Nepal has long flirted with the illusion of democracy while struggling under the weight of unaccountable power. Yet even by its own troubled standards, the rise of Madam Karki to the office of Prime Minister represents an unparalleled spectacle of moral and political failure. Barely a month into her accidental premiership, she has shown not competence, vision, or statesmanship, but a combination of audacious hypocrisy and moral blindness that threatens to deepen an already festering crisis of governance.
The genesis of Madam Karki’s ascent cannot be divorced from tragedy. The social media ban that ignited protests, the eruption of a generation’s frustration, and the brutal massacre of seventy-five young adults form the dark backdrop to her rise. The blood of the nation’s youth did not merely lubricate the machinery of political change — it paved her path to power. Yet she treats it as incidental. Those responsible for the carnage — the perpetrators who orchestrated and executed the killings — are already back in politics, brazenly challenging the interim government she nominally leads. They move with impunity, plot with confidence, and speak with the authority of survivors rather than criminals. Meanwhile, Madam Karki and her ministers remain trapped in a grotesque performance, struggling to grasp portfolios they neither understand nor can manage.
The theatre of power becomes more absurd when one considers the role of the security apparatus. The very institution that facilitated the massacre now debates her legitimacy. The irony is almost operatic: killers scrutinize the Prime Minister, blood-stained instruments of repression critique the executive, and the state itself stands paralyzed between complicity and performance. It is a theatre of the absurd in which guilt wields power and justice is indefinitely deferred.
The security apparatus has already exposed the fragility of Madam Karki’s authority. Orders are ignored, not out of defiance alone, but because officers understand the political reality: compliance could carry personal consequences. Under such circumstances, who would take her commands seriously? Not even her closest allies, for they comprehend the cost of aligning with a government tainted by blood and constitutional violation. This explains the reluctance of qualified individuals to accept ministerial positions; integrity and conscience render such appointments unacceptable. To step into these roles is to risk complicity in a regime whose mandate is already morally bankrupt.
The Home Minister, for instance, projects the image of a court jester rather than a statesman — a grotesque figure when the nation desperately requires strategy, clarity, and decisive leadership akin to that described in Kautilya’s Arthashastra. Instead, Nepal is presented with spectacle where governance is needed, jest where stewardship is essential.
The moral and constitutional betrayal extends further. Madam Karki swore an oath to uphold a constitution that explicitly prohibits any former Chief Justice or Supreme Court Justice from assuming executive office. That safeguard, designed to maintain the separation of powers, was violated without hesitation. She assumed the premiership as a self-styled “crusader,” promising justice to those whose lives were stolen. Yet these promises are rooted in rhetoric, not reality. Today, she and her ministers engage in the grotesque performance of “protecting” a constitution they have defiled. Does she imagine the blood-stained streets have dried? Can legitimacy emerge from violated oaths and murdered youth?
Closer scrutiny of her appointment reveals deeper layers of complicity. Madam Karki’s rise was not an autonomous act; it was engineered by then–Prime Minister Oli. While some may argue that he was compelled by the revolution, the fact remains that he placed her in office. The moral failure, therefore, extends beyond her; it encompasses those who orchestrated her ascent and those who continue to defend the legitimacy of her tenure. Her ministers, meanwhile, stumble through public engagements, offering hollow sympathies to victims of the Gen-Z revolution while reveling in performance over substance. Self-proclaimed civil society members, who once demanded accountability, now endorse elections under the same discredited constitution, ignoring the blood that defines this moment in history.
The shared culpability of the political elite cannot be overlooked. Figures such as Ghyaar Ghyaare Bahun, who occupied the presidency during the massacre and remains in office, bear equal moral and legal responsibility. Those who defend the current government or uphold the present constitution are complicit. The civil society that advocates elections under these conditions is equally guilty. Nepal finds itself ensnared in a criminal society, one that masks complicity with the rhetoric of democracy.
The administration’s performance over the past month has confirmed every suspicion regarding competence and character. Ministers flounder as if reciting lines from a play whose plot they cannot remember. Policy-making has been replaced by posture; leadership by performative gestures. Authority is defined not by action or competence, but by survival within a theatre of political pretense. Public anger grows daily, fueled not only by incompetence but by moral indifference. Nepalis watch, confused, frustrated, and enraged, as a government born from blood treats tragedy as a backdrop for self-congratulation.
It is striking that Madam Karki’s government has completed only one month of a six-month mandate. Yet if the symptom reflects the ailment, her initial performance already indicates the severity of the disease. The early disorder, lack of clarity, and performative ineptitude are harbingers of institutional decay. What begins in chaos is unlikely to end in stability.
Her premiership is not merely an exercise in administrative failure; it is a study in moral decay. Her refusal to acknowledge the ethical dimensions of power, her blindness to the consequences of her ascent, and her audacity in violating constitutional law illustrate leadership that is both dangerous and impotent. She treats the blood of seventy-five citizens as an abstraction, undermining the very legitimacy her office requires.
Her claim to be a “crusader for justice” is absurd. Justice cannot be performed as theatre; it cannot be claimed through rhetoric or titles. It requires courage, institutional reform, accountability, and integrity — all absent in her administration. Rhetoric has been weaponized to mask inaction, and in doing so, she risks both credibility and the fragile stability of the nation. Her ministers, too, act as amateur performers, mouthing slogans without comprehension, gesturing as if action alone constitutes governance, and treating portfolios as props rather than instruments of statecraft. Each day that this government survives without accountability deepens moral and institutional rot.
Nepal’s crisis is compounded by structural and constitutional failures. The very constitution Madam Karki swore to protect has become a prop for political survival. Her actions communicate that constitutional fidelity is negotiable, moral accountability optional, and power claimable without ethical restraint. This is not mere incompetence; it is moral abdication.
Historically, Madam Karki’s tenure will serve as a cautionary tale of what occurs when power is divorced from principle. The consequences are immediate and long-term: erosion of public trust, destabilization of governance structures, and the inevitability of renewed unrest. The blood of the first revolt remains a living memory; it has not dried and will not be forgotten. Any leadership ignoring this reality courts disaster.
The societal implications are profound. Young Nepalis, already disillusioned by systemic corruption and impunity, witness history repeating in real time. The return of perpetrators, the immunity of those responsible, and the performance of governance as theatre all foster despair — fertile ground for a second revolt that may not only challenge the interim government but the system itself.
Ultimately, Madam Karki’s tragedy lies in her inability to grasp the stakes. Her rise is not a triumph of merit or justice; it is a symptom of systemic decay. Her violation of constitutional law, substitution of rhetoric for action, and indifference to moral accountability make her one of the most dangerous and unfit leaders Nepal has seen in decades.
Her premiership is not governance. It is a liminal space between two storms: a government without legitimacy, an administration without accountability, and leadership without a moral compass. Constitutional law is treated as flexible, ethics as optional, and public outrage as background noise. History will remember her not for intellect or courage, but for audacity, hypocrisy, and moral vacuity.
Nepal stands at a crossroads. The path forward demands accountability, courage, and moral clarity — all glaringly absent from the current administration. Citizens must not confuse performance with legitimacy, rhetoric with justice, or survival with leadership. Madam Karki may occupy the office, but she has failed every metric that justifies it. The blood of seventy-five young adults, the shattered trust of a nation, and the violation of constitutional law constitute a legacy no ceremony, rhetoric, or performative gesture can erase.
History is patient but unforgiving. When applause fades, slogans lose their echo, and the moral cost of governance is inescapable, Madam Karki will be remembered not as a stateswoman but as a symbol of what occurs when ambition surpasses ethics and rhetoric replaces action — when the blood of a nation becomes a ladder to power.
Nepal deserves better. Its citizens deserve leaders who understand that legitimacy is earned through integrity, justice, and competence — not seized through circumstance, bloodshed, or political theatre. Until such leadership emerges, the nation will remain trapped in a cycle of betrayal and decay. Madam Karki’s tenure is merely the most glaring chapter in this tragic narrative.
Finally, the moral imperative is clear: Madam Karki must resign before it is too late, or risk facing the full force of a second wave of Gen-Z revolution. The choice is hers — governance through conscience and accountability, or a descent into history’s indictment.
Author Subedi is a Professor of medical sociology at Miami University, USA
