A few months ago, I casually threw the word BhaatMaraa into something I was writing. I didn’t think much of it — just calling out a politician for being the kind of professional parasite who smiles while draining your future. Next thing I know, the word is spreading across Nepal like wildfire. So, I thought, fine. Let’s give this creature the biological spotlight it deserves. Let’s dissect it like some rare species in a nature documentary — except this species steals your dinner and lectures you about discipline while doing it.

In Nepali, bhaat means rice. So, a BhaatMaraa is literally a “rice killer” — someone who destroys your ability to earn even two meals a day. And the destruction isn’t dramatic — it’s bureaucratic. One day you’re earning your bhaat; the next day, you’re dining on promises, fumes, and political speeches. Meanwhile, millions of Nepali youth scatter across the world in search of work to support their families. And the BhaatMaraa? They sit in air-conditioned offices, polishing their egos like national treasures.

Psychologically, they’re slow-motion serial killers. No weapons needed — they use forms, committees, delays, and magical phrases like “Come back tomorrow.” Hope dies first, then opportunity, then dignity. The body remains alive; the dreams fade away.

A BhaatMaraa is a hybrid organism: part ego, part insecurity, part fake nationalism; marinated in foreign aid; surrounded by a loyal herd of jholes. Anatomy? Big mouth, tiny ears, long hands for grabbing, short memory for accountability, and a spine that bends according to political weather. If corruption were a competitive sport, they’d qualify for the Olympics.

Nepal, of course, has world-class specimens.

 Oli marches around as if he invented oxygen, wearing his Dhaka topi like a crown of moral superiority. He preaches nationalism with the confidence of someone who hasn’t checked the price of cooking oil since the Panchayat era. His speeches jump from Marx to mythology faster than traffic jumps red lights. Meanwhile, Kathmandu’s potholes are so deep you could hold a snorkeling contest.

Prachanda, our revolutionary-turned-CEO of Microphones, switches ideology faster than a teenager changes Instagram filters. Red one week, blue the next, “neutral statesman” the week after. His speeches feel like interpretive dance — symbolic, dramatic, and entirely beyond understanding.

And then there’s Deuwa — Nepal’s permanent prime minister. He shows up every political season like that uncle who keeps coming to weddings he never helped pay for. He recycles ministers like old jackets: same faces, different labels. “Minister of Roads” today, “Minister of Traffic Catastrophe” tomorrow. His specialty is making accountability disappear like a street magician.

The philosopher-kings — Madhav Nepal, Jhala Nath Khanal, and Baburam Bhattarai — write manifestos that resemble PhD dissertations but deliver results like students who missed the assignment deadline. Baburam writes treatises on governance while hospitals run out of oxygen. The irony is thick enough to slice.

But the BhaatMaraa epidemic extends beyond politics.

Judicial BhaatMaraas — including Madam Sushila Karki and her circle — interpret justice like poetry: beautiful in theory, risky in practice. Retired justices auditioning for the role of prime minister is the newest chapter in Nepal’s political comedy.

Bureaucratic BhaatMaraas are the high priests of stagnation. One missing signature can halt your life. Every dusty file is a small funeral.

Security forces? Their priority list is: self-preservation first, the institution second, and the public somewhere down the line.

Orbiting around all of them are the jholes — loyalists who cling to power centers like squirrels gripping electric poles. Without them, the system collapses; with them, the system becomes a tragicomedy.

The media? If politics is a swamp, the media swims in it wearing designer boots. Headlines scream, debates rage, content dissolves. A few journalists are brave. Many others are polished BhaatMaraas with press passes — amplifying noise, glorifying power, and securing front-row seats at press conferences.

Civil society, meanwhile, occupies a unique ecosystem of its own. They are constantly loud — champions of rights, defenders of democracy, self-proclaimed stewards of human dignity — and often well-funded to carry out these rituals by the very BhaatMaraas they oppose, along with a rotating group of foreign supporters. Their activism, though wrapped in moral language, often turns into performative outrage and donor-friendly theatrics. Trusting them is like believing a Nepali can summit Everest in flip-flops and a T-shirt: technically possible in legend, but practically suicidal. Their loyalty is negotiable, their independence leased, and although “For Sale” is not tattooed on their forehead, one only needs a modest third eye to see the price tag.

And the citizens? We are the Petri dish. We feed the BhaatMaraas with votes, taxes, patience, and the kind of hope that deserves a warning label. Every time a government collapses, we restart our optimism like a laptop stuck on updates. Then load-shedding hits, and reality returns.

Families teach children to be cautious, obedient, and conflict-averse — ideal traits for producing the next generation of micro-BhaatMaraas. We mock the big parasites, then imitate them in small ways. Cutting corners, bending rules, waiting for the right chair — all tiny acts of everyday BhaatMaraa culture.

The species persists because it is mutually parasitic. Oli needs Prachanda. Prachanda needs Deuba. Deuba relies on the Maoists. The judiciary shields them. The bureaucracy supports them. The media sanctifies them. Civil society performs rituals of righteousness around them. And we, the citizens, nourish the entire ecosystem with equal parts hope and heartbreak. Why don’t they learn? Because in Nepal, power rarely comes with consequences. You can dissolve parliament, loot the state, burn public property — and still get invited to the next coalition feast.

So, what’s the solution?

Identify. Isolate. Dismantle.

Reward merit. Punish corruption.

Starve the assholes.

Slow work. Hard work. Essential work.

Or — the easier choice — keep pretending. Continue to vote, protest, tweet, and pray. Let the parasites grow until we might as well rename the country Federal Democratic BhaatMaraastan.

As the curtain drops, Oli adjusts his hat, Prachanda waves like a revolutionary on autopilot, Deuba checks if his glasses are on his head, retired judges rehearse for prime minister auditions, civil society performers refine their outrage scripts, and the jholes cheer as if loyalty were a profession with pension benefits.

Cameras click.

The audience whispers, “Next season will be better.”

But deep down, we know this isn’t just a season — it’s a cycle.

A cycle where institutions weaken, accountability vanishes, and BhaatMaraa culture spreads faster than reforms can be implemented. A country can’t progress when its energy is spent feeding parasites instead of nurturing ideas, talent, and opportunity. Yet here we are: an entire political economy built on extraction, theatrics, and negotiated morality.

The tragedy isn’t that the BhaatMaraa exists. The tragedy is that the ecosystem supports it — defends it, makes excuses for it, copies it.

And until citizens refuse to be the soil in which this species grows, the chemistry and psychology of the BhaatMaraa (भातमारा) will continue to shape our national landscape — not as an anomaly, but as our prevailing culture.

Nepal does not lack potential.

It lacks the courage to face its parasites.

Only when that courage appears — not in speeches, not in outrage, but in action — will this country finally stop fishing in dead ponds and start building living waters again.

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

@desh sanchar