KATHMANDU: Last month, Kulman Ghising said what many Nepalis had been waiting years to hear: contracts for idle or “sick” projects will finally be cancelled. The era of contractors hoarding tenders, stalling for years, and blaming rain or red tape might be nearing its end. Whether that hope lasts depends on what happens after the headlines fade.

Nepal’s construction industry has long been the country’s most visible form of dysfunction. The Commission for the Investigation of Abuse of Authority (CIAA) lists nearly 1,850 stalled projects worth around Rs 118 billion. More than a thousand sit in limbo—neither extended nor cancelled—quietly eating public money. You don’t need a report to see it.

Half-built bridges rust beside rivers. Roads are dug up, left open for seasons, and patched just before visits from ministers. Hospitals and schools remain signboards and promises.

Over time, delay itself has become a business model. Contractors underquote to win projects, collect the advance payment, and then walk away or slow-roll until officials extend deadlines or increase budgets. When that fails, they move to the next tender. Everyone inside the system knows how it works. Even KP Oli, while prime minister, admitted that only 18 companies control almost half of Nepal’s road and water contracts. That isn’t competition; it’s a cartel wearing government badges.

The excuses are recycled every year. The monsoon came early. Prices rose. The design changed. Payments were late. Yet the same companies keep winning, the same engineers keep signing extensions, and the same projects remain unfinished. Accountability stops where connections start.

Official rules are clear. Any contract over Rs 20 million is labeled “sick” if progress stays below 50 percent after one extension. It remains “sick” at 80 percent even after double time, and still “sick” at 95 percent after four. The law sets those markers; enforcement ignores them. The result is what people see every monsoon: roads collapsing, bridges washed out, and worksites abandoned midway.

The people paying for all this aren’t in boardrooms or ministries. They’re commuters dodging craters, families still waiting for clean water, farmers losing harvests because a bridge never opened. Ordinary Nepalis have carried the cost of corruption so long it’s become part of the landscape.

That’s the atmosphere Ghising walked into when he became Minister for Energy, Water Resources, Irrigation, Physical Infrastructure, Transport, and Urban Development. In his first major meeting with contractors, he didn’t bother with polite language. “There will be no work unless there is fear of losing bank guarantees or facing penalties for low bids,” he said. The message was simple: deliver or lose everything.

For once, the threat sounds credible. The ministry has started reviewing 234 road and bridge projects for termination: 38 in Damak, 75 in Kathmandu, 39 in Pokhara, 49 in Surkhet, 16 on the Postal Highway, and 17 along the Mid-Hill Highway. Together they represent billions in lost investment and years of wasted public patience.

Ending these contracts is more than administrative cleanup. It’s an attempt to challenge a culture where deadlines are jokes and accountability is optional. Every unfinished bridge is stolen money. Every abandoned hydropower project keeps the country dependent on imports. Every hospital left half-built means lives that could have been saved but weren’t.

Ghising has also announced plans for a committee to investigate ministry officials, engineers, and supervisors who approved delays or took bribes. He’s right that punishing contractors alone would be half the job. The rot runs through the bureaucracy as much as the private sector. A project doesn’t stall for 14 years without help from inside the system.

Take the Kankai Bridge in Jhapa. The contract, signed in 2011 for Rs 510 million with Pappu Construction and Mahadev Khimti JV, was supposed to build a 723-metre bridge connecting Jhapa Rural Municipality-2 and Gaurigunj-1. Fourteen years later, it’s only 55 percent complete. Locals have watched the structure sit half-finished through two national elections and countless inspections. The project has been extended so many times that the paperwork itself is a record of national dysfunction. This month, the ministry finally began the process to cancel the contract.

The notices to contractors are straightforward: explain within 15 days why your contract shouldn’t be terminated. Failure to respond means blacklisting, confiscation of deposits and guarantees, recovery of all advances with 10 percent interest, and possible legal action under the Public Procurement Act. It’s the kind of language that should have been routine a decade ago.

If the government follows through—really follows through—it will send a message Nepal’s construction sector has never heard: negligence has consequences. Contractors will think twice before underbidding. Officials will hesitate before signing another easy extension. Deadlines might start to matter.

But there’s reason to be cautious. Many contractors are deeply tied to politics. Some lawmakers hold direct stakes in construction companies. Others rely on contractor donations during elections. Tenders are often tailored for specific firms. Watchdogs such as the CIAA periodically expose collusion but rarely pursue cases to the end. When pressure builds, companies simply change names and re-register. Everyone starts fresh, and the cycle restarts.

That’s why every reform announcement is met with polite skepticism. Nepalis have seen this pattern before: a strong statement, a few suspended projects, and then silence. The question isn’t whether Ghising means what he says; it’s whether he’ll be allowed to act once powerful names begin to feel threatened.

The first sign of progress is already visible. Seventeen bridge contracts have entered the termination process. Public notices went out from the road offices in Biratnagar, Chandranigahapur, and Nuwakot, instructing contractors to justify themselves. Of the seventeen, five each are in Biratnagar and Chandranigahapur, two in Nuwakot, with the rest scattered. All share the same story—extensions granted, work abandoned, excuses repeated. If those terminations actually go through and deposits are recovered, it could set a powerful precedent.

Still, cancelling projects is only one layer of the problem. Someone has to rebuild trust. After decades of half-built infrastructure, citizens have stopped expecting competence from the state. They assume new projects will fail before they start. That cynicism erodes more than public faith; it slows investment and development itself.

The longer game is to fix incentives. Contractors delay because delay pays. Bureaucrats look away because risk-taking doesn’t. Until that logic flips—until finishing on time becomes more rewarding than stalling—Nepal will stay stuck in a permanent state of construction.

Technology could help shift that balance. The younger generation, especially Gen Z, has the tools and mindset to demand transparency in real time. They track government spending online, verify claims through satellite images, and post evidence faster than officials can bury it. Their instinct to document and share is the most potent form of oversight Nepal has today. If that energy stays focused, negligence will start carrying an actual cost.

The challenge is translating outrage into durable systems. Data portals, public dashboards, and whistle-blower protections matter as much as strong speeches. The country doesn’t need more promises of “zero tolerance.” It needs processes that make corruption harder and honesty less lonely.

There’s also a cultural change taking root. Younger engineers and planners are less willing to excuse delays. They see time as a measurable asset, not an elastic resource. Private developers are learning that reputation on social media can shape contracts more than proximity to power. Small shifts—but they add up.

For now, Ghising’s ministry has people watching. If he cancels the contracts he’s promised to, confiscates the guarantees, and holds both contractors and officials accountable, the effect will echo beyond his term. For the first time in years, there’s a sense that public frustration might actually matter.

But hope is fragile in a system trained to survive reform. Politically connected firms will lobby, file court cases, or use their influence to stall the process. When that happens—and it will—the test will be whether the government stands behind its own decision. Words are cheap. Enforcement is expensive, risky, and lonely.

Every Nepali knows what’s at stake. Roads that collapse a year after opening aren’t just symbols of corruption; they’re daily hazards. Bridges left incomplete cut off trade and education. Hydropower plants delayed for decades keep lights flickering and fuel imports rising. These aren’t abstractions. They’re lived costs.

If Ghising keeps his word, Nepal could finally start cleaning out the “construction excuse factory” that has drained the country for decades. If he doesn’t, it’ll be another chapter in a familiar story—press conferences, committee meetings, and another round of photo ops beside unfinished work.

The country doesn’t need miracles. It needs contracts honored, deadlines enforced, and a government that refuses to treat incompetence as routine. Hope alone won’t build roads or schools. But the refusal to accept excuses might.

For once, the public mood feels sharper. People are tired of waiting. They’ve watched billions vanish while bridges rust in the rain. Now, every stalled project has a name and a number, and citizens can trace them online. That visibility changes things. It’s harder to hide waste when everyone can see it from their phone.

Ghising has lit a small spark in a dark, familiar room. If he follows through, it could be the beginning of accountability in one of Nepal’s most corrupt sectors. If he doesn’t, it will prove what many already fear—that in this country, even promises of reform can be delayed indefinitely.

Either way, the countdown has started.

(The author is an engineer and certified project management professional advocating for enhanced project management practices in Nepal)