Three days before the March 5 election, I left Hetauda and began a short but revealing journey toward the eastern plains and hills. My purpose was simple: to listen. Over the past few months, I had already been spending long hours in tea shops, buses, and college campuses talking with ordinary people. Those conversations had convinced me that public frustration with traditional political parties had reached an unusual level. Still, I wanted to see whether that sentiment was truly widespread or simply limited to a few urban circles and social media.

So I decided to travel—from the Madhes districts toward Jhapa—to hear directly from voters on the move. The journey began around 10 in the morning in a small tea shop in Hetauda. In front of the shop, a line of microbuses waited to depart, filled with passengers heading back to their home constituencies to vote. Elections in Nepal always bring this familiar movement—students, workers, and migrants returning home to cast their ballots. Curious about the mood, I asked one passenger a simple question: “Which party will you vote for?”

He answered without hesitation: “I will vote for the Ghanti.”

“Ghanti,” the Nepali word for bell, is the election symbol of the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP). Within minutes several others joined the conversation. One after another, they said the same thing—they were voting for “Ghanti.” Interestingly, many of them did not even know the name of the local candidate representing RSP. Their reasoning was straightforward: they wanted to see a new political force rise. For them, supporting the bell symbol represented change.

Some even spoke enthusiastically about wanting to see Kathmandu’s mayor, Balen Shah, take on a national leadership role someday. After spending some time there, I continued my journey toward the Madhes districts. Along the highway I stopped at several small tea shops—those familiar roadside gathering points where farmers, drivers, students, and shopkeepers debate everything from local politics to international affairs.

What struck me most during these conversations was not just the curiosity about a new party, but the depth of fatigue with the old ones. In district after district, people spoke about wanting to give someone new a chance. In Sarlahi, I met an 85-year-old man sitting quietly in a tea shop courtyard. When I asked about his voting preference, he smiled and said he would vote for the new party. “I have given many chances to the old parties,” he said calmly. “This time I want to give someone new an opportunity.”

His words captured a sentiment I had heard repeatedly during the journey—not simply anger, but exhaustion. Many voters were not necessarily hostile toward the traditional parties; they simply felt those parties had already been tested many times and had failed to deliver the change people had hoped for.

As my journey continued eastward, I eventually reached Jhapa. In Jhapa-5, I stopped at a small haircut salon. While waiting, I asked the barber about the local election atmosphere. He told me he was originally from Morang-3 and was preparing to travel there to vote. “Over the past two months,” he said, “almost everyone who came here said they would vote for the new party this time.”

A day before the election, I walked through several areas considered strongholds of traditional political parties. Normally such areas are filled with party flags and banners during campaign season. This time the visual landscape looked different. The flags of the Nepali Congress and CPN-UML were surprisingly rare. Instead, the bell symbol associated with RSP appeared frequently across houses, shops, and roadside poles.

It was difficult to determine whether this reflected stronger grassroots enthusiasm or simply more visible campaigning. But compared to previous elections, the difference was striking. During my stay in Jhapa-5, I also had the opportunity to share tea with several families. One particular conversation revealed a generational divide I had been noticing across the country. In a family of three—a father, mother, and a 21-year-old college student—the son passionately argued that the family should support the new political party. The father, a long-time supporter of UML, was hesitant to abandon the party he had supported for decades.

The mother eventually suggested a compromise: one vote for Balen and another for UML. Similar conversations seemed to be unfolding in many households. Younger voters were strongly pushing for new political alternatives, while older family members remained emotionally tied to the parties that had shaped Nepal’s political history.

In another home nearby, a father tried to persuade his daughter to remain loyal to the party he had supported all his life. She listened respectfully but appeared unconvinced. These quiet debates inside homes reflected something deeper: Nepal’s political loyalties were slowly shifting.

Throughout Jhapa I also met several committed party supporters of CPN-UML who openly expressed frustration with their own leadership. Some longtime party cadres complained about internal factionalism, leadership styles, and the growing distance between senior leaders and ordinary supporters.

By the end of the day, after nearly four hours of conversations across tea shops, homes, and small businesses, one impression stood out clearly: voters were eager for change, though not necessarily united behind a single political alternative. Later that evening, back at the hotel, the staff were packing their bags to return home to vote. I casually asked them about their preferences.

They laughed. “Dai, do you still have confusion?” one of them said. “Of course we are voting for the bell.” The next morning, before voting officially began, I visited a polling station near the hotel. Around nine o’clock, an energetic elderly man—well into his seventies—walked out after casting his ballot.

When I asked him about the atmosphere inside, he confidently replied that many voters there seemed to be choosing the bell symbol. Throughout the day I visited several polling stations. While it is impossible to know exactly how people vote inside the booth, the conversations outside suggested that many voters were reconsidering long-standing party loyalties.

The reasons behind this shift appeared consistent across districts. People repeatedly spoke about corruption scandals, dissatisfaction with governance, lack of job opportunities, and the painful reality of watching young people leave the country in search of work. Among these concerns, employment stood out as the most urgent.

At the same time, voters did not express blind trust in the new political actors either. What they demanded most was accountability—clear answers, transparent leadership, and tangible results rather than speeches. By the time I completed my journey from the Madhes districts to Jhapa, one conclusion seemed unavoidable: the psychological environment of this election felt different from previous ones.

Now the election results are out. As anticipated, the Rastriya Swatantra Party has secured nearly a two-thirds majority in the 275-member House of Representatives, and Balendra Shah is poised to become the next prime minister.

The conversations I heard along the road help explain why. Across tea shops, buses, salons, and family kitchens, people repeatedly spoke about their exhaustion with traditional political parties. Many felt those parties had dominated politics for decades but had failed to deliver the jobs, governance, and opportunities citizens expected.

Yet the mood was not defined by frustration alone. It was also filled with hope. People now expect the new government to control corruption, create employment, strengthen governance, and restore a sense of trust between citizens and the state.

Whether those expectations can be fulfilled remains to be seen. But one thing is already clear. Across the country—from the plains of the Madhes to the eastern towns of Jhapa—citizens are questioning old loyalties, debating politics more openly, and demanding greater accountability from those who seek to represent them.