When Parasites Write the Constitution: Nepal’s Most Enduring National Industry

Nepal doesn’t need foreign enemies. It creates its own—locally grown, organically bred, and endlessly self-renewing. Some countries export carpets, others export spices. Nepal exports its youth and imports its own misery, all because of a thriving local industry: the production of national parasites.

These parasites do not hide in shadows. They sit in parliament with the confidence of permanent tenants, smile broadly for cameras, sign agreements with borrowed gravitas, and appear in daura-suruwal on ceremonial days as if patriotism were an outfit rented by the hour. They speak endlessly of sacrifice, integrity, reform, and “the nation,” yet their only genuine loyalty is to their appetite.

And what an appetite it is—twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, even during earthquakes, floods, pandemics, budget crises, or constitutional breakdowns. Their hunger is not biological; it is metaphysical. They do not eat because they must live. They live to keep eating.

Though politics is their natural habitat, this species is remarkably adaptable. It flourishes in bureaucracy, where files collect dust like archaeological artifacts; in the judiciary, where justice either matures or decays depending on who’s involved; in the security sector, where uniforms salute patrons more eagerly than the constitution; in business cartels masquerading as entrepreneurs; in universities regarded as ancestral property; and in health care, where healing is optional but billing is mandatory.

This isn’t just a system; it’s a food chain with a national brand.

Yet the most harmful structure supporting this parasitic civilization is the very document honored in public ceremonies: the Constitution of Nepal, which effectively shields systemic corruption and obstructs meaningful reform.

This constitution was not crafted by ascetic statesmen gazing at the Himalayan horizon, contemplating justice. It was drafted by the same parties, factions, and operators who now claim to be governed by it. Essentially, the parasites wrote the rules of the forest—and naturally made sure they benefited most from them.

The constitution proclaims rights but remains silent on accountability. It outlines decentralization in diagrams but concentrates power in reality. Elections are mere rituals, not genuine renewals. The same faces, surnames, and dynasties reappear, predictable as festival seasons.

In Nepal, power does not spread freely; it circulates. The constitution established channels for movement but did not provide for removal. It created offices but avoided assigning consequences. It offered citizens participation but denied them influence.

Therefore, the parasitic class benefits from something no biological organism has ever had: constitutional protection for constant feeding.

This is why political upheavals in Nepal are always anticlimactic. A new government is just the old system rearranged into a different form. And the current interim government under Madam Karki is no noble exception. It’s the same lineage wrapped in a fresh ceremonial shawl. The fingerprints remain the same; only the lighting has changed.

But what is most striking is how ordinary Nepalis accept their own suffering. They criticize the system with poetic flair, yet on election day, they line up with ritualistic devotion to vote for the same parties, the same dynasties, the same families. This should inspire citizens to feel frustrated and take on a sense of responsibility for continuing the cycle.

This raises a deeper question: Has resignation become our worldview? Has exploitation become our cultural habit—something as familiar as dal-bhat, Tihar lights, or Kathmandu traffic? This should inspire hope that awareness can lead to awakening and action.

People demand change but choose stability. They criticize corruption but support their party’s corrupt leaders. They seek justice—but only when it doesn’t inconvenience others. They mourn martyrs—but forget them when voting.

The revolutionaries of yesterday never expected that their successors would someday sell off the revolution at wholesale prices.

Meanwhile, the parasites evolve. They refine the skill of appearing essential. Each faction claims that without its leadership, the republic would fall apart. They act like arsonists, expecting appreciation for not setting the house ablaze every day. And the public—worn out, cynical, and shaped by decades of failure—often accepts even the illusion of stability as a miracle.

The bureaucracy plays its tragicomic role. Files go dormant. Regulations bend like bamboo in the monsoon. Every rule has an exception, and every exception comes at a cost. This is not governance; it is a bazaar masquerading as a state.

The judiciary, guardian of justice, treats constitutional interpretation like a buffet—picking whatever suits the current mood. Some rulings come quickly; others take forever. The only constant is unpredictability.

The security establishment acts on loyalty to opportunity, not to law. Intelligence-gathering often resembles gossip written on official stationery.

Education and healthcare—two pillars of human dignity—are firmly controlled by parasites. Schools produce certificates but not intelligence. Hospitals generate bills but not healing. Parents shell out fortunes for outdated notes; patients mortgage land to fund the lifestyles of the healthcare providers.

These sectors do not fall apart by accident. They fail profitably.

Throughout all this, the parasites remain calmly confident. They believe they won’t be replaced because the constitution they created protects them. They assume citizens will forgive because all options seem the same. They know the institutions are too weak to stop them. They understand the international community will host a seminar, issue a statement, and then move on. And most of all, they believe the average Nepali will criticize the system at night and vote it back in the next morning.

Thus, the cycle continues—predictable in its repetition, absurd in its lack of progress, and tragic in its failure to bring about real change, revealing the system’s deep-rooted inability to evolve.

Nepal bleeds, yet still smiles. The parasites feed, yet hunger persists. Governments change, yet little advances. Constitutions are celebrated yet rarely followed. Elections are held with precision, yet real change remains an unwelcome guest.

But beneath this repetition lies a more profound truth: a society becomes what it repeatedly allows.

The nation’s decline starts when the leader forgets self-preservation, when resignation becomes a tradition, and wounds are mistaken for birthmarks. Citizens must refuse to accept indignity as destiny to prevent further decline.

Yet history is not just a cemetery of fallen states. It also records societies that learned—often painfully—that endurance is not virtue and suffering is not destiny. Even parasitic ecosystems fall apart from their own arrogance. There comes a moment—unexpected, unplanned—when the host recalls it was never meant to be a feeding ground.

The question for Nepal is no longer whether its leaders will awaken. Parasites don’t awaken; they only feed.

The real question is whether its citizens will rediscover the ancient truth that every civilization depends on the courage of those who refuse to be drained.

Change will come—either by intention or by exhaustion; either by vision or by necessity; either through enlightenment or simple refusal to bleed further.

Until that awakening comes, the national theater keeps going. The stage is crowded. The script remains the same. The audience is tired. And the parasites—always hungry—continue feeding long after the country has forgotten the taste of its own freedom.

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