KATHMANDU: Gyanendra Shah occupies a singular place in Nepal’s turbulent modern history: the only man to have been crowned king twice, and its last monarch. Born the eldest son of King Mahendra, Gyanendra spent much of his early childhood at his maternal home after astrologers warned royal place that keeping him too close to his father would bring misfortune.

His first stint on the throne came under unusual circumstances. In 1950, as Nepal’s Rana regime tottered, his grandfather King Tribhuvan & his father Crown Prince Mahendra fled to India. The child Gynendra left behind in Kathmandu, was declared king by Rana Prime Minister Mohan Shamsher.

Coins were even minted in his name. But with the Delhi Tripartite Agreement (An accord between the Nepali Congress, the Rana regime, and King Tribhuvan facilitated by India that ended the Rana family’s autocratic rule and established a democratic system in Nepal, restoring King Tribhuvan as head of state in February 1951), the Ranas relinquished power, Tribhuvan returned, and Gyanendra’s brief reign ended.

More than half a century later, history repeated itself under darker conditions. In June 2001, the royal massacre wiped out King Birendra and most of his family, propelling Gyanendra once again onto the throne. His second reign, however, proved as tenuous as the first. After his direct rule and heavy-handed tactics alienated the public, the 2006 People’s Movement forced him to relinquish power. By May 2008, parliament formally abolished the monarchy and declared Nepal a republic. Gyanendra left Narayanhiti Royal Palace with little ceremony, stripped of his royal authority but never of his conviction.

For years, his personal secretariat continued to issue statements referring to him as Sri 5 Maharajadhiraj (A traditional Nepali royal honorific, meaning “His Majesty the King.” The prefix Sri 5 (Shree Paanch) denotes preeminence and reverence, while Maharajadhiraj signifies the supreme sovereign or emperor of the Kingdom of Nepal) rather than “former king,” provoking parliamentary criticism. Only recently, in a Dashain message, did he formally acknowledge his role as “former monarch” himself— 17 years after leaving the throne.

In his latest remarks, former king Gyanendra urged Nepalis to defend the nation’s unity and integrity, framing youth energy and innovation as the drivers of prosperity. His words, part reflection and part admonition, underline both his lingering sense of guardianship and the unhealed scars of Nepal’s republican transition.

Each year, Nepal’s former king Gyanendra Shah, issues a message to mark Dashain, the country’s most important Hindu festival. His statements attracted little more than ceremonial attention in Nepali media. This year, however, the words of a dethroned king carry new political weight.

The backdrop is crucial. The mainstream parties that once forced Gyanendra from the throne have themselves been shaken. The Gen-Z movement—a youth-led uprising against corruption, political stagnation and entrenched elites—has disrupted the country’s political order, pushing dominant parties out of government and undermining the fragile credibility of the system. Against this turbulence, the former king’s message reads less like ritual courtesy and more like political positioning.

The tone was neither triumphalist nor overtly monarchist. Instead, it reflected a sober blend of concern, paternalism and warning. The former monarch acknowledged the turbulence created by the youth protests, lamented the destruction and loss of life, and stressed that the aspirations of Nepal’s younger generations could not be ignored. By highlighting youth as the foundation of the nation’s future, he implicitly echoed some of the Genji protesters’ demands, without aligning himself directly with their movement.

The analysis of his words suggests two distinct strands. First, the former king projected himself as an elder statesman who accepts the errors of the past and acknowledges responsibility for his own reign. This disarms accusations that he seeks to exploit unrest for personal restoration. Second, he emphasized the need for unity, reconciliation and reform within the existing state framework. His rhetoric framed the country’s problems not as partisan failures, but as symptoms of a broader malaise demanding collective responsibility.

This is politically astute. By avoiding direct criticism of today’s ruling elites, he presents himself not as an antagonist but as a guardian figure—someone positioned above political quarrels. The appeal of such a stance grows as Nepal’s parliamentary institutions flounder and public trust erodes. It allows him to insert himself into national debates without demanding a return to monarchy. In effect, Gyanendra is repositioning himself as a custodian of stability rather than as a claimant to power.

His comments also carried a subtle geopolitical subtext. By warning against dependency and “geopolitical entanglements,” the former king gestured towards the vulnerabilities of a small state caught between India and China, at a time when both regional giants are extending their influence. The Gen-Z movement itself has raised suspicions of foreign meddling, with some ousted leaders blaming external forces for its sudden eruption. Without naming countries, Gyanendra’s words underscored a broader anxiety: that Nepal’s internal weakness provides fertile ground for manipulation by outsiders.

There was also a moral register in his message. By urging Nepalese society to look in the mirror, he implicitly argued that governance failures cannot be blamed solely on politicians or on the monarchy’s past. Citizens, too, bear responsibility for corruption, apathy and destructive politics. This call for collective accountability fits with his attempt to claim a fatherly role for himself: neither monarch nor exile, but a symbolic patriarch urging the country to move forward.

What makes the statement notable is its timing. As parties scramble to adjust to a political realignment, the ex-king’s appeal to unity and reform offers a contrast to the infighting and recrimination dominating mainstream politics. He does not need to call for a return of the throne to gain relevance; instead, he positions himself as a reminder of continuity in a nation buffeted by instability.

For now, the former king’s words remain symbolic. They contain no programme, no movement, and no institutional backing. Yet symbolism matters in Nepal, where history, ritual and identity are tightly bound to politics. In years past, his messages were dismissed as relics. This year, they feel more like an intervention.

Whether this signals a broader revival of monarchist sentiment or simply a nostalgic search for stability remains uncertain. But the fact that a deposed king’s festival greeting is being parsed for political meaning says much about Nepal’s unsettled democracy. The monarchy is gone; the longing for guardianship, however, is not.

The return of a familiar Voice

Every Dashain, Nepal’s most important Hindu festival, carries its own symbolism of renewal and reconciliation. In his festival message this year, Gyanendra framed the youth uprising as both a tragedy and a call for change. Without directly endorsing the Genji movement, he stressed that the aspirations of young people—anchored in patriotism, energy, and new ideas—must be integrated into the state. His language was measured, reflective, and devoid of rancor. Unlike many of Nepal’s political leaders, he avoided blaming specific actors. Instead, he called for collective responsibility, urging the nation to look in the mirror and acknowledge its systemic failures.

This tone—at once regretful and exhortative—represents a deliberate recalibration. Gyanendra acknowledged mistakes from his own period of direct rule in 2005–06, implicitly accepting responsibility for the monarchy’s downfall. At the same time, he positioned himself as a figure who, despite being dethroned, retains the authority of sacrifice. He is not demanding restoration of the crown. Rather, he is offering himself as a custodian of stability and continuity in a moment of national disarray.

A sharper message on Democracy Day

If the Dashain greeting was careful and symbolic, his February video message for the 75th Democracy Day was far more pointed. In it, he expressed “extreme dissatisfaction” with the country’s trajectory, accusing Nepal’s leaders of squandering the promise of democracy. He reminded citizens that monarchs had themselves supported Nepal’s early democratic struggles, and that he personally had relinquished throne and privileges in the interest of the nation. That sacrifice, he warned, should not be mistaken for weakness.

The message combined nostalgia, critique, and urgency. He lamented that Nepal’s democracy had failed to deliver dignity, fairness, and prosperity. Instead, the country is losing its young people to migration, drowning in debt, and witnessing the collapse of industries and education. Public sentiment, he observed, has grown so cynical that many now believe “nothing good will happen by staying here.” Democracy, he argued, was supposed to be a system of hope, yet after three decades it has become a system of despair.

This analysis touched nerves. Emigration has become the most visible symptom of a failed political economy: every day thousands of Nepali youth queue for foreign work permits, their remittances keeping the country afloat. Meanwhile, public debt is rising, businesses struggle with unreliable power and policy paralysis, and corruption scandals erode confidence in institutions. By framing these failures as evidence of a democracy hollowed out by arrogance and self-interest, Gyanendra was not calling for the return of royal rule—but he was highlighting a void of leadership that he is willing to symbolically fill.

Why now? The Gen-Z effect

The Gen-Z movement has radically altered Nepal’s political conversation. Sparked by anger at corruption, lack of jobs, and the cynicism of established parties, the movement drew tens of thousands of young people into the streets in September. Clashes with security forces left scores injured, and several deaths added gravity to the protests. For the first time in years, the old political order—dominated by the Nepali Congress, the Maoists, and the UML—looked fragile.

The former king’s words must be read against this backdrop. When he speaks of the need to heed the aspirations of youth, he is echoing the very grievances that fuelled the Genji uprising. By stressing unity and rejecting destructive politics, he presents himself as a moderating figure, in contrast to the parties that appear increasingly disconnected from the generation they claim to represent. His message avoids overt partisanship, but its subtext is clear: the monarchy may be gone, but the moral authority of sacrifice and guardianship still matters.

The language of sacrifice

One of Gyanendra’s most consistent themes is sacrifice. In both his Dashain and Democracy Day messages, he repeated the claim that the monarchy willingly relinquished power for the benefit of the people. This framing does several things at once. It recasts the monarchy’s fall not as a defeat, but as a conscious gift. It also positions him as a moral creditor: he gave up power, but in return expects that leaders will honor the spirit of national unity and dignity.

Sacrifice in this telling is not weakness but strength. By repeating that “sacrifice will never be small,” Gyanendra is staking a symbolic claim to relevance. His words are unlikely to translate into institutional power—Nepal remains a republic by constitution and by overwhelming international consensus. But symbolism matters in politics. In a society disillusioned by politicians who cling to office and privileges, a king who reminds people of what he has given up gains a form of moral leverage.

A mirror to nepal’s failures

Perhaps the most striking line in his Dashain message was the metaphor of the mirror: “Let us look into our own mirror to see our face.” In the former king’s reading, Nepal’s failures are systemic and collective, not merely the fault of one set of leaders. Citizens themselves, he implied, have tolerated corruption, apathy, and the destruction of norms. By urging Nepalis to see themselves in the mirror, he was both scolding and consoling—pushing for self-reflection rather than scapegoating.

This stance is clever politics. By not explicitly blaming the current ruling coalition or the opposition, he remains above partisan fights. Yet the implication is damning: three decades of democratic practice have not produced accountable leadership or functional governance. If democracy has not failed, its practitioners have.

The geopolitical undertone

Another undercurrent in his messages is Nepal’s geopolitical vulnerability. Gyanendra warned against falling into a “geopolitical labyrinth,” a phrase that resonated strongly given suspicions of foreign involvement in the Genji protests. Leaders ousted by the uprising hinted darkly at international meddling, though none named names. Whether or not the accusations are credible, the former king’s emphasis on self-reliance and non-dependence spoke directly to Nepal’s anxieties as a small state wedged between India and China.

This is not new rhetoric for the monarchy. Historically, Nepal’s kings claimed to be the protectors of national sovereignty, balancing India’s influence with China’s outreach. Today, with Chinese investment tied to the Belt and Road Initiative and Indian dominance in trade and transit, the fear of external manipulation is palpable. By invoking sovereignty and independence, Gyanendra tapped into this nationalist current, positioning himself once again as a defender of Nepal’s integrity.

The paternal figure

Gyanendra’s closing appeal in both messages was unmistakably paternal. He described Nepal’s unity, sovereignty, and culture as the backbone of the nation, handed down by ancestors who sacrificed for independence. He framed himself as a custodian of that inheritance—no longer a king by law, but still a guardian by duty. His appeal to discipline, honest effort, and dedication to the nation was less a political manifesto than a father’s advice to quarrelling children.

This paternal framing may strike outsiders as outdated. Yet in a society where reverence for elders and traditions remains strong, it carries resonance. At a time when political leaders are seen as petty, self-serving, and corrupt, the imagery of an elder statesman urging reconciliation and national unity holds appeal. Whether that translates into actual political capital is another matter.

The broader historical echo

The spectacle of a dethroned monarch reasserting himself in times of democratic disillusion is not unique to Nepal. Former royals in countries from Iran to Bulgaria have occasionally re-emerged as political voices, often more as symbols than as actors. The paradox is that their lack of formal power sometimes grants them credibility as critics of those in office. Freed from the compromises of governance, they can speak with moral clarity, even if history remembers their reigns as flawed.

In Gyanendra’s case, history is not kind: his direct rule in 2005–06, imposed under the guise of restoring order, is widely seen as the final blow to the monarchy’s legitimacy. Yet memory is selective. For many younger Nepalis, who never lived under royal rule, the monarchy is less a lived experience than a story of stability undone. Against the chaos of contemporary politics, nostalgia can be a powerful political force.

The limits of influence

For all the attention his words receive, it is important to note their limits. Nepal’s constitution defines the country as a secular republic. The political consensus among major parties remains firmly against restoring the monarchy. International partners, particularly India, China, and Western donors, have invested heavily in Nepal’s republican institutions and are unlikely to countenance a reversal.

What Gyanendra can offer is not an alternative political system but a critique of the existing one. His words act as a reminder that legitimacy requires more than constitutional form; it requires results. So long as democracy delivers little beyond slogans, a space will remain for voices that invoke sacrifice, sovereignty, and unity.

The future of his message

The question, then, is whether Gyanendra’s interventions remain symbolic or evolve into something more organized. At present, there is no coherent monarchist movement capable of challenging the republic. Small groups occasionally rally for restoration, but they lack widespread support. The former king himself seems careful not to overreach, aware that an overt political campaign could backfire.

Instead, his strategy appears to be one of moral positioning: to speak at moments of national crisis, to project calm and unity, and to remind citizens of his sacrifice. Whether by design or not, this allows him to stay relevant without being threatening. It is a delicate balance, but one that has extended his influence far beyond what many expected when he retreated into private life in 2008.

A nation still searching

Ultimately, the fact that Gyanendra’s festival greetings and Democracy Day message are being parsed for political meaning reveals more about Nepal than about the man himself. It shows a country where disillusion with the political class is so deep that even a dethroned monarch can re-emerge as a voice worth listening to. It reflects the fragility of democratic legitimacy when institutions fail to deliver jobs, services, and dignity. And it highlights the hunger for leadership that transcends the petty rivalries of party politics.

Nepal will not return to monarchy in normal political course. But Gyanendra’s words underscore an uncomfortable truth: the republic has yet to build a credible alternative vision of authority and trust. Until it does, the echoes of a dethroned king will continue to find an audience.