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A farmer in Nepal can legally lose an entire season’s harvest to monkeys and receive little more than sympathy in return. Imagine any other sector of the economy functioning this way. If a factory lost half of its production due to repeated external damage, the government would intervene. If a road project was destroyed year after year, emergency funds would be allocated. Yet when farmers lose maize, wheat, vegetables, fruits, and even their willingness to continue farming because of monkey attacks, the response is often limited to temporary solutions and political promises.

This is not just a wildlife issue. It is an agricultural crisis, a rural development crisis, and ultimately a policy crisis. For years, Nepal has approached monkey conflicts as though the monkeys themselves were the problem. Consequently, discussions have revolved around sterilization, relocation, capture, and population control. These measures may satisfy public anger, but they do little to address the underlying drivers of conflict. In fact, after decades of similar interventions in different parts of South Asia, monkey-human conflicts continue to increase. This should force policymakers to ask a simple question: if controlling monkeys was the solution, why does the problem keep getting worse?

The answer lies not in monkey biology but in human decisions. Nepal’s hills are changing rapidly. Villages that once were filled with agricultural activities are becoming quieter each year as young people migrate abroad. Terraces that produced maize and millet now lie abandoned. Shrubs and secondary forests have reclaimed large areas of farmland. Forest cover has increased nationally, a development often celebrated as an environmental success. Yet beneath the positive statistics lies a neglected reality: much of this forest recovery has occurred without strategic land-use planning.

The result is a fragmented landscape where forests, abandoned fields, settlements, and crop lands are intertwined. Ecologists call such areas ‘edge habitats’, zones where wildlife and humans interact most intensely. Unfortunately, edge habitats are exactly where rhesus macaques grow.

From the monkey’s perspective, modern Nepal is a land of opportunity. Natural predators are virtually absent. Forest patches provide shelter. Nearby farms provide abundant food. Abandoned lands serve as safe movement corridors. In ecological terms, Nepal has unintentionally engineered ideal conditions for monkey populations to expand. We have spent years asking how monkeys became so bold. A more honest question is: how did we make it so easy for them?

This distinction is crucial because it determines whether policies succeed or fail. When governments focus solely on reducing monkey numbers, they are treating symptoms. When governments address the landscape conditions encouraging conflict, they are treating causes.

The most overlooked policy tool in Nepal today may therefore be ecological buffering. Unlike sterilization or relocation, ecological buffering does not seek to fight wildlife. Instead, it seeks to redesign the interface between wildlife habitat and human activities. The concept is based on a simple principle: conflict becomes inevitable when attractive crops begin exactly where forests end.

Across much of Nepal, there is no transition zone between monkey habitat and human food production. A troop emerging from a forest can move directly into a maize field within minutes. For an intelligent, opportunistic primate, this is the equivalent of finding a supermarket at the forest gate. Ecological buffering seeks to remove that invitation. Strategically planted belts of bamboo, medicinal plants, aromatic crops, fodder species, or other vegetation that monkeys find less attractive can be established between forests and agricultural land. Such buffers do not function as physical barriers. Rather, they function as ecological filters. They alter movement patterns, reduce crop visibility, and increase the energetic cost of reaching cultivated areas.

The science behind this approach is supported by decades of wildlife management experience. Around the world, successful conflict mitigation increasingly relies on habitat management rather than population eradication. Whether the challenge involves elephants in Africa, wild boars in Europe, or deer in North America, experts have learned a common lesson: wildlife populations are shaped by landscapes. If landscapes encourage conflict, conflict will occur regardless of how many animals are removed.

Nepal’s monkey problem is no exception. Yet ecological buffering alone will not solve the issue. The government must also confront a more uncomfortable reality: monkey conflict has become a symptom of rural neglect. Farmers are being asked to protect food production with little institutional support. Many spend hours guarding fields that generate increasingly uncertain returns. Some have already abandoned cultivation altogether. Every abandoned field represents not only an agricultural loss but also an invitation for further wildlife encroachment.

Therefore, monkey management must be integrated into national agricultural policy. Farmers in high-conflict zones should receive incentives to establish buffer crops. Local governments should incorporate wildlife-conflict mapping into land-use plans. Agricultural extension programs should identify crops that are economically viable yet less attractive to monkeys. Compensation mechanisms must become faster, more transparent, and more realistic.

Most importantly, responsibility for monkey conflict should not rest solely with forestry agencies. This is where Nepal’s current approach falls short. Monkey conflict sits at the intersection of forestry, veterinary, agriculture, local governance, biodiversity conservation, and rural livelihoods. It requires a cross-sectoral response rather than isolated interventions.

There is also a broader lesson here. Nepal’s monkey conflict illustrates a growing challenge of the twenty-first century, the collision between ecological success and policy failure. Forest recovery without land-use planning can create new conflicts. Wildlife conservation without agricultural protection can undermine rural livelihoods. Environmental policies cannot be judged solely by the number of trees planted or hectares reforested. They must also be judged by how well people and wildlife coexist within those landscapes.

The temptation will be to search for quick solutions. Sterilize more monkeys. Capture more monkeys. Move them elsewhere. Such measures generate headlines and create the appearance of action. However, the evidence from around the world suggests that lasting solutions rarely emerge from reacting to animals. They emerge from understanding systems.

The monkey raiding a farmer’s maize field is not the root of Nepal’s problem. It is the visible outcome of years of fragmented planning, unmanaged land-use change, and policy blind spots. In that sense, the monkey is not the villain of the story. It is the messenger. And unless policymakers listen to the message, Nepal may discover that controlling monkeys is far easier than controlling the consequences of ignoring the landscapes that created the conflict in the first place.

In recent years, the phrase “escape the matrix” has become one of the most influential ideas among young people on social media. Platforms such as TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube constantly promote content that portrays traditional 9–5 jobs as symbols of limitation, financial dependence, and ordinary living. At the same time, entrepreneurship, online businesses, and luxury lifestyles are presented as the ultimate forms of freedom and success. As this narrative spreads, many young people, especially students, begin questioning the value of education, professional careers, and structured employment. This raises an important and serious question; Is the 9–5 job truly a “matrix,” or are people becoming victims of algorithm driven perceptions created by social media? 

This debate is particularly relevant in Nepal, where the youth are heavily influenced by global internet culture while simultaneously living in a developing economy that still depends greatly on skilled professionals and organized employment.

The ‘human Life manga’ mentality

Modern internet culture increasingly resembles a “human life manga” which often translates as a storyline where every individual believes they must become extraordinary, wealthy, and completely different from society. In fictional stories and manga, protagonists often reject ordinary life and fight against systems to become exceptional. Social media has transformed this fantasy into a real life expectation.Young people are repeatedly exposed to messages such as “school teaches slavery, jobs are modern chains, if you work for someone else,  you will fail” and constantly portray that real freedom only comes from business.

Over time, ordinary and stable lives begin to appear meaningless compared to the glamorous and luxury lifestyles constantly displayed online. The algorithm rewards emotionally provocative content because controversy and dissatisfaction generate more engagement. As a result, many students begin comparing their real lives to highly edited internet realities.
The real issue is not the existence of jobs. The problem lies in the growing gap between reality and digital perception. Social media often presents success as instant wealth, luxury, influence, and financial freedom at a young age. However, real life success generally requires patience, education, consistency, discipline, and long term effort. This contrast creates frustration among young people who may feel behind in life simply because they are studying, preparing for exams, or considering stable careers. In Nepal, where unemployment and economic instability already exist, blindly rejecting structured employment can create further confusion among youth rather than empowerment.

For example, a  student spends hours watching online influencers who claim to earn large amounts of money through dropshipping, cryptocurrency, or content creation. Gradually, the student starts assuming that college is useless, jobs are slavery, and that he/she must become rich before 25. Without understanding the risks or realities behind such lifestyles, the student may lose focus on long term skill development and realistic career planning. This mindset is based more on perception than evidence. Many successful entrepreneurs first worked traditional jobs before building businesses. Doctors, engineers, lawyers, bankers, civil servants, and IT professionals often use their professional experience as a foundation for future success. Even globally recognized figures such as Steve Jobs, Elon Musk, and Jeff Bezos built their success through structured systems, teamwork, and gradual growth rather than instant freedom. The internet often edits out the years of struggle and uncertainty behind success stories.

Now a very serious concern arises, If every young person rejects jobs in the name of “escaping the matrix,” who will run the institutions that keep society functioning? Who will become teachers, doctors, judges, engineers, journalists, researchers, or civil servants? A society cannot survive only through influencers and online entrepreneurs. Every nation requires stable professionals who contribute through organized systems. Also, High school students are among the most affected groups of this conspiracy as they are in a stage where their identity is still developing, peer comparison is strong, career anxiety is high, and social media influence is extremely powerful. Many students now feel embarrassed about pursuing ordinary careers because internet culture glorifies only extreme wealth and unconventional lifestyles. This can lead to anxiety, confusion, unrealistic expectations, lack of focus, and fear of being average compared to others.
Now, supporters of this idea argue that  jobs limit freedom, employees spend their lives building someone else’s dream, salary growth is slow, and routine destroys creativity. They believe entrepreneurship creates independence, flexibility, financial freedom, and personal control. Their argument contains some truth because certain workplaces can indeed become mentally exhausting or exploitative, but others argue that jobs provide stability and security, and society functions because of professionals. Not everyone wants high risk lifestyles, and meaningful lives can still be built through employment. They also point out that entrepreneurship involves major risks, business success is uncertain, and many online success stories are exaggerated for content and engagement. This perspective emphasizes that dignity exists in all forms of honest work.

Therefore, Nepal does not need a generation that blindly rejects employment. Nepal needs skilled professionals, ethical entrepreneurs, innovative thinkers, competent civil servants, responsible lawyers, modern educators, and youth capable of balancing ambition with realism. The country’s biggest problems are not too many jobs. The real challenges are unemployment, brain drain, lack of industrial growth, limited innovation, and weak economic opportunities.

A developing nation cannot progress if its youth become disconnected from practical reality due to algorithm driven fantasies. Nepal needs both  entrepreneurship and employment, creativity and institutional stability and  ambition and responsibility.

Schools and colleges should teach students how social media algorithms influence thinking, comparison, and behavior and young people must learn that not everything viral reflects reality. Students should be introduced to diverse and realistic career paths, including law, business, public service, technology, research, freelancing, and entrepreneurship. Society should celebrate not only influencers and wealthy entrepreneurs but also teachers, scientists, honest officers, social workers, and professionals contributing quietly to society. Success does not need to follow one formula. A person can work a stable job, build side businesses, invest, create content, and still maintain financial and emotional stability.

Personally, I do not believe the 9–5 job itself is the “matrix.”The real matrix is the constant pressure created by social media that convinces young people they are failures unless they become rich, famous, or extraordinary at an early age. A job is simply a structure. Depending on how it is approached, it can either empower an individual or limit them. Similarly, entrepreneurship can create freedom for some people while creating stress and instability for others.The real goal should not be escaping work entirely. The real goal should be building a meaningful life with dignity, purpose, growth, and stability.

There is also an urgent need for public awareness regarding how algorithms shape career perceptions and self-worth among young people. Parents, schools, policymakers, and media platforms should openly discuss the psychological effects of comparison culture, unrealistic portrayals of success, and the value of balanced career development.Young people must be encouraged to think critically rather than emotionally reacting to online trends.

The traditional 9–5 job is not automatically a matrix.  For many people, it remains a source of dignity, stability, contribution, and growth. The greater danger lies in blindly consuming algorithm driven narratives that glorify unrealistic lifestyles while devaluing ordinary but meaningful work. Ultimately, success should not be defined solely by wealth, internet popularity, or unconventional careers. A truly successful life is one built with purpose, awareness, balance, and independent thinking.

In the heart of the federal capital, a young woman has been sitting in protest for 54 days. Her name is Deepa Nepali. She is a student, and all she is asking from the government is a place to live.

 Deepa came to Kathmandu with a simple dream: to study, to build a better future, and to make something of herself. She is like thousands of young people from across Nepal who come to the capital every year in search of education and opportunity. To do that, she needed a place to stay. She found a room, paid her rent, and was a quiet tenant.

Then, suddenly, one day her landlord asked her to leave. Deepa was shocked by the landlord's words. Everything had seemed fine; in fact, she had done nothing wrong. She was neither unable nor failing to pay her rent. The sole reason for her eviction was her caste and her surname, Nepali—a name that is still treated with untouchability by some in Nepal.

 In Nepal, caste-based discrimination has been illegal for years. The Caste-Based Discrimination and Untouchability (Offence and Punishment) Act of 2011 clearly states that no person can be denied access to a place, service, or opportunity on the basis of caste. Yet, the law and reality still walk on different roads for many people, especially for Dalit women like Deepa who face the double weight of caste and gender in their daily lives.

When her landlord forced her out of her room, Deepa did not stay silent. She did what any citizen is supposed to do—she went to court. The case against her landlord is currently being heard in the High Court. It is a brave step, and it is the right step. But the wheels of justice, as many Nepalis know too well, turn slowly. While her case sits in court waiting for a hearing date, Deepa has no room to sleep in, no safe place to study, and no guarantee of when things will be resolved. So, she came to Maitighar. Alongside her supporters, she stood under the open sky and held up cards carrying a simple, clear message of humanity. Day after day, she has returned. As of today, it has been 54 days.

Standing at Maitighar, a place that has long been a symbol of peaceful protest in Nepal, Deepa and those who stand with her are not asking for luxury. They are not asking for charity. They are asking for what every citizen of this country deserves: the right to live with dignity, and the right to not be turned away from a door because of the family they were born into. Their protest signs are simple and their words are peaceful, but their message is powerful.

The case has not gone completely unnoticed. Some members of parliament have raised Deepa's issue on the floor of the House. They have asked the government to pay attention, to act, and to stand by the laws that already exist on paper. These voices in parliament are important, but voices alone have not been enough. The government, so far, has not taken any concrete steps to address Deepa's situation. There has been no official response, no temporary living arrangement made, and no announcement of support for her. She remains outside.

The silence and muteness from the government is not just a failure toward one young woman. It is a discouraging signal to every Dalit student in Nepal who is trying to find a place to live—to every person who faces a landlord who looks at them and sees their caste before their humanity. When the state does not respond, it tells people that the law may be written, but it does not always reach them.

 Deepa's story is not rare. Across Nepal, Dalit students studying in cities continue to face quiet, systemic discrimination in the rental housing market. Many landlords simply refuse to rent rooms to Dalit tenants. Others provide rooms but create hostile conditions that make staying unbearable. Because many students fear losing their shelter, being without connections in a new city, or being left alone in a legal battle, they often stay silent and move on. Deepa chose not to move on.

 There is profound importance in that choice. Sitting in protest for 54 continuous days is exhausting. It takes immense physical endurance and emotional courage. It means missing classes, disrupting studies, and spending day after day under the open sky asking for something that should never have been taken away in the first place. Deepa is doing all of this while simultaneously fighting a legal battle in the High Court.

Nepal has committed, in its constitution and its laws, to building a country free from caste discrimination. The Constitution of 2015 guarantees the right to equality, the right against untouchability, and the right to live with dignity as fundamental rights. These are not just words written in a document—they are binding promises made to every citizen, including every Dalit student who comes to Kathmandu hoping for a better future.

The government must respond to Deepa Nepali's case—not next month, not after the next committee meeting, but now.

 It must ensure she has a safe and secure place to continue her studies. It must also send a clear, unequivocal message to landlords across the country that caste-based discrimination in housing is a crime and will be treated as one.

Deepa is still sitting at Maitighar. Her supporters are still holding their cards. The question is no longer just whether she will get a room. The question is whether this country will keep the promises it has made to its most marginalized citizens.

The last few weeks have been interesting for neighbours as close as India and Nepal. When the RSP government under Balendra Shah was sworn in late March 2026, there was an expectation that no baggage whatsoever from the last government would be carried forward, and that a new era would be ushered in, with ties between India and Nepal. The spirit of the same was highlighted in the Prime Minister of India's congratulatory call to Balen Shah and the tweet as well. Nevertheless, the legacy issues started developing as soon as the new government came to power, first as an order regimenting buying stuff from across the border in India. It was an old order, but it was reinforced strictly after Balen came to power. Then, as India and China agreed to start the pilgrimage through the Lipulekh Pass, Nepal objected and sent a diplomatic note. India's Foreign Secretary Vikram Misri was to arrive in Kathmandu to extend the invitation from PM Modi but the visit did not materialise as PM Shah has set up a protocol to not meet officials below the rank of minister, and his self-imposed ban was also taken with surprise in India. It must be noted that the Kalapani, Lipulekh, and Limpiyadhura are old disputes that surfaced after Mr Oli came to power in Kathmandu. Indian response has been so far calibrated and managed, and the Indian establishment understands that there can be populist rhetoric against it time and again, as the southern neighbours have been blamed for many issues in the past as well.

As the diplomatic deadlock was setting in, the arrival of RSP chief Rabi Lamichhane and the Foreign Minister Shishir Khanal in Delhi has changed the atmosphere and something positive can be expected in India-Nepal relations in the coming future. Delhi rolled out a red carpet that, both in its scale and arrangement, was the kind that is reserved for a visiting head of government and not for a party chief who had officially come in a personal capacity. Lamichhane sat with Prime Minister Modi for more than an hour, and went on to meet Jaishankar, the National Security Advisor Ajit Doval, Foreign Secretary Misri, Nitin Gadkari and the BJP president as well — a string of meetings that no RSP figure, and to be fair very few Nepali leaders, could have hoped to command so early in the life of a government. Khanal's leg, which was the formal government engagement, came within a few days and was built around the delegation-level talks with Jaishankar.

In terms of material capacity, however, both the visits delivered less than the warmth of the reception would suggest. Khanal's talks did produce an understanding to take forward the cross-border electronic payment arrangement between the two countries, along with the usual broad agenda of trade, connectivity, energy and people-to-people ties, but the heavier items — railway expansion, cooperation in education, transfer of technology — were spoken of in the language of agreements that are expected soon. The boundary question, it must be noted, was not formally taken up in Lamichhane's meetings at all, and when Khanal did touch upon it, he indicated that Nepal would look for a settlement through the existing bilateral mechanisms, which in effect was an acceptance of Delhi's old position of keeping any third party out of the matter. So the tangible balance sheet remained thin — one working deliverable, a basket of promises, and a standing invitation from Modi for PM Shah to visit India.

It is therefore in the area of optics that the two visits did their real work, and here the returns were quite considerable. Within a fortnight, a relationship that was being read as slowly drifting towards friction — built on the diplomatic note over Lipulekh and the reinforced order on cross-border purchases — was repackaged as a partnership of "development diplomacy". The reframing allowed Kathmandu to appear as the de-escalator rather than the agitator, and allowed Delhi to show that its Neighbourhood First policy could accommodate even a wholly new political force in Nepal. For the BJP, opening a party-to-party channel with the RSP — a party it had never before needed to court, having dealt for decades only with the Congress, the UML and the Maoists — was itself a hedge, an investment in whoever turns out to hold power in the next phase of Nepal's politics.

The more telling question is what Lamichhane's visit will produce within Nepal, and it would be a mistake to read his Delhi reception as an accidental overshadowing of the Prime Minister. Lamichhane heads the organisation, and a man in his position does not travel to Delhi without having worked out well in advance exactly what he wants the trip to say and to whom. The personal capacity label, the party-to-party invitation, the careful silence on Lipulekh, the language of development diplomacy — all of it was his calibration. He went as the chief of the party that holds the most powerful mandate in Nepal's recent history, and used that standing to open the channels that a government caught up in its early controversies could not open for itself. India, for its part, played the moment with sense and generosity, laying out avenues for both leaders rather than betting on one: the red carpet for Lamichhane and the formal table for Khanal were two ends of the same offer, a relationship rebuilt on what can be delivered — connectivity, energy, technology, payments — with the older quarrels over the boundary kept, for now, to the side.

The burden, therefore, now shifts squarely onto Balen Shah. Lamichhane has done the calibration and Delhi has cleared the ground; the call belongs to the Prime Minister, and it is here that the longer-term doubt sits. Shah's instinct, as the first weeks have shown — the reinforced order on cross-border purchases, the self-imposed protocol that derailed Misri's visit, the careless remark in Parliament conceding Nepal too had "encroached" on Indian land — runs towards the populist mandate. A mayor's style of governing by signal and instinct may serve the politics of the moment, but it does not always bode well for the patient, give-and-take work that a relationship with India demands over the long term. The party chief has played his hand about as well as it could be played, and India has kept its patience and opened the door; whether the window that 2026 has opened stays open will depend less on Delhi, and less on Rabi, than on whether Balen can govern the relationship with more discipline than he has so far shown the habit of.