The state should remain awake 24/7
Scene 1 At the Tankeshwar Bridge, Teku, in the sunny afternoon of March 22, 2026, a labourer clad in tatters—an ancient-looking waistcoat, a shirt not much different, a proud Nepali cap and pants—is fast asleep, resting his body on a support pillar of the bridge, holding namlo (a forehead band used for carrying loads) in his hand as vehicles of all sorts pass closely by, almost touching his feet. An accidental slip and the man would have a very slim chance of surviving the traffic that would, most probably, have no patience even for Yamraj, the death god, if he were to land in this sacred land from his necropolis by handing over his duties to his deputy, Chitragupta, for an hour or so. Just metres away, one of the most visible signs of the Nepali state is having a hard time ensuring a smooth movement on the road. The lone police officer whistles, gestures with his hands, shouts when necessary and literally wades through the choc-a-bloc section to ensure a ...