Every morning in Nepal begins the same way, though we maintain an impressive national habit of pretending otherwise. The sun rises over the hills with stubborn punctuality. Streets stretch awake. Milk boils over in kitchens. Radios clear their throats with recycled arguments. Newspapers arrive carrying familiar faces and familiar promises. Somewhere behind boundary walls and guarded gates, a politician wakes up with a feeling that is neither hope nor duty, but a quiet and familiar anxiety.
Before the first sip of chiya, before the first phone call, before confidence reconstructs itself for the day ahead, a private question insists on being answered. It is never spoken aloud, but it is always present. Is the chair still there?
This is not a metaphor taken lightly in Nepal. Chairs matter here. They always have. From royal thrones to party headquarters, from ministries to commissions, from district offices to constitutional bodies, the chair has served as physical proof of relevance. To sit is to exist audibly. To stand is to risk fading into background noise. To lose the chair is not merely to lose authority, but to lose posture, language, and audience all at once.
The politician sits up in bed, reaches for the phone instinctively, and checks the news. Not for floods sweeping villages, not for shortages in hospitals, not for schools without roofs or teachers without pay. The check is simpler and more urgent. Has anything shifted overnight? Has someone moved closer? Has an ally defected, a rival spoken, a whisper turned into a headline? Has the chair been disturbed?
Then comes the chiya. This is not just tea. It is a ritual, perhaps the most democratic ritual in an otherwise hierarchical system. It steadies the hands and reassures the ego. Steam rises, memory aligns itself, and yesterday is reviewed for signs of survival. I spoke well. I was visible. I was quoted. My name appeared where it should. The chair did not reject me.
Nepali politics is often described as chaotic, ideological, revolutionary, or immature. These descriptions are not entirely wrong, but they overlook how deeply emotional attachment to the chair shapes political behavior. Recognizing this attachment to position and recognition can deepen understanding of leadership dynamics in Nepal.
The chair is not merely a tool of governance. Over time, it becomes a companion. It absorbs fear. It confirms identity. It protects its occupant from the unbearable possibility of becoming an ordinary citizen again. In a system where institutions remain fragile and rules negotiable, the chair offers something resembling stability, even if it is borrowed and temporary.
This emotional dependence explains why power struggles in Nepal appear excessive and intensely personal. Ministries are split like inheritance disputes. Parties fracture with the bitterness of family quarrels that never quite heal. Alliances shift overnight, each shift justified with grand language about ideology, national interest, or historical necessity. Beneath this elaborate language lies a more straightforward truth. Someone feared losing the chair, or feared not getting close enough to it.
The chair has an extraordinary ability to neutralize ideology. A leftist sits and begins speaking the language of stability and order. A democrat sits and learns the grammar of control. A revolutionary sits long enough and starts sounding managerial, cautious, and procedural. The furniture remains unchanged. Only the slogans rotate, carefully adjusted to suit the moment.
Context matters. Nepal has lived through monarchy, insurgency, mass movements, constitutional rewrites, and ambitious promises of federal transformation. Each transition brought the announcement that the old chairs would be dismantled. Each transition quietly assembled new ones, often sturdier, more comfortable, and more exclusive than before. The vocabulary changed. The posture remained.
The more profound tragedy is not the existence of chairs, but the gradual forgetting of why the chair existed in the first place. It was meant to support responsibility, not replace it. Recognizing this can inspire citizens and students to value accountability over mere occupancy of power.
Recently, a former high-ranking official traveled outside of Kathmandu. At the airport, he stood in line like everyone else. Security personnel checked his documents, frisked his body, and searched his bags. Later, describing the experience to acquaintances, he complained that he was treated like a gold smuggler.
The remark was revealing. Equality felt like an insult. Without the chair, the body itself felt suddenly exposed, searchable, and ordinary. This physical experience underscores how political rank provides a shield, and losing it exposes the vulnerability of leadership and the fragile nature of authority.
This is where the argument becomes philosophical. Power, at its healthiest, is instrumental. It matters because of what it allows one to do for others. It exists to serve, organize, prioritize, and protect. In Nepal, power has increasingly become existential. It answers a deeper and more fragile question. Who am I today, if not this position?
Freedom, in this context, feels threatening rather than liberating. It exposes the fragility of authority and can evoke a sense of vulnerability, reminding citizens and analysts of the importance of genuine agency beyond the chair’s shadow.
The system, unintentionally but consistently, rewards those who love the chair most. Over time, this produces a political personality that is emotionally dependent on position. Caution replaces courage. Survival replaces imagination. Reform becomes something to be discussed, delayed, and eventually delegated to the next generation.
Elections, of course, still happen. Faces change. Banners are replaced. Promises are recycled with fresh fonts and louder slogans. Yet the chair remains sacred. Untouched. Undiscussed. Reform stops at the edge of the furniture.
Citizens sense this contradiction instinctively. Frustration simmers beneath polite conversations. Satire thrives in cartoons, comedy shows, and social media posts. Tea shop discussions sound sharper and more honest than parliamentary speeches. Laughter becomes a coping mechanism for disappointment.
Chairs, for their part, are patient. They do not love back. They do not remember sacrifices or speeches. They remain available, waiting quietly for the next occupant who believes that sitting will finally bring certainty.
The real question, then, is not who deserves the chair or how long one should sit on it. The real question is whether Nepal can imagine a political life where the chair becomes ordinary again. Where sitting is temporary, standing is not shameful, and leaving the office does not feel like exile.
Nepal’s future will not be decided by who sits longest, speaks loudest, or clings hardest. It will be decided by who knows when to stand, when to step aside, and when to remember that the chair was never meant to carry the weight of identity.
@People's Review
