Nepali Congress is back at it again, celebrating its 44th memorial day for the late, great BP Koirala. It’s that annual time of the year when the party reminds us that if they hadn’t done their bit, we’d all still be bowing to royalty instead of bowing to inflation.
Here’s the catch: over 60% of today’s Nepali population wasn't even a thought in their parents' minds when BP passed away. The corporate narrative is simple: "BP was great, therefore Congress is great." But guys, you can’t keep flashing a receipt from the 1950s and expect us to feel guilty for not kissing the feet of every Congressi we pass on the street.
18 Months of Fame (And Almost Becoming Sikkim)
Let’s hit the history books—the pages the party brochures conveniently gloss over. BP was our first democratically elected Prime Minister, a gig that lasted a grand total of 18 months before he was booted out, paving the way for the ultimate political experiment: the Panchayat era. Back then, our borders were cozy with Indian soldiers, and Indian civil servants were comfortably nestled in our parliament. Honestly? If that lease had run for another year or two, we wouldn't be worrying about Lipulekh right now; we would have beaten Sikkim to the annexation punchline.
The Original Maobadis (Brought to you by Subarna Shamsher’s Wallet)
Let’s be real: Nepali Congress wouldn't even be a footnote in history if Subarna Shamsher Jung Bahadur Rana hadn't treated the party like his personal venture capital fund, bankrolling all their activities—both the noble and the downright sketchy. If you ask your 80-year-old grandfather (not your 60-year-old uncle who only remembers the good stuff), he’ll tell you that the ultimate 1950s curse was: "May Congress enter your house!" Long before the 90s hit, the Congressis were the original revolutionaries setting houses on fire. They just had a slightly lower body count and better branding.
Highjacking as a Career Choice
Remember when Congress hijacked a Royal Nepal Airlines aircraft? It was a glorious, cinematic moment—arguably the country’s first and last successful sky robbery, yielding millions of Rupees. But hey, let’s not use the "C-word" (criminals). In Nepal, if you shoot, loot, or hijack a plane in the name of politics, it’s called "freedom fighting" as long as you eventually win an election. You are only labeled a criminal if you lose. Success sanitizes everything!
Version 3.0: The Looting Spree Continued
When the 90s rolled around, Congress got another golden ticket. And boy, did they show their true colors. Having a majority meant one thing: an absolute all-you-can-eat buffet on government funds. Gagan Thapa keeps talking about "Congress Version 2.0," but let's be honest, we are well into Nepali Congress 3.0: The Malware Edition. They love talking about the blood, sweat, and sacrifices of their cadres to bring democracy, but they conveniently forget to mention how they happily empty our pockets every single time they get the keys to the state treasury.
The Koirala Family Tree: From Bollywood to VoIP Scams
BP was a visionary, sure. But the Koirala dynasty has had more comebacks than a bad movie franchise. Matrika, BP, Girija—we gave them all a spin, and what did we get? Well, Manisha Koirala gave us great Bollywood flicks (props to her). But then Sujata Koirala gave us VoIP scams, the Lauda Air scandal, and managed to turn her Bangladeshi son-in-law into a billionaire through the APC scam. Meanwhile, Girija Babu spent the 90s setting up the chaotic domino pieces of the political mess we are still tripping over today.
A 10% Chance of Survival (If They Fire the Goons)
Will the grand old party ever change its spots, or will it fade into oblivion like our fractured communist parties? Right now, Congress has about a 10% chance of surviving the New Age. The only way out of the grave is to dissolve the holy trinity that runs the party today: the mundrey gundas, the shady byaparis, and the bad jholey alliance.
The Ultimate Boss Fight: Themselves
If Nepali Congress genuinely wants a redemption arc, it needs to stop looking outward. The Ranas are gone. The Shah kings are chilling at the country club. The new enemy isn't across the aisle—it’s staring right back at them in the mirror. There is a faint glimmer of hope, but only if they pick up a broom, clean their own house, and kick out the corrupt cadres filling their coffers. If they don’t, mark your calendars: by 2036, this grand old party won't be in parliament; it'll be a museum exhibit.
Jai Nepal!