Let us begin with brutal honesty: what we call a “Federal Parliament” in Nepal today no longer resembles a democratic legislature. It is a political clubhouse—a hollow theater of borrowed rituals, governed not by rules but by rulers, choreographed not by law but by convenience. Here, MPs vote without reading, secretaries lobby without shame, and symbols provoke more anxiety than systemic failures. Into this moral void, a young parliamentarian from a new political force—Mr. Manish Jha—has dared to raise a mirror. His recent article on the “cooling off period” debate is more than a critique; it is an intervention. It reminds us that even inside this decaying machine, there are sparks of dissent—and that dissent must be protected, not punished.

Mr. Jha’s testimony is not exceptional because it is brilliant, though it is. It is exceptional because it exists at all. In an ecosystem where loyalty is valued above logic and obedience above inquiry, his willingness to speak truth to power is an act of institutional resistance. He breaks the silent pact that binds most politicians: the pact of complicity.

The “cooling off period” controversy is merely the tip of the bureaucratic iceberg, a symptom of a deeper rot. This provision—intended to prevent immediate reappointment of retired civil servants into regulatory positions—is a common mechanism in modern democracies to avoid conflict of interest. In Nepal, however, it has triggered not legal debate, but legal sabotage. What should have been a bipartisan, constitutionally informed discussion turned into a covert operation of lobbying, manipulation, and evasion.

The result? Top bureaucrats covertly knocking on parliamentary doors. MPs voting on complex bills without reading a line. A federal secretary opposing the cooling period on the phone—unable to cite a single constitutional clause. Ribbon-wearing MPs expelled from session while human trafficking scandals pass unaddressed. A parliament that punishes symbols more harshly than it prosecutes crimes.

This is not democracy. It is mockery

Nepal’s legislature today is a textbook case of institutional capture, where formal institutions exist but are hollowed out from within. As sociologist Guillermo O’Donnell once argued, such democracies suffer from “low-intensity citizenship”—where citizens vote but cannot truly govern, where laws exist but are not enforced equally, where power is concentrated in informal networks immune to scrutiny.

Manish Jha does not merely describe this dysfunction; he reveals its mechanics. He shows us how adjournments are manufactured, how silence is choreographed, and how rules are bent to serve partisan interests. When a simple ribbon is enough to derail a parliamentary session, it is clear that democracy is not being defended—it is being deflected.

Here is the heart of the crisis: Nepal’s political elite treats numbers as legitimacy and consensus as inconvenience. Coalition politics has morphed into coalition arithmetic. Parliamentary deliberation has been reduced to performance art. And the civil service, once imagined as a meritocratic engine, now functions as a revolving door of influence peddling.

A secretary who lobbies against constitutional provisions without understanding them is not a neutral technocrat. He is a threat to public trust.
A speaker who suspends session over ribbon protests but not over visa scams is not an impartial arbiter. He is a collaborator in deflection.
An MP who offers a voice vote and flees the floor is not a lawmaker. He is an absentee executor.

What is left, then, of democratic accountability?

If this were a functioning parliament, such actions would be cause for reprimand. In Nepal, they are standard operating procedure. And this is precisely what philosopher Hannah Arendt warned of when she spoke of the “banality of evil”—a system where moral failure becomes normalized through bureaucratic procedures and technical justifications.

The disease of indifference is now endemic. Civil servants no longer serve the constitution; they serve convenience. Legislators no longer deliberate; they posture. Citizens are told to participate every five years, then be silent for the rest. Dissent is not debated, it is dismissed. And while the elite circle the wagons, the public loses faith in the very institutions designed to protect them.

Nepal today suffers from a double deficit: a deficit of ethics and a deficit of intellect.

Mr. Jha’s critique—earnest, informed, precise—should not be an anomaly. It should be the norm. But the fact that his article feels revolutionary only underscores how low our expectations have fallen.

Here are some hard truths:
• When a parliament cannot tolerate peaceful symbolism, but can tolerate unaccountable power, it is no longer democratic.
• When secretaries prioritize future appointments over constitutional fidelity, governance becomes a racket.
• When parties defend numbers over norms, they cease to be political institutions and become power syndicates.
• And when MPs like Manish Jha are treated as troublemakers for simply asking questions, we know the rot has reached the roots.

This is not merely a political problem—it is a sociological crisis. Nepal’s political and bureaucratic elites have internalized a culture of impunity. They have become accustomed to the absence of accountability. In the absence of credible oversight, the state has become self-serving, not citizen-serving.

The public, too, bears some responsibility. We have normalized the abnormal. We have watched as political theater replaces political substance. We have shrugged when voice votes replace recorded deliberation. We have been silent when parties place electoral math above ethical clarity.

But silence is not neutrality. It is complicity.

We must stop asking how long this will continue. We must start declaring that it must end now.

This is not a call to chaos. It is a call to civic courage. It is a call to restore the basic premise of representative government: that leaders are accountable, laws are enforced, and governance is transparent.

Jha’s article is a warning flare—a reminder that institutional decay, once begun, does not reverse itself. It only accelerates unless confronted. His courage must be matched by others—within parliament, within civil society, within academia, and above all, within the citizenry.

The political clubhouse must be reclaimed and restored to its original purpose—a forum for deliberation, legislation, and public accountability.

We must reimagine leadership. Not as entitlement, but as service. Not as longevity, but as legitimacy. Not as partisanship, but as principle.

Let us be clear: Nepal does not lack talent. It lacks truth-tellers. It does not lack youth. It lacks mentors. It does not lack laws. It lacks law-abiders.

There is still time to reverse course—but only if voices like Jha’s are multiplied, not muffled. Only if we start demanding intellectual integrity alongside political legitimacy. Only if we insist that the parliament belongs to the people, not to power cartels.

Otherwise, the question will not be whether the country is heading toward a crisis. The crisis will be that it is no longer a question at all.

with PR