KATHMANDU: Most of the year I live in Norway, but every time I return to Nepal. I arrive with my luggage and sometimes with my irritation too. Coming back always stirs a mix of feelings: a deep sense of belonging alongside the old frustration that politics here never seems to change. Maybe I am not fully qualified to write about Nepali politics. I don’t stand in long lines at government offices. I don’t wrestle with broken roads or rising daily prices. I don’t watch thousands of young people leave every day in search of opportunities abroad. Yet perhaps distance makes the irritation sharper. From far away, I romanticize and criticize at the same time, shaping Nepal through nostalgia, imagination, and social media. When I finally return, the same dramas repeat before my eyes. I sigh. I tell myself maybe my view is not fully real. Still, it is mine.

Sometimes I wonder if what I am searching for is that “just state” Plato imagined. He believed that if wise leaders ruled, society would be just and peaceful. But Plato is long gone, and so is his dream. Confucius spoke of virtue and morality, of leaders guiding

people through their example. His voice too has faded. Marx dreamed of workers rising against exploitation, but his dream collapsed in many places. And Chanakya offered strategies for discipline and power, but he belonged to another age. These thinkers remain, not as living forces, but as names in books. When I compare Nepali politics with their ideas, my irritation only deepens, because the gap between vision and reality feels too wide.

One of my biggest irritations is the way leaders are treated like gods. Educated people, people who should know better, suddenly act like fans at a concert, waving flags, shouting slogans, and taking selfies with their “heroes.” Debate disappears; worship begins. I long for ideas, plans, and vision. Yet maybe politics is also theater, and people crave heroes as much as policies. Sometimes I wonder if I am the strange one, standing stiff with folded arms while everyone else smiles and cheers.

Then there is the endless recycling of faces. The same leaders reappear, decade after decade, promising empowerment for all and ending up irritating everyone equally. Corruption repeats like a chorus. Every politician blames others, never themselves, while corruption spreads through big and small things alike. It is not only an institutional disease; it becomes a habit of daily life. And this makes me tired.

One of my biggest irritations is the way leaders are treated like gods. Educated people, people who should know better, suddenly act like fans at a concert, waving flags, shouting slogans, and taking selfies with their “heroes.”

Slogans irritate me too. “Anti-corruption, prosperity, justice, and development” sound grand but feel hollow. I wait for clarity, for something concrete, but only repetition arrives. Perhaps I expect too much. Ordinary people do not have time for philosophy; they want working hospitals, decent schools, and better roads. Maybe my irritation is the luxury of someone educated and living abroad, free to grumble about ideals while others struggle with reality.

Politics today also feels too corporate. Candidate selection resembles job recruitment, campaigns look like marketing strategies, and citizens are treated like customers rather than participants. Some celebrate this as modern and efficient. But to me it feels cold. Politics should be humane, messy, noisy, unpredictable, and full of argument and emotion. Maybe I am just nostalgic for the heated debates at teashops, the chaotic conversations on street corners, and the old noise that at least felt alive.

I have also grown suspicious of too much enthusiasm. I see rallies full of dancing and chanting and, recently, a wave of activism among Nepal’s youth, who are smart, creative, and full of ideas. But I do not join. Instead, I roll my eyes and mutter to myself. I tell myself I prefer reason over emotion. Yet perhaps it is fear. Hope always risks disappointment. If I do not expect much, heartbreak will not follow. So, irritation becomes my shield. Cynicism feels safe. But I laugh at myself too. I criticize too quickly, sometimes even before understanding a new idea. Irritation feels clever, but often it is just habit. It does not improve politics; it does not change governance. It only keeps me on the sidelines, while life goes on without me.

Politics today also feels too corporate. Candidate selection resembles job recruitment, campaigns look like marketing strategies, and citizens are treated like customers rather than participants.

What I secretly long for is impossible: politics that is philosophical like Plato, moral like Confucius, revolutionary like Marx, and strategic like Chanakya, messy yet efficient, practical yet visionary. Since this mix does not exist, I end up irritated again. Perhaps the wiser path is to accept that politics is always imperfect, always compromised, and always human.

And yet, irritation is not entirely useless. Aristotle reminded us that emotions are natural. We feel anger or annoyance when something we value is missing. My irritation, then, is not just bitterness; it is a sign of care. I am irritated because I love. Because I love my country, my people, and my identity as a Nepali living abroad. My sighs, my eye rolls, and my mutterings are not indifference. They are clumsy ways of holding on.

So yes, politics irritates me. The same faces return. Slogans float without weight. Corruption weaves through every corner. Hero worship replaces serious debate. And modern campaigns feel like soulless marketing. Yet I also irritate myself, being too skeptical, too romantic, and too eager to hide behind clever cynicism instead of daring to hope.

And now, with the recent wave of youth activism, I watch a new generation step into the arena, smart, creative, and full of ideas, yet also confused, overambitious, and sometimes lost. It feels like Samudra Manthan, the great churning before the nectar of wisdom and progress appears. Many are messy, some are bitter, some are sweet, but the final outcome is unknown. The chaos continues.

Still, irritation has its own meaning. It shows love, however messy and imperfect. A love that refuses to give up, even when disappointed. A love that sighs and groans and laughs at itself but continues anyway. So, I will keep rolling my eyes at recycled leaders, groaning at empty promises, and grumbling at corruption.

Nepali politics irritates me, yes. And maybe this irritation, this restless, uneasy love, is the only thing that keeps me watching, caring, and hoping, even amid the churning that has yet to settle.