On September 9, Nepal entered a state of near-total anarchy. By mid-afternoon, KP Sharma Oli—then prime minister—sent his resignation letter to Sheetal Niwas, which was immediately accepted. Yet, constitutionally, Oli didn’t immediately lose office and become a private citizen—he remained the caretaker PM until his successor Sushila Karki assumed office on September 12—and in that capacity, was clothed with the full powers and responsibilities of the office. That reality carried with it the solemn obligations to uphold the Constitution, protect citizens’ lives and properties and prevent a collapse of law and order. Instead of fulfilling these obligations, Oli vanished from sight, reportedly retreating into an army barrack—transforming what should have been a ‘command centre’ into a ‘bunker of retreat’.

What followed is etched into history—flames engulfed Singha Durbar and hundreds of government buildings around the country, looters ransacked commercial establishments and even private homes, prison gates were opened to allow inmates to pour out and complete lawlessness prevailed. The police disappeared from the streets, and the army never left its barracks, citing a lack of mobilisation orders. The proverbial Nero-esque caretaker PM—whose duty it was to prevent any of this—however, continued playing the metaphorical flute as Nepal continued burning.

Article 77(3) of the Constitution is unambiguous—the PM remains in office until a successor assumes office. Oli, who is experienced in losing office four times, did follow this constitutional provision in the previous three occasions in 2016 and 2021. Oli very well knew (and had practised) that ‘caretaker’ status does not diminish authority or responsibility; it exists precisely to guarantee continuity in turbulence regardless of how limited other powers (such as making key appointments) may be. Furthermore, with the home minister’s office likely vacant after Ramesh Lekhak’s resignation on the previous day, Oli was directly responsible for the Home Ministry too, in addition to being PM, and had the power and the legal obligation to command the bureaucracy, police and the Armed Police Force—and, after fulfilling politico-legal requirements, mobilise the military—to maintain law and order. In addition, although he’d long lost the art of talking to people, he could have addressed the nation to calm fears and reassure the public of the continuity of government.

Oli did none of these. Instead, he chose silence and invisibility inside the army’s barracks. The irony was almost surreal—sitting inside the nerve centre of Nepal’s military might, he could have established a wartime-style command centre, directed a coordinated yet humane response, ordered the police back into the streets, secured core state institutions and broadcast calm to the nation. In his hands were all the constitutional levers of authority—yet by doing nothing in the one place where decisive action was possible, he embodied not leadership but abdication.

History will not absolve this. It will remember September 8 and 9 as days of blood and fire—and will hold the person in charge of that time personally responsible for the carnage of youth, the destruction of property, the jailbreaks and the collapse of state authority. The ultimate duty undoubtedly lay with the caretaker PM—yet he recklessly abandoned it.

Even in and after his resignation, there was no remorse, no expression of grief, no gesture of solidarity, nor a credible explanation. Ten days later, when he emerged from his hiding, Oli chose to speak only of his own security, issued boastful declarations and comfortably shirked accountability. He has piled denial upon denial—claiming that he never ordered police to fire or that the weapons used in repression were not of the police. But the question is not merely who pulled the trigger—it is that under whose leadership such brutal suppression and such unrestrained anarchy unfolded on September 8 and 9. Oli’s choices have defined his legacy not as a guardian of the order but as a fugitive from constitutional duties.

Around the world, leaders who fled in moments of reckoning have been judged harshly. Be it Hosni Mubarak in Egypt or Zine El Abidine Ben Ali in Tunisia—or more recently, Ashraf Ghani in Afghanistan and Gotabaya Rajapaksa in Sri Lanka—all abandoned their duties at decisive moments. Politically, they were condemned, but legally, most escaped. Law tends to punish crimes of commission—active repression, corruption and treason—but rarely the crime of omission, i.e., the failure to govern when it mattered most.

Yet omission can be as deadly as commission. Oli, as caretaker PM, had an undisputed duty to maintain law and order when the risk of anarchy was glaring. Yet, his refusal to act directly enabled loss of life, torching of public buildings and collapse of order. Although the threshold for establishing criminal negligence is generally high, Oli’s omissions are just as grave as criminal commissions. The conviction of Iceland’s former PM Geir Haarde in 2012 for neglecting his constitutional duty during the financial crisis and the in absentia sentencing of Thailand’s PM Yingluck Shinawatra for criminal negligence in rice subsidy policy are pertinent examples of how acts of omission are judged as harshly as those of commission. While Shinawatra’s conviction isn’t exactly a model to emulate, given its shortcomings in due process and judicial independence, the conviction of Haarde is a perfect example of how even democracies convict their leaders for acts of omission. Nepal, too, must set its precedent, very well through law, but also through public-political censure.

On September 9, Nepal did not simply witness mob violence. It witnessed the conscious self-erasure of its government. Even today, Oli’s statements contain no sorrow, apology, empathy or acknowledgement of the suffering inflicted because of his inactions. If he is not investigated for his damning acts of omission on September 9—and, if found guilty, punished—and his acts of commission on September 8, hiding instead of leading and vanishing instead of governing will be the norm.

Nepal cannot afford another September 9 ever, and Nepali democracy cannot be strengthened if such conduct is excused or forgotten. Oli and his cronies are perhaps looking to make a comeback, but the lesson should be stark—to seek high office is to accept not just its privileges but also its burdens. If one is unwilling to serve as caretaker during a crisis, one should never be prime minister.