Nepal was the first foreign country I ever visited. It may sound trivial today, when low-cost airlines and passport stamps have become commonplace, but in the 1970s and '80s, stepping outside India carried a certain aura.

The journey itself was modest—by car from Patna to Raxaul, a small border town in Bihar in East Champaran district. Yet crossing that invisible line into the Himalayan kingdom gave me a sense of discovery, a feeling that I was entering a different world, though less than a kilometre separated it from the land I knew so well.

Raxaul was unremarkable in appearance, dusty and bustling, but it stood at a crossroads of stories. Traders, pilgrims, and political exiles all passed through it. For me, the purpose of the trip was neither commerce nor politics, but a hospital built out of compassion and vision—the Little Flower Hospital.

The institution owes its existence to Brother Christudas, a former member of the Missionaries of Charity, founded by Mother Teresa, aka Saint Teresa of Kolkata. During his travels in the area, he had come across leprosy patients wandering the streets, their fingers twisted, their faces scarred, their lives reduced to begging. Families had abandoned them, villages had expelled them, and society treated them as cursed.

In those days, leprosy was not seen as a medical condition but as divine punishment. Patients were condemned not just by bacteria but by stigma. They clustered at street corners, stretching out what remained of their hands for alms, surviving on scraps. For townspeople, they were a nuisance; for Brother Christudas, they were children of God.

He did what few would have dared: he gathered them and took them to the margins of the map, a no man's land on the banks of a small river marking the border between India and Nepal. There, he built a community. What began as a humble shelter grew into the Little Flower Hospital, a sanctuary that provided treatment, food, and dignity.

But the true genius of his mission lay in his vision for the next generation. He refused to let the children of patients inherit their parents' stigma. Many were sent to respected schools in Bettiah and Patna. Education opened doors that society had tried to slam shut. To the patients, he became not just a brother but a father, affectionately called "Baba."

I once wrote a middle in The Tribune about a girl from this colony who had secured admission to the London School of Economics. It was Baba, also known as Kunjachan, who introduced her to me during one of my visits. Some years later, I wrote about a boy I had seen caring tenderly for his parents, a young man who has since gone on to practise law in a High Court in southern India.

Staying with him was an unforgettable experience. I saw faith translated into action, compassion reshaping lives. The lesson was clear: dignity is not bestowed by wealth or status, but by recognising humanity where others refuse to see it.

In the evening, I wandered to the riverbank. I recall vividly the sight of men carrying enormous bundles on their heads as they waded through the shallow water into India. Their burden was not grain or cloth but portable Japanese generators—luxury goods in India, where import restrictions made such items scarce. Once across, their price doubled or tripled. It was an open secret; customs officials looked the other way.

The following day, I crossed a small bridge into Birganj, Nepal's bustling frontier town. Its markets were alive with the colour of foreign goods: chiffon saris from Japan, foldable umbrellas, plastic toys from China, and synthetic fabrics of every hue. Indian shoppers thronged the streets, delighted to find what their own bazaars could not offer. I bought a simple camera bag, hardly a treasure, but I cherished it as a symbol of that crossing.

At a modest eatery, I paid my bill in Indian rupees, only to be handed change in Nepalese currency. I realised, with quiet pride, that the Indian rupee carried more weight there. For a young visitor, it was a small but telling reminder of how nations are perceived through their currencies.

But alongside these discoveries came a darker picture. By evening, groups of young men staggered through the streets, glassy-eyed with drink. Until then, I had believed Kerala was India's capital of alcohol consumption, but here was proof that Nepal had its own dubious distinction. Addiction, I was told, was rampant.

Nepal then was a monarchy, the only officially Hindu kingdom in the world. The royal family enjoyed divine status, its rituals woven into the religious fabric of the land.

I once visited the famous Rameswaram temple in Tamil Nadu, whose corridors are reportedly the longest in the world. Its priest was a friend of former President APJ Abdul Kalam's father, as mentioned in his autobiography. A temple official informed me about the temple's special connection to Nepal's royal household. According to tradition, the queen would be summoned in a dream to journey south, bathe in the temple's eight wells, and perform worship. On such occasions, the entire temple would be closed to the public.

The pomp of the monarchy contrasted sharply with the poverty of the people. On indices such as literacy, life expectancy, health, maternal mortality, and child survival, Nepal languished at the bottom. While the palace gleamed with chandeliers and jewels, villagers struggled to feed their children.

Despite its isolation, Nepal's politics were never far from India's reach. Leaders in trouble often sought refuge across the border. Jayaprakash Narayan's friendship with the Koirala family gave him unusual sway in Kathmandu. Many elite Nepali families sent their children to Indian universities, forging networks that would later influence politics.

Arundhati Roy, in her memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me, published last month, recalls her college roommate, Hisila Yami, who, with her husband Baburam Bhattarai, would later lead a Maoist insurgency. Years underground as guerrilla leaders ended with Baburam becoming Nepal's first communist prime minister and Hisila a cabinet minister.

The monarchy, however, was shaken to its core in June 2001. Crown Prince Dipendra, allegedly drunk and enraged over his parents' refusal to approve his choice of bride, opened fire during a family gathering in the palace. King Birendra, Queen Aishwarya, and several relatives were killed. Dipendra, mortally wounded, was briefly declared king before dying in a coma.

The official explanation pointed to a family quarrel, but suspicions of conspiracy swirled. Many Nepalis believed darker forces were at play. Whatever the truth, the massacre shattered the monarchy's mystique. The palace no longer seemed a sanctuary of divine order but a theatre of blood and betrayal.

When I visited Kathmandu in April 2020, I had a strong urge to see the palace, but that was not to be. All I managed was a photograph of its gate taken from a distance. The palace itself sprawls across a vast tract of land in the heart of the capital.

By the time the massacre happened, discontent had already been spreading. In 1996, the Maoists launched what they called the "People's War." Their aim was nothing less than the dismantling of the monarchy and the creation of a people's republic. Villages became their strongholds; peasants, long neglected by the state, offered them shelter. Government forces branded them terrorists, but to the poor, they represented hope.

The conflict raged for a decade, claiming over 17,000 lives. It was brutal—massacres, abductions, and bombings scarred the countryside. Yet, the rebels steadily gained ground. By the mid-2000s, it was clear that they could not be ignored.

In 2006, a people's movement forced King Gyanendra to relinquish absolute power. Two years later, the monarchy was formally abolished. Nepal was reborn as a federal democratic republic. For the first time, sovereignty lay with the people, not a palace.

The fall of the monarchy was celebrated as a new dawn. The Maoists entered mainstream politics, a new constitution was drafted, and elections were held. But the promise soon soured. Governments fell one after another—14 in less than two decades. Parties split, leaders quarrelled, and corruption deepened.

Ordinary Nepalis began to wonder whether the republic was any better than the kingdom. For many, the answer seemed no.

The frustration boiled over this week. The immediate trigger was almost trivial: a government order banning 26 social media platforms, including Facebook, WhatsApp, and Instagram. The official reason was failure to register under the new rules. To young Nepalis, it was a form of censorship. Social media had become their outlet to criticise leaders and mock the lifestyles of politicians' children—foreign degrees, luxury holidays, designer clothes.

When the platforms went dark, anger erupted. On September 8th, security forces opened fire on demonstrators, killing 19. The next day, Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli resigned, but his exit did not calm the fury.

Kathmandu burned. Parliament and ministries were torched. Politicians were beaten in the streets. Prisons were stormed, and thousands of inmates fled. Even the families of leaders were targeted; a former prime minister's wife was badly injured in an arson attack.

The army imposed curfews and promised order. But the message was unmistakable: a generation had lost patience with a political class it saw as corrupt, entitled, and indifferent.

The uprising has been christened the "Gen-Z movement." Its ranks are filled with students, graduates, and unemployed youth. They distance themselves from the looting, blaming infiltrators. Their demand is clear: a caretaker administration free of the old guard. One name that has been floated is Sushila Karki, a former chief justice who was seen among the protesters. Her presence lent moral authority to the movement.

Yet the established parties resist exclusion, while a small group nostalgically calls for the monarchy's return. The debate reflects a country torn between past, present, and future.

Nepal's turmoil reverberates across borders. India, bound by geography and culture, cannot ignore instability. Prime Minister Narendra Modi convened his security council and closed the frontier, disrupting the lives of millions who depend on the open border.

China, too, has interests. Through its Belt and Road projects, it has invested heavily in Nepal's infrastructure. Beijing also keeps a close watch on the Tibetan refugees who live there. Oli, seen as leaning towards China, had already unsettled India. The crisis now forces both powers to recalibrate their strategies.

Nepal's upheaval mirrors a regional wave. In Bangladesh, students toppled Sheikh Hasina last year. In Sri Lanka, the Rajapaksa dynasty fell in 2022 amid economic collapse. Across South Asia, young people are challenging entrenched elites, rejecting corruption, dynastic politics, and empty promises.

From the leprosy patients on the riverbank at Raxaul to the young martyrs of Kathmandu, Nepal's story has been one of suffering and resilience. It has shed a monarchy, endured a civil war, and embraced republicanism. Yet the dream of dignity and equality remains elusive.

Today, Nepal stands at a crossroads again. Will it seize this moment to reform its politics, empower its youth, and build lasting institutions? Or will it relapse into corruption, nostalgia, and instability? For Nepal's 30 million people, weary of false dawns, the answer cannot be delayed.