Nepal’s Revolving Doors: From Tinkune to Makune

So here we go again — another political merger in Nepal. Ten communist parties — yes, ten — have decided to unify. It’s a familiar pattern, a déjà vu that makes us wonder if anything will truly change. You’d think after all these years they’d have learned that unity in Nepali politics lasts about as long as ice in the sun. But no — they’re back, smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, and announcing that “history has turned a new page.” The UML didn’t join this spectacle. They’re sitting it out, observing from the sidelines with popcorn, saying, “We’ve seen this movie before.” And the rest of the public — the audience — is left wondering whether to laugh, cry, or walk away. Because every time these folks merge, the only real change is the logo on the banner and the seating arrangement on stage.

One YouTube clip captures it all better than any political scientist could. A young host invited social activist Mr. Dilli Ram Khanal (I had never heard his name or seen his interview before this short video) into his studio and asked, grinning, “So, sir, what do you think of this new communist merger?” Khanal leaned back, pressed his lips together, and delivered the most poetic line of political truth ever spoken in Nepal.

“This party’s office is at Tinkune, its flag is Charkune, its election emblem is Paanchkune, and its leader is Makune.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a PhD in Nepali politics — one sentence, four corners, five points, and infinite absurdity. These symbols, Tinkune, Charkune, Paanchkune, and Makune, are not just words; they are powerful entities in their own right. They serve as a stark reminder of the stagnation that has taken hold of our political landscape, urging us to demand genuine reform and a collective awakening.

Tinkune — more than just three corners. It’s the epicenter of indecision. A literal crossroads in Kathmandu that reflects the party’s leadership: all roads meet, everyone argues, no one moves forward. Meetings happen, committees are formed, and nothing gets done. Tinkune is the political equivalent of spinning your wheels in mud — energy wasted, no progress.

Charkune — the four-cornered flag, supposed to be a banner of inclusion, but actually pointing everywhere and nowhere. Each corner stands for a faction, ideology, or a leader’s ego. Workers, peasants, students, women, youth, the marginalized, even the ghosts of past comrades — everyone has a corner. The flag isn’t a symbol of unity; it’s a map of confusion, fluttering in every direction but forward.

Paanchkune — the five-pointed emblem that looks neat but only adds to bureaucracy. Each point represents a committee, a subcommittee, an advisory board, a task force, and a committee to oversee committees. It’s a geometric symbol of inefficiency — structure without progress, inclusion without accountability. If anyone wanted to illustrate Nepali political paralysis, this emblem should be on the cover of every textbook.

Makune — Madhav Kumar Nepal, the co-chair, is the living fossil of Nepali politics. He’s been involved in every split, merger, and ideological debate for decades. He is a recycled leader: splits, re-joins, chairs, co-chairs, gives speeches, shakes hands, smiles for cameras, and somehow claims moral authority while the younger generation bleeds — literally and figuratively. He is both the stabilizer and the anchor — keeping the ship afloat but never letting it sail.

Now introduce the rest of the cast: Pushpa Kamal Dahal ‘Prachanda’, Jhalanath Khanal, Bamdev Gautam, Narayan Kaji Shrestha, Mahendra Raya Yadav, Prem Bahadur Singh — the vintage collection. The youngest among them is 65, the oldest 77 — a museum of revolutionaries polished for photo ops. Shiny on the outside, decaying within. They act as if they represent Nepal’s youth, yet the youth they claim to speak for are bleeding, dreaming, and despairing — building their futures while watching these relics play out the nostalgia of power.

Just two months ago, 78 young Nepalis lost their lives—not by accident, not by fate, but through political violence. Their blood still stains the streets. The wounded still lie in hospitals, half in pain, half in debt, all traumatized. This is the harsh reality facing our youth, suffering from neglect and violence inflicted by our political system. It’s a call to action and a reminder of the urgent need for change.

And while the nation mourns, these dinosaurs — these self-declared “guardians of the revolution” — sit in their offices believing they speak for the youth. Empathy? Heart? Concepts unknown. Yet they merge and remerge, as if they were the country’s pulse. Meanwhile, the streets — scarred with blood and memory — are the only opposition left that speaks truth.

Unity, for them, means numbers, not morals. Ten parties merge, each claiming two percent of the vote. That’s twenty percent in theory. In reality? Voters panic, factions split, and the combined vote rarely surpasses sixty-five percent of what they previously had. Math fails when ideology is driven by ego.

And the committees! Five committees in one room decide whether to form another subcommittee to discuss the work of the following committee. The Paanchkune emblem isn’t ideology; it’s an excuse for endless meetings — a geometric monument to procrastination.

The flag keeps flapping, pointing in every direction but forward. Tinkune keeps the office at a standstill, Makune keeps the leadership frozen in time, and Paanchkune keeps the bureaucracy alive but sterile. This isn’t politics anymore — it’s performance art—a tragicomedy in four corners, five points, and one immortal co-chair.

Meanwhile, Madam Karki’s government has mastered the art of pretending—feigning empathy while secretly plotting in the background, turning mourning into a political weapon. The young person who died? Their parents? Their suffering? Not part of the spectacle. The applause is saved for the fossils in the studio and the selfie lights of social media.

Believing their political rhetoric and promises is like trusting that the hyena has suddenly become a vegetarian — a cruel joke against reason itself. Yet the humor is dark because it’s true. Every joke and meme about Tinkune, Charkune, Paanchkune, and Makune reveals more truth than any press conference or manifesto. Political chaos personified.

Nepal doesn’t need more corners. It doesn’t need flags that point nowhere or committees that create more committees. Nepal needs a circle — one that moves, includes, and listens. A circle that connects those governed with those claiming to govern.

If we are serious about Nepal — about its sovereignty, its blood, its future — then stop pretending. Dissolve the illusion. Hold a binding referendum: restore the 1990 framework or keep the Republic. Let the people decide because waiting for these fossilized leaders to act is like asking a cat to run a dog show.

If not — fine. Please sit back, relax, and let foreign observers tour our headlines like a national theme park. At this rate, Nepal might soon issue “refugee passes” to its own citizens. And when someone asks, “Where will you go for refuge?” — good luck answering that while the dinosaurs in charge smile and wave from Tinkune.

Until that day, Mr. Khanal’s line remains the most precise political statement ever spoken: ‚Tinkune office, Charkune flag, Paanchkune emblem, Makune leader. ‘A nation in motion, spinning around the same corner, waiting for someone — anyone — to find the exit.

Philosophical Coda: The Cycle and the Shadow

In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna that when dharma declines and adharma rises, the world falls into a cycle of confusion — samsara without awakening. Nepal is at a critical crossroads today. Its leaders keep circling without realizing that the wheel they turn isn’t progress but repetition.

The Tinkune–Charkune–Paanchkune–Makune sequence is more than satire; it is the modern chakra of delusion — moha-chakra. Each spin drains the nation’s energy, binding her to a history that refuses to change.

But in Hindu philosophy, even the darkest cycle contains the seed of renewal. When exhaustion reaches its peak and hypocrisy can no longer hide decay, a new consciousness — sattva rises from the ruins of tamas. Nepal, too, waits for that dawn: not the emergence of another leader, but the awakening of collective awareness.

Until then, the wheel turns. But maybe this time, the people — not the politicians — will decide which way it spins.

Author Subedi is a Professor of Medical Sociology at Miami University, USA