times, safety risks, and travel uncertainty. In light of the constant travel disruptions on the Narayangarh–Muglin stretch due to geological reasons, there has been policy-level discussion about an alternative road west of the Trishuli River. According to sources, the Asian Development Bank has already conducted a preliminary study of the alternative project. 

But is this the right choice for Pokhara and Gandaki Province? This needs reconsideration. The purported project is environmentally and geographically challenging, and it doesn’t significantly change the distance or travel time. While it would help local connectivity, it would merely serve as an alternative to the road running east of Trishuli. Similarly, while the Kaligandaki Corridor has strategic and local economic importance, there are doubts about whether it brings the majority of the people within its range and takes the connectivity of the province to a new level.

Because of these factors, despite having many road options, Gandaki Province and the Greater Pokhara Valley remain distant from much of the country’s population and geography. This directly impacts agricultural and industrial productivity, market expansion, and social leadership. Given this reality, it is necessary to propose a direct Expressway from Kawasoti (Nawalpur) on the East-West Highway to Shuklagandaki (Khairenitar or Tharpu) in Tanahun. This expressway would easily connect Nepal’s western Tarai with Pokhara. Just as the Nijgadh–Kathmandu Expressway will link the eastern Tarai to the capital, this project would provide a fast alternative for the western Tarai to reach Pokhara and Kathmandu.

The 40-kilometer revolution

Currently, the distance from Kawasoti to Shuklagandaki via Narayangarh is over 100 km. This expressway could reduce that distance to just 35–40 km, offering massive savings in time and safety. Traveling by public transport from Narayangarh (the hub of Chitwan) to Prithvi Chowk (the hub of Pokhara) takes 5–6 hours. An expressway could reduce this to 1–1.5 hours offering massive savings in time and safety. This project has the potential to transform these two cities into a single large socio-economic unit. Beyond creating thousands of jobs during construction, it would bring a qualitative shift in industry, market expansion, healthcare, education, and the Chitwan–Pokhara tourism circuit.

In terms of technical expertise and financial investment, this would undoubtedly be the most ambitious undertaking in the history of Gandaki Province. Engineering experts suggest that a straight-line connection between Kawasoti and Shuklagandaki would require a 10–12 km tunnel piercing through the Chure hills of the Devchuli region and the Kaligandaki valley, complemented by major bridges over the Kaligandaki and Seti rivers. While the scale is vast, this project would not necessarily require the same high-tech specifications as the Kathmandu–Tarai Fast Track. 

That project, currently managed by the Nepali Army using Chinese technology, is estimated to cost roughly $22m per km. Based on a 40 km length, the Kawasoti–Shuklagandaki Expressway could theoretically reach a cost of $880m (over Rs 120bn), roughly 28 percent of Nepal’s annual development budget. However, experts believe the cost could be minimized by 50 percent or even more, bringing the total to approximately twice the construction cost of Pokhara International Airport (PIA).

Within this optimized price range, financing becomes a realistic goal. Resources could be mobilized through a partnership between the provincial and federal governments, domestic financial institutions, international donors like the ADB, and local investors. Such a project is well within the affordable reach of Gandaki Province, especially if a “public-participation model” is adopted to involve the province’s own citizens as shareholders. Nevertheless, given the technical complexities involved, partnering with reliable investors and construction firms with proven global experience remains essential.

Financing the vision

History shows us that the Siddhartha Highway was once the revolutionary link that connected the Gandaki hills to the world. But today, the demographics, tourism demands, and trade patterns of Pokhara have fundamentally changed. To transform the valley into a modern, accessible, and safe urban hub, we must embrace new visions. PIA was a part of that vision to connect with the ’outer world’. We did not meet the vision as we had expected. But we must not stop dreaming. We need even more connectivity with the ‘inner world’, the other parts of the country. 

Therefore, it is imperative that the provincial and federal governments move beyond traditional alternatives and initiate a feasibility study of this Expressway immediately. If Gandaki is to truly evolve into Nepal’s premier economic and tourism hub, we must stop thinking in terms of mere ‘road upgrades’ and start thinking in terms of strategic, high-speed connectivity. This expressway is the key to making Pokhara a more reliable and vibrant city. Building the Kawasoti–Shuklagandaki Expressway could be a visionary step that would ignite economic growth for both the province and the nation.

The author is a PhD in Anthropology and a Public Intellectual from Pokhara