Opinion In Nepal, the king won’t come back

Although the Gen Z uproar reminded that Nepali citizens are not only taxpayers and voters but the ultimate authority, for many, these events echoed less of Nepal’s past upheavals than the crises in Sri Lanka (2022) and Bangladesh (2024). Yet, beneath the surface of these comparisons lies a deeper anxiety. As violence and vandalism intensified, ordinary Nepalis, in fear of being looted and vandalised, found themselves haunted by a deeper and more unsettling question: Does this turmoil foreshadow a potential return of the monarchy? Could the Army be laying the groundwork for its reinstatement?

Speculation about the monarchy’s return momentarily subsided when Army Chief General Ashok Raj Sigdel nudged President Ram Chandra Poudel to form an interim government. Yet, with a septuagenarian premier surrounded by sexagenarian ministers, the rumour mill regarding the monarchy’s comeback refuses to die out. Having already witnessed the violence and vandalism wrought by pro-monarchy forces back in March, confidence in the newly formed interim government — established after the dissolution of parliament — remains elusive.

What kept the rumours alive was not the scale or intensity of the unrest, but two telling gestures: The conspicuous meeting between pro-monarchy firebrand Durga Prasai and the Chief of the Nepali Army, and the unnerving silence of the Rastriya Prajatantra Party (RPP) leaders throughout and after the unrest. These gestures — one overt, the other evasive — were enough to seed the idea of monarchy as a conceivable alternative in a climate of political vacuum. While an actual restoration of kingship remains highly improbable, the resistance of such speculation underscores two uncomfortable truths: The fragility of Nepal’s republican transition and the unsettling fact that silence and ambiguity from the elites can often wield as much influence over public imagination as explicit action.

Whispers at army headquarters

The irrepressible mob, ignited by the “nepo-kid” campaign, intensified by social media restrictions, and exacerbated by deadly crackdowns, directed their anger and rage at the symbols of privilege — hotels, ministerial offices, and politicians’ homes. While choosing where and where not to direct their actions, segments of dissenters vocally called for the king’s return and deliberately avoided attacking symbols, institutions, or individuals associated with the Shah monarchy or pro-monarchy parties. This selective targeting transformed a broadly reformist movement into an implicit political signal.

In times of unrest, symbolism can outweigh action. The meeting between Durga Prasai, a vocal pro-monarchy medical entrepreneur, and the Chief of the Nepali Army became a focal point for interpretation and conjecture, prompting widespread speculation: Was the Army signalling its “last resort” option in monarchy? Was the military preparing to reposition itself as guardian of the throne if politicians failed? There is no evidence to suggest that the Nepal Army had any such intention. Since the political change of 2006, the military institution has undergone democratisation, subordinating itself to civilian control and refraining from overt political interference, which circumscribed its role after the Gen Z protest to restoring order, protecting key installations, and evacuating leaders under threat. Nothing in its behaviour suggested a coup or royalist sympathies except for the delays in protecting the government offices, including the office of its supreme commander-in-chief.

Still, perception mattered more than institutional reality. In a country where the monarchy has long been framed by the pro-monarchy forces as the “final fallback” in crises, even fluky meetings acquire political weight. Why was Prasai summoned by the Army Chief while Gen Z, not monarchists, led the protests? Were there discreet negotiations behind closed doors, or was the Army simply attempting to hear the voices of diverse stakeholders amid the unrest? The rendezvous could have addressed operational concerns like crowd control, but its timing and secrecy also left room for speculation that the army was entering royalist perspectives during a politically volatile moment.

RPP’s silence

If the army’s meeting with Prasai planted the seed of speculation, the silence of RPP leaders watered it. At a time when violence engulfed the streets, property was torched, and public order teetered, one might have expected the pro-monarchy forces to either condemn the violence or clarify their stance. Instead, RPP leaders remained noticeably silent, allowing uncertainty, rumour, and conjecture to dominate the narrative. Was their silence tacit approval of the unrest? Was it an opportunistic pause, keeping open the possibility that the crisis might tilt in their favour?

Silence, in politics, is rarely neutral. It can function as a calculated strategy, allowing actors to avoid blame while quietly capitalising on chaos. By refusing to denounce the vandalism or clarify their stance, RPP leaders allowed opacity to fester. For ordinary citizens, consuming news through rumour-saturated digital channels, silence was interpreted as complicity. In the absence of clear statements, people filled in the void with speculation that perhaps the RPP was positioning itself as the legitimate alternative, waiting for disillusioned republicans to turn towards monarchy.

Nepal’s political culture has long been shaped by rumour. As the popular Nepali poet Bhupi Sherchan aptly wrote, this is “a land of uproar and rumour”. In times of crisis, speculation often fills the gaps left by opaque institutions and the rendezvous of elites. Following the recent uproar, rumours spread that the Narayanhiti Palace was being dusted off for the ex-king’s return, that the army had begun secret communications with royalist circles, and that a coup might be underway. The meeting between Prasai and the Army Chief and the RPP’s silence fit seamlessly into this rumour economy. Together, they laid clouds of uncertainty for speculation to thrive, even if no substantive move toward restoration was in the making.

Despite the flurry of speculation, the structural conditions for the monarchy’s return are absent. While the Nepal Army has consolidated itself as a professional force under a republican set-up, it realises that endorsing a restoration would trigger structural disruption within its own institution, even if such a shift might momentarily serve the interests of a few opportunistic and self-serving factions. Equally, what the Gen Z protests have revealed is not the strength of royalist forces but the weakness of Republican institutions. Their imagination of democracy does not include kingship. Monarchy, therefore, persists more as a spectre than a viable political project.

The writer is Assistant Professor at the Department of International Relations and Diplomacy, Tribhuvan University