Nepali politics right now gives a very cinematic effect, just like watching a movie, that too with a new climax every other day. For the young, who once loathed going through the news, reading about national current affairs feels more interesting than ever. People talk about the actions of our government, whether in criticism, appraisal or just discussion. This change has brought a level of awareness, but it requires careful observation and filtration of the information being absorbed. With diverse digital platforms emerging every day, the quality of information is vital. Sadly, information sources nowadays are based either on a reel, TikTok or a post.

That lack is exactly what the government has weaponised to obtain a huge ratio of favour from the first form of herd: the Digital herd. The government successfully manipulates this herd into believing everything being done is rightful, fair and essential. The manipulation is so strong that if anybody else begs to differ, they become defensive. The quick change in policies and the rampage of initiatives appear aimed at creating four categories of “senseless herd”: the Digital, the Defenders of the youth, the Clouded and the Cult, which in turn ensures democratic autocracy in the long term.

Years of studying social science and law point to two main obstacles to Nepal’s development: corruption and brain drain. Ironically, the most talked about but most marginalised demography was, for a long time, “youth”, because of its underrepresentation in policymaking positions, as Nepali politics has always been based hugely on seniority, connections and money. So, for the first time, the age composition within the current government feels fresh, and the involvement of new faces is fair. But just because a minister is young doesn’t make that person automatically better. This is what the second herd, the “Defenders of the youth,” is about: it strongly believes that being young complements being a politician and that what old people in position can do, young people can do better.

Scrutinising the legal framework behind the government’s actions reveals weird loopholes, so obvious but hidden in plain sight within complex letters of law. So cunning and so useful. The government has been using these lacunae as a shoulder to launch missiles of unwarranted and sudden changes in policy in the name of “public interest”.

An easy example is the Prime Minister’s avoidance of the parliament. Rule 56 of the House regulations requires the speaker to schedule the first hour of a House meeting in the first week of every month for lawmakers to question the Prime Minister. But what happens if he doesn’t show up? Not much. By the end of July, Shah had faced the House exactly once; the speaker directed him to attend only in August, and the Prime Minister was largely absent again as the session closed. The speaker, who comes from the ruling party itself, holds the power to regulate the whole conduct of the House, which gives the PM a stronghold even in the parliament.

New policies and new strategies are being made constantly, at the speed of a rocket, and it is hard to keep track because everything is happening all at once. The Post’s editorial board has called the first 100 days a populist course of “quick delivery at any cost”. The government cleverly used Article 114 of the Constitution, which allows the government to issue an ordinance when Parliament isn’t in session and immediate action is necessary. It summoned Parliament, prorogued it before it met and issued ordinances anyway. The government swiftly removed nearly 1,600 political appointees. Now, the gravity of this urgency? It’s open to interpretation. Depending upon the herd. Rather than removing these partisan positions once and for all, they only removed the public officials, leaving key posts vacant.

Side by side, the government also launched initiatives which successfully grabbed citizens’ attention. Such publicity stunts, though providing immediate relief, may have no long-term effect in relieving citizens of their problems once and for all. A parent would obviously care less about some ordinance if the government were providing scholarships to their children. A labourer would care less about the squatters’ human rights if being paid more. By analysing the requirement of a larger portion of citizens’ needs and temporarily fulfilling them, the government created a third herd, which can be called the “Clouded herd”. This herd remains loyal until its needs are satisfied, overlooks faulty actions or rationalises any decision, and its reality is clouded by the fulfilment of its needs.

The ultimate herd, the “Cult herd,” occupies a significant portion of the picture and includes those blindly devoted to what Prime Minister Balendra Shah, as an individual, does. It began with his successful election and his personality as a mayor; his tweets, posts and music started creating a wave of fandom that slowly seeped through youths on social media and then affected a large mass of people. Characterised by blind faith in what Shah does, this herd doesn’t withstand any argument about his actions.

Ministers say the ordinances serve public welfare, but a Kantipur investigation found only 38 of the government’s 100 commitments honoured by the 100-day mark. Speed is not the same as accountability.

Would this affect us? Yes. Should we do something about it? Yes. Understand and question, not see and observe. The sovereignty vested in us after many decades of struggle is what resulted in prioritising “public interest” within our law, and it is our duty to ensure the government doesn’t utilise it as “power interest”. The remedies are modest: a prime minister who answers the House, ordinances reserved for genuine urgency, and citizens who check a claim before sharing it.