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By Dr Janardan Subedi

I was scrolling through Facebook the other day—that global landfill where misinformation spreads faster than mosquitoes after a monsoon—when a familiar face appeared: Madhav Kumar Nepal. There he was, speaking with full statesmanlike conviction but achieving zero statesmanlike results. Then came a line delivered with the calm of a monk and the productivity of a sleeping cat: “Besides the development of our nation, we have nothing else on our mind.” It was such a perfectly distilled irony that laughter became unavoidable. Not a polite smile. Not even a snort. I laughed the way Nepali citizens laugh when electricity returns after eight hours of load-shedding—emotionally, spiritually, as if this tiny absurdity embodies the meaning of life.

If Madhav Nepal and his generation truly only care about ‘development,’ Nepali minds must be in ghost mode—files intact, untouched for decades, with no concrete policies to show real progress.

This is the man who cannot win elections but keeps becoming prime minister; who splits parties like bored kids snapping pencils; who has stayed relevant longer than Nepali roads stay smooth. And yet, development is his only concern? The irony of that claim alone could power a hydropower project—if his party doesn’t stop it halfway to renegotiate commissions.

Madhav Nepal’s political career is like a Nepali soap opera on constant repeat: the same story, the same actors, more wrinkles, worse lighting. History textbooks might soon need a chapter titled: “The Madhav Era: A Geological Period of Stillness, Fragmentation, and Endless Committees.”

Some museum must be missing its main exhibit. Madhav Nepal does not belong in Parliament; he belongs behind velvet ropes, surrounded by schoolchildren, beneath a plaque that reads: Extinct—yet in denial.

This rebranding, with its name changes and slogan reshuffles, should provoke questions about their sincerity, fueling skepticism among those seeking genuine change.

This newly formed Communist Party of Dinosaurs sounds like a tired reunion tour of authority. Alongside Madhav Kumar Nepal stand familiar names—Jhala Nath Khanal, Bamdev Gautam, and other veterans of constant transition—men who have changed parties more times than the country has changed outcomes. They arrive not with new ideas but with résumés of repetition, presenting longevity as wisdom and survival as ideology.

Among them also stands Pushpa Kamal Dahal, once known as Prachanda—a name more remembered by history than believed. The language of bullets has been abandoned; what remains is not transformation but ideological emptiness. This is not a journey from violence to democracy; it is a shift from conviction to convenience. The figure who once demanded sacrifice now negotiates relevance. Power persists, but meaning has disappeared. The revolution endures only as a memory—used ceremonially, drained of obligation, mainly serving as a credential for ongoing authority. In this sense, the revolutionary did not evolve; he faded away, leaving behind a functional administrator of memory, adept at endurance but not change.

These men have perfected governance through speech. They announce development the way motivational speakers declare success—loud enough that audiences forget nothing has truly changed, leaving citizens to endure ongoing issues like unreliable electricity and crumbling infrastructure.

Older leaders congratulate themselves on “maintaining stability.” If this is stability, then a sleeping volcano is stable—until it erupts and buries everyone in ash.

They form new parties as if copying their failures will magically turn them into successes. Chairs are moved around, slogans are spun, flags are repainted—innovation reduced to shallow gestures. Every election produces manifestos full of poetic promises: roads, jobs, schools, prosperity. But once elected, selective amnesia sets in. Only one memory remains—how to stay in power. The promises quietly reappear in the next manifesto, dressed in a new font.

They pretend to respect accountability, but they evade it like a mosquito dodging a slap. Deadlines are mocked, results hidden behind committees, and when pressed, they offer philosophical abstractions: “Development takes time.” True—but so does evolution. Dinosaurs didn’t evolve into leaders; they turned into fossils. And fossils, at least, have scientific value.

This generation exists in a paradox. They speak like architects of national dreams, yet behave like guardians of a never-ending pause button. The state moves—but like a treadmill: frantic movement, no progress.

Imagine a country blessed with mountains, resilient people, and cultural wealth—governed by men whose greatest creativity is inventing synonyms for “We are trying.” Their contribution offers a nationwide lesson in patience, imposed because leaders lack competence.

If development ever truly crossed their minds, Nepal would be a place where hope expands faster than potholes. Instead, potholes are the only infrastructure that grows—requiring no budget, only neglect.

Yet maybe they have come up with something.

They have built a historic immunity to shame.

They have created systems where corruption never results in unemployment.

They have trained citizens with emotional endurance greater than any meditation retreat.

They talk about the future while holding onto the past like a security blanket. Change frightens them—not because it is risky, but because it threatens their positions. And chairs—not citizens—remain the real national priority.

This isn’t leadership; it’s a refusal to step aside.

Nepal is not lacking in vision, resources, or courage. It is hindered by leaders who confuse endurance with entitlement, mistake familiarity for necessity, and believe the nation cannot breathe without their aging hands on its throat.

The true hope is in leaders finally stepping down, motivating citizens to believe that progress begins when those in power allow change to happen without resistance. Sometimes progress isn’t about creating something new—it’s about removing the obstacles that have long blocked the way.

When the dinosaurs finally leave the stage, history won’t fall apart without them. Instead, it will finally start to move. And Nepal will realize that development was never absent—it was just waiting for its history to let go.