The Republic of Reluctance: On the Political Theology of Nepali Excuses

When Prime Minister Sushila Karki said she didn’t want the job, the nation chuckled — not because it was funny, but because it was heartbreakingly believable. In Nepal, leadership doesn’t come through elections or vision; it falls on people like unexpected rain during Dashain. One day, you’re washing dishes after lunch, the next, you’re washing the nation’s sins.

She even told the President herself that she didn’t want to be Prime Minister. And oh yes, she had witnesses: her husband and Om-ji, the current Home Minister. Beautiful. That’s how every Nepali tragedy begins—not with ambition, but with a reluctant martyr sighing, “Ke garne ta.”

You can almost see her at home, mid-tea, muttering, “Mero balakha chhoro le karaako karaai garyo, ke garnu, ma Prime Minister bhaen.” My child threw such a tantrum that I became Prime Minister. That’s not politics—that’s emotional blackmail dressed up as national service.

And then arrived the Cabinet—the Crying Council of Saints. Each one claiming to be pulled into office by fate and Facebook comments. They all repeated the same line: “No, no, I’m not into politics. I’m far away from it.” But Madam Karki’s eyes welled up, and suddenly everyone was willing to serve “for the country’s sake.” In a few hours, Singha Durbar transformed into a group therapy session for reluctant patriots.

Nothing dries tears faster than a Mercedes with a flag.

Then Karki proudly declared she can’t deal with political leaders. Perfect qualification! Only in Nepal can someone say, “I can’t stand politicians,” and immediately become one. We have ministers of health who faint at hospitals, ministers of education who think research is a form of cooking rice at the ministry, and mayors who treat urban planning as a mood disorder. At least she’s honest—she admits she’s not qualified. The rest are still auditioning for sainthood.

And when she said, “No foreigner told me to do this or that,” the country nodded politely while holding back a laugh. Of course not. They never outright tell you. They suggest, encourage, and recommend. That’s diplomat-code for, “Do it, or your next project proposal dies in Washington.” Foreign interference here doesn’t wear boots; it wears blazers and brings PowerPoints. It’s polite colonization—aid with an accent. Saying there’s no foreign interference is like claiming there’s no alcohol at the Party at LOD, only sanitizer.

Then there’s the story that Mayor Balen Shah—yes, the rapper turned politician, once called Lucifer—had a divine hand in her appointment. And you know what? It fits perfectly. In Nepal, Lucifer gets better PR than God. The rumor mill, Routine of Nepal Banda (RONB), which used to notify about strikes and rainfall, now decides who’s holy, who’s trending, and who’s running for prime minister. The digital oracle has spoken: morality by meme.

Before politics, Karki was Chief Justice—the first woman to hold that position, a symbol of integrity and restraint. Now, she oversees a government that treats honesty as optional seasoning. When a judge enters politics, the robe isn’t just stained—almost everything in the courtroom falls apart. But this is the Nepali way: we leave the things we don’t understand, then come back to lead them. Expertise is often viewed as elite; ignorance is a common trait in democracy.

And the best part—she insists she faced no pressure. Right. In Nepal, “no pressure” means everyone has already agreed to the pressure. The IMF breathes us, the ADB feeds us, and the World Bank writes our bedtime stories. Even our self-reliance is donor-funded. Every time a Nepali leader says, “I made this decision independently,” somewhere a British intern giggles over a spreadsheet.

Our politics has evolved—from monarchy to democracy to “blame-ocracy.” Nobody seeks responsibility; everyone craves applause. Power here is like an arranged marriage—everyone claims reluctance, but no one refuses the jewelry. Even corruption comes gift-wrapped in guilt. “I didn’t want the money,” they say. “It came to me.”

Meanwhile, the media circus has a new ringmaster. The routine of Nepal Banda controls the nation’s serotonin. It posts; we believe. It pauses; we refresh. Its greatest achievement? Turning cynicism into entertainment. Now, truth travels as a meme, decorated with emojis of enlightenment. If you want to hide a scandal, post it on an Instagram reel with lo-fi music.

Every new government here starts with claims of sacrifice and ends with claims of assets. Madam Karki’s moral monologue— “I serve the nation unwillingly”—is our favorite bedtime story. We admire reluctant heroes. They allow us to believe virtue still exists somewhere in the bureaucracy. But behind every “I serve for the nation” speech, there’s a minister’s son checking if the new SUV has arrived.

It’s funny until it isn’t. Because behind the laughter is exhaustion. Our institutions are like public restrooms: everyone uses them, no one cleans them. We’ve lived in dysfunction so long that competence now seems suspicious. Karki’s hesitation isn’t a personal flaw — it’s a mirror held up to us. We’ve turned indecision into virtue and cowardice into a national trait.

Eventually, Madam Karki will fade away like every interim savior. Another reluctant saint will rise. The Gen-Z that once wept for her will migrate, podcast, and reminisce: “Back home, things never change.” And Nepal will hum its eternal lullaby— “Ke garne ta, yo Nepal ho ni”—with a faint British and/or American accent, to remind us that even our lullabies are slightly outsourced.

Routine of Nepal Banda will post:
“Traffic jam at Kalanki. Interim PM says everything is under control. 🙏”

We’ll laugh, scroll, and keep going. Because here, politics isn’t about governance anymore.

It’s open-mic night for divine accidents. 🎤

Author  Subedi is a Professor of medical sociology at Miami University, USA