Dance, Nepal, Dance!
News Summary
- Former rulers and political leaders who consider themselves as main powers are currently struggling to protect their existence amid ongoing judicial proceedings.
- Although new leadership emerging with hopes for change has inspired optimism, concerns are growing over the further risks it may bring.
- In the midst of frequently shifting power dynamics and unstable democracy, everyday citizens remain focused on their own work.
Dance, Nepal, dance—
Not to the old rhythm of the madal,
But to the tune carried by the shifting winds.
Wild bushes of speeches have spread across the squares,
Where once
The ‘golden throne,’ a symbol of the nation’s pride,
Lies buried beneath the dust of history.
Today’s Kathmandu
Feels like a mad gambler who’s just won his last bet—
Eyes glowing mysteriously,
Lips trembling with a smile.
Those who once slept amidst sirens’ storm
Now flinch at the shadows of their own beds.
In teahouses, over cups of tea,
The country’s bitter fate brews.
Somewhere, a barber’s razor
Carves the map of tomorrow,
Elsewhere, on pothole-ridden roads,
Wandering astrologers of revolution
Foretell the arrivals of new planets.
Hiding their faces in the steam of tea while whispering,
Someone says—
“We have brought the country to a historic crossroads of change.”
Another, releasing a long-held belch when urged to stop, says—
“Here, abortions of nonsense happen repeatedly.”
Newspapers are thrust in front of doors early in the morning—
Like raiders breaking the dawn’s silence.
Those who yesterday proudly declared
That they were the country’s ‘mio’ (core strength),
Today wander the corridors of courts
Searching for meaning in their own names.
Under the dim light of a dilapidated window,
A former ruler sits alone.
He is now beginning to understand—
Power is like a garland of flowers
That wilts under the April sun.
Colorful phones have gone silent,
Party sirens are exhausted,
And even bodyguards
Have started fearing their own shadows.
The streets applaud,
And a rotting Peepal tree collapses—
Raising clouds of dust,
Frightening the nests hanging in the eaves,
Etching a fleeting void in the sky.
But the roots know well—
When an old tree falls,
The tale of the forest never ends!
In this soil soaked with mustard oil,
New heroes run bearing torches.
In their eyes
Is the dream of cleansing this city,
Yet they forget—
Sometimes dreams
Burn an entire city down.
Today, justice and revenge
Stand facing each other in the same mirror,
Studying each other’s faces.
On television debates,
The trade of anger and fury thrives,
And people change the colors of their faith
Just as one changes coats in winter.
Today’s victims were hunters yesterday.
Who knows, tomorrow again
The law of the jungle could change.
The country flows on an endless scroll—
Handcuffs, speeches, conspiracies, and celebrations.
Democracy these days
Often goes into ‘sleep mode’
Like a mobile phone screen.
To keep it alive,
Someone always has to ‘refresh’ it.
In a remote mountainous courtyard,
An old farmer,
Listening to a gentle radio voice,
Sharpens his sickle in the dark.
He has witnessed the rise and fall of crowns,
The rivers of blood that have flowed,
The forests of dreams that have burned to ashes.
So he smiles—
Calm, solemn, and detached.
Because he knows—
This country never walks in a straight line.
It rises,
Sometimes on the chest of a storm,
Sometimes on the tongue of fire,
Sometimes standing on its own ashes,
Only to rise again,
And dance.
Dance, Nepal, dance!
Dance, Nepal, dance!