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By Dr. Janardan Subedi

In politics, as in a bullfight, the bravest charge is often the most foolish—especially if you don’t know whether you’re the matador or the bull. As Prime Minister KP Oli prepares for his much-awaited visit to India, the question lingers: will he return waving a victory flag, or end up as the special dish on someone else’s diplomatic menu? 

A few days ago, a humorous tweet by Bhusan Dahal reminded me of Spain’s famous delicacy, criadillas—bull testicles served after the bullfight. The memory triggered a story from Oli’s earlier visit to Spain, which now feels like an oddly perfect metaphor for his upcoming trip.

The tale goes like this: during his visit, some members of Oli’s entourage, including a subgroup leader, decided to wander around and stumbled upon a quaint restaurant. Hungry and curious, they ordered the day’s special—criadillas—without asking too many questions. The dish was tasty, but when the leader asked why his portion was smaller, the waiter replied with a grin sharp enough to cut through any political ego: 
“Sometimes the bull dies, at times the man.”

That single line sums up Nepal’s politics—and its diplomacy. As Oli steps into Delhi’s bullring, the real question is: will he be the matador this time, or the bull served on the platter?

For months, Oli has been lobbying for this India visit. Suddenly, the invitation arrives. Why now? What’s the hidden recipe? Kathmandu’s political “gurus” are outdoing each other with predictions—some expecting a grand Oli comeback, others whispering about humiliation. One theory points to former President Bidhya Devi Bhandari’s recent visit to China and her veiled ambitions of returning to mainstream politics. Her Beijing trip may have unsettled New Delhi’s nerves. India, never one to let the geopolitical stove cool, seems to have summoned Oli to its kitchen. But remember: when India sets the table, the menu is pre-decided, and the guest doesn’t get to choose the sauce.

Picture the scene: Indian hosts greet Oli with smiles and diplomatic platitudes—“mutual respect,” “partnership,” “friendship.” A banquet of promises follows—trade agreements, energy cooperation, maybe even vague nods to border issues. Oli, with his trademark grin, might quip: “Is this free?” The host will reply, still smiling: “Friendship is free, sir. Dessert, however, comes at a price.” 

Nepal has seen this dinner theater before. Leaders return home with photo albums and gift baskets, while India collects strategic IOUs. Oli, ever the showman, may believe his quick wit will outsmart the matador—but in diplomacy, charm without strategy is just seasoning on an empty plate.

Oli’s past performances offer little comfort. His grandstanding during the Kalapani border dispute earned him applause at home but frostiness in New Delhi. His wobbly stance on the MCC agreement—initially defying it, then reluctantly approving it—showed his lack of strategic consistency. And who can forget his poetic speeches during the pandemic, delivered as hospitals ran out of oxygen? Nepalis remember his jokes; they do not remember his solutions. The question remains: will this visit deliver tangible results? Or will it be another round of symbolic criadillas—spicy, palatable, but ultimately hollow?

India is the master chef of diplomacy. It serves warm words like “mutual growth” and “shared destiny,” but spices them with strategic ambiguity. Guests leave the table feeling full but soon realize they can’t recall what exactly they consumed. Nepal’s leaders have a history of mistaking polite applause for genuine success. In the diplomatic kitchen, the chef always knows which ingredients are expendable—and Nepal is rarely the main course.

Political psychologists call it “hubris syndrome”—the delusion that one is smarter, braver, or more capable than reality allows. Oli, with his self-congratulatory jokes and penchant for grand one-liners, often seems to suffer from this affliction. India, on the other hand, plays the long game: patient, calculating, and unapologetically pragmatic. In the bullring of diplomacy, the matador controls both the timing and the outcome. Oli, by contrast, risks being remembered as the bull who mistook applause for victory just before the sword was drawn.

Nepalis, watching from the stands, are weary. We’ve seen this circus too many times. Leaders return from “historic” visits with nothing but photo-ops, recycled promises, and a few symbolic handshakes. What the country desperately needs are real outcomes—trade agreements that reduce the yawning trade deficit, energy partnerships that harness Nepal’s hydropower, and genuine progress on unresolved border disputes. Instead, we get theatrical nationalism and hollow rhetoric, as if foreign policy were a talent show where the prize is applause, not progress.

Oli is no stranger to political theater. He thrives on it. He will likely give bold speeches about sovereignty and nationalism, but what happens when the camera lights dim? If his trip doesn’t produce concrete benefits for the Nepali people, all the slogans and soundbites will be nothing but garnish on an empty platter. Nepal cannot afford yet another leader who mistakes Twitter trends for treaties.

There’s an old Spanish saying: “In the bullfight of life, the bull may be strong, but the matador writes the ending.” Oli’s challenge is not just to avoid being skewered but to rewrite Nepal’s script in its dealings with India. That requires strategy, subtlety, and, above all, humility—traits he doesn’t always display. If Oli believes that a few witty lines will outsmart India’s diplomatic machinery, he might find himself returning home with little more than a polite thank-you, a photo op, and a bill marked “payment pending.”

The metaphor of the bullfight holds because it reflects the brutal reality of power politics. In this arena, missteps are costly, and pride can be fatal. Oli’s visit is not just a personal test but a reflection of how Nepal positions itself between two giants—India and China—without losing its sovereignty or self-respect. 

If Oli wants to avoid becoming the bull, he must stop pretending to be the matador. As the Spanish waiter once quipped: 
“Sometimes the bull dies, at times the man. But here, sir, the chef always wins.” 

And in this kitchen of power, Nepal cannot afford to keep being served as the appetizer.