By Dr. Janardan Subedi

The republic is bleeding.

The recent filing of a corruption case against former Prime Minister Madhav Kumar Nepal in the Patanjali land scam marks not just the fall of an individual, but a moment of systemic exposure in Nepal’s broken political order. Though he has not been arrested and his legal fate remains uncertain, his expulsion from Parliament and formal listing as an accused underscore the deep decay in the core of the leadership that inherited Nepal’s republic after the monarchy’s fall.

Long considered a steady hand in Nepal’s leftist tradition, Madhav Nepal was once hailed as a quiet ideologue—rigid but principled, measured but consistent. Today, he stands accused in a high-profile scandal involving the transfer of public land in Bara district to Patanjali Ayurved, a multinational conglomerate tied to the controversial Indian entrepreneur Baba Ramdev. The irony could not be greater: a politician who claimed to champion working-class ideals is now entangled in corporate appropriation of public assets.

At the heart of the scandal lies the suspicious transfer of state-owned land, allegedly at throwaway prices, facilitated under Madhav Nepal’s watch. Official documents reveal a pattern of policy manipulation, bureaucratic circumvention, and intentional undervaluation—tactics all too familiar in the republic’s post-monarchy era.

But to many within and outside his party, the case appears politically charged. A significant section of observers, including veteran cadres of CPN (Unified Socialist), view this legal action not simply as a pursuit of justice but as part of a political vendetta. They argue that Nepal is being selectively targeted, possibly to settle intra-elite scores or to fracture an already fragile leftist front. In the court of public opinion, motive matters—and questions of timing and intent have raised eyebrows.

It’s also worth noting that, despite his administrative lapses and questionable political alliances, Madhav Nepal has long been regarded—by both supporters and critics—as personally less corrupt than his peers. Compared to other senior leaders like K.P. Sharma Oli, Sher Bahadur Deuba, and Pushpa Kamal Dahal, who face recurring allegations of massive financial irregularities and policy capture, Nepal is still seen by many as “financially clean.” This perception complicates the narrative and forces a deeper evaluation of the charges against him.

Still, even if financially cleaner, Nepal is not politically blameless. His earlier name appeared in the Lalita Niwas land scandal, where prime Kathmandu government land was illegally privatized with bureaucratic and political support. Though not indicted, his proximity to decision-makers and his failure to uphold institutional discipline cast a shadow. Whether through oversight or indulgence, his silence abetted a system that rewarded manipulation.

These incidents point beyond personal misconduct. They reflect a systemic pattern of elite entitlement and impunity that has infected Nepal’s democratic transition. Corruption is no longer an aberration—it has become the mechanism of governance.

Madhav Nepal’s career is emblematic of this shift. Once general secretary of CPN-UML and a voice against political opportunism, he lost public credibility long before the law caught up. His humiliating loss in a direct parliamentary election did not end his rise—he was appointed Prime Minister not by public mandate, but by elite arrangement. That moment captured the central flaw in Nepal’s democratic culture: when backroom deals outweigh public will.

Later, he split from UML to form the CPN (Unified Socialist), citing ideological reasons. Few were convinced. The move was seen as a desperate attempt to avoid political extinction—a rebranding maneuver to secure parliamentary leverage and ministerial posts. Within diplomatic circles, he was mockingly dubbed “Holly Wine”—a nickname that reflected his alleged proximity to foreign embassies and policy peddling. Whether exaggerated or not, the label stuck, highlighting his perceived duplicity.

His public image—a mild-mannered Marxist—never matched his political behavior. He built his legacy by denouncing corruption while operating within, and benefiting from, a deeply corrupt system. Now, with legal action underway, the curtain is finally being pulled back.

Yet focusing solely on Madhav Nepal risks missing the larger truth. He is not the exception—he is the embodiment of a political class that has captured the state. Alongside Oli, Deuba, and Prachanda, he helped turn Nepal into a clientelist, extractive, and unaccountable polity. These men inherited a fragile post-conflict democracy—and buried it under layers of patronage, impunity, and self-dealing.

Together, they are the architects of what many now call the भातमारा गणतन्त्र (Bhātmārā Republic)—a republic of takers, not builders. Rather than institutionalizing democratic norms, they dismantled them. Rather than empowering citizens, they traded public interest for personal gain. Today’s Nepal resembles less a republic and more a syndicate of entrenched elites clinging to power while the nation erodes beneath them.

Foreign actors—both corporate and diplomatic—have found this vulnerability fertile ground. The Patanjali case exemplifies how foreign capital, cloaked in soft power, exploits weak institutions with the help of complicit leaders. “National interest” has become a hollow slogan in a state willing to sell its sovereignty at the price of political convenience.

The judiciary now stands at a crossroads. The Patanjali land deal, and Madhav Nepal’s alleged role in it, present a rare opportunity to reclaim institutional integrity. Will Nepal’s courts rise to the occasion—or retreat, as they have so often, behind political compromise?

Public confidence in the judiciary is already precarious. Politicized appointments, delayed verdicts, and controversial rulings have eroded its credibility. Justice no longer feels blind; it feels bought. But this case could mark a turning point. If the courts demonstrate independence and fairness—if they follow evidence, not orders—some public trust could be restored.

This is more than a legal trial; it is a reckoning with the idea of accountability itself. If a senior figure like Madhav Nepal can be fairly tried and punished if found guilty, it will affirm that no one—not even the architects of the republic—is above the law.

But the question remains: Who’s next? If Madhav Nepal faces accountability, what about the rest of the cartel? K.P. Oli, whose tenure was riddled with constitutional manipulation; Sher Bahadur Deuba, perpetually shadowed by corruption allegations; and Prachanda, whose war-era impunity has morphed into post-war opportunism—all have left behind trails of suspicion and institutional decline.

Behind them stand the silent enablers: bureaucrats, business allies, media cronies, and foreign-funded NGOs who profit from the decay while claiming reformist credentials. This is no longer a crisis of individuals—it is a crisis of an entire ecosystem.

Nepal’s people are not naive. They see through the rhetoric. They demand more than symbolism. If the fall of Madhav Nepal is to mean anything, it must catalyze a broader legal, political, and moral reckoning. If not, it will simply confirm the nation’s worst fear—that in today’s republic, power still trumps principle.