There is a long-established ritual to Nepal’s annual policies and programmes: the President reads the government’s plans to a joint sitting of both houses of parliament, and the prime minister sits dutifully in attendance, escorting the head of state in and out and offering brief remarks. On Monday, May 11th, Prime Minister Balendra “Balen” Shah broke with this convention so conspicuously that it consumed the rest of the week’s political oxygen, even as his finance minister Dr Swarnim Wagle, was trying to build momentum for a genuinely ambitious budget.

President Ram Chandra Paudel had barely been reading for 50 minutes when Shah stood up and walked out. He had arrived in a black T-shirt, black coat and white sports shoes, an outfit that itself attracted commentary, and left without bidding farewell to the President or making the customary remarks when tabling the proposal of thanks. His office later attributed the departure to “health-related discomfort.” Opposition leaders were not persuaded. Nepali Congress parliamentary party leader Bhishma Raj Angdembe called the conduct “unprecedented,” adding: “Perhaps Nepal’s prime minister will now enter the Guinness World Records because no other prime minister in the world has walked out while his own government’s policies and programmes were being presented.” Former prime minister Pushpa Kamal Dahal urged the RSP not to “misuse its numerical strength” and instead strengthen democratic procedures.

Shah has actually not addressed the House of Representatives since taking office in late March, arguably the first prime minister in Nepal’s modern parliamentary history to have gone more than six weeks without doing so. He has also repeatedly declined invitations from the House’s State Affairs Committee. When opposition lawmakers demanded his presence for the ensuing debate on the policies and programmes, Wednesday’s session broke down entirely. A familiar cast of obstructors: Nepali Congress, CPN-UML, the Nepali Communist Party, Rastriya Prajatantra Party and others, stood in the Well demanding Shah appear in person. Harka Sampang of the Shram Sanskriti Party led the disruption and called for the prime minister’s resignation. The House could not proceed.

By Thursday, discussions on the policies and programmes had resumed in the House of Representatives in the prime minister’s continued absence, with 35 amendment proposals filed by opposition parties. Meanwhile, Finance Minister Wagle tabled the document in the National Assembly, the upper house, where the arithmetic is altogether different. The RSP commands close to two-thirds of the 275-seat lower house. In the 59-member National Assembly, it has not a single seat.

The upper house is elected through provincial assemblies and local governments on a staggered six-year cycle, meaning the RSP’s landslide in the March 5 general election has produced no representation there at all. This constitutional design intended to provide a counterweight to lower-house dominance is now doing exactly that. Eight ordinances that the Balen government had rushed through by proroguing parliament earlier in April must pass both houses to remain in force. The National Assembly registered amendment notices against several of them. CPN-UML announced it would not participate in the voting; Nepali Congress said it would reject anything that curtailed fundamental rights or violated the constitution’s spirit. Nonetheless, the policies and programmes themselves, unlike the controversial ordinances, passed the National Assembly on May 14th without a division vote, after all amendment proposals were defeated by voice.

The ordinance episode has already become a flashpoint. The RSP prorogued a scheduled parliamentary session in order to issue the eight ordinances covering cooperatives, procurement, universities, anti-money-laundering, the Constitutional Council and others, then convened parliament once they were already in place. Opposition parties across the spectrum called it “executive overreach.” The most contentious provision redefines “majority” in the Constitutional Council (which recommends key constitutional appointees) so that three of its six members, including the prime minister, can constitute a quorum. Critics say it concentrates appointment power in the executive, undermining the purpose of the council’s multi-party design.

Amidst the procedural drama, the substance of the government’s plans for fiscal year 2083/84 and the broader 100-point reform framework underpinning the upcoming budget deserves scrutiny on its own terms. The document is genuinely ambitious, and in places breaks from the boilerplate that has characterised its predecessors. Finance Minister Wagle has said the budget, due to be presented on Jestha 15, will be built around five themes: the “dividend of good governance,” economic restructuring, integrated infrastructure, expansion of the middle class, and leveraging Nepal’s “soft power” through tourism and the diaspora.

The policies document represents a coherent, if optimistic, vision of what a reform-minded single-party government with a youthful mandate could accomplish. The RSP is led predominantly by people under 40, and the agenda shows it, emphatic on digital transformation, instinctively distrustful of the old bureaucratic culture, and impatient with the coalition horse-trading that has defined Nepali politics for three decades. Finance Minister Wagle, an economist by training, has been the administration’s most effective public communicator: methodical, data-literate and willing to acknowledge the structural problems that previous governments preferred to paper over. His five-budget-themes framework is the most coherent pre-budget articulation in recent memory.

Yet the gap between intention and delivery is Nepal’s most durable political tradition. Capital expenditure ran at just 24 per cent of budget in the current fiscal year with two months remaining, a figure that has barely budged across administrations. Nepal has never spent the full capex allocation. The government’s 7 per cent annual growth target over the next decade looks particularly strained against a projected 2.3 per cent in the current year. Former government secretaries point out that Nepal’s governance challenges have rarely been a shortage of plans; they have been the entrenched bureaucracy, weak monitoring, and poor inter-ministry coordination that dilute even the best-designed reforms once they leave the prime minister’s office.

There is a seductive moral logic to the welfare state. Those who advocate for it are deemed compassionate, progressive, humane. Those who question it are branded heartless, enemies of the poor dressed in the language of economics. In Nepal, this framing has been deployed with particular effectiveness by the communist and socialist parties that have dominated government for much of the past decade.

The new finance minister, Swarnim Wagle, is an economist who understands the difference between appearing to help people and actually helping them. The question is whether he will have the political nerve to act on that distinction, or whether he too will succumb to the freebie temptation, wrapping fiscal recklessness in the language of solidarity.

Begin with the moral case, because the welfare state’s advocates always do. Expanding government benefits, they say, is an expression of collective goodness, evidence that Nepali society cares for its most vulnerable. But this claim dissolves the moment one examines how the welfare state actually works.

In a free society, a person who chooses to donate part of their income to a struggling neighbour, a temple, or a charitable cause is performing a genuinely moral act. The virtue lies in the choice. They could have spent that money on themselves. They didn’t. That voluntary sacrifice is the substance of real compassion.

Now consider what happens when the state steps in. A taxpayer does not choose to fund the government’s social programmes. He is compelled to. The tax collector does not ask; he demands. The citizen who objects cannot opt out. His money is taken regardless of his wishes, his values, or his own assessment of how it might better be used. The structure is identical to a thief who holds a gun to a wealthy man’s head, takes his money, and distributes it to the poor, then expects to be called compassionate. The destination of the money does not change the nature of the transaction.

Who, then, is being virtuous in this arrangement? Not the bureaucrat who processes the transfer. Not the politician who votes for the programme. Not the voter who elects him. Genuine goodness requires the freedom to say no. Strip that freedom away and what remains is not compassion. It is coercion dressed in welfare clothing. The communists who designed Nepal’s expanding entitlement system have confused the two, and the confusion is proving expensive.

The welfare state is not merely a moral confusion. It is, as a model of social organisation, a repeatedly documented failure. And Nepal’s political left has chosen to import it at precisely the wrong moment in the country’s development.

As governments have expanded their role as provider and guarantor, the size of those governments has grown and the inequities they were supposed to redress have stubbornly persisted or worsened. More public money spent on education has, in country after country, produced worse schools. More public money spent on housing assistance has produced more dependency. More money spent on support for vulnerable families has restructured incentives in ways that make those families more fragile rather than less. The programmes multiply; the problems they were designed to solve do not shrink.

Nepal’s communists have followed this script with depressing fidelity. Old-age allowances, single-women stipends, disability grants, ethnic minority transfers, each introduced with genuine humanitarian intent, each gradually expanding in coverage and cost, and each increasingly disconnected from any rigorous assessment of whether they are reaching those who need them. Now come proposals to make these benefits universal, to strip away means-testing entirely and spread them across the population regardless of need or circumstance.

This is not a progression toward fairness. It is the mathematical guarantee of ineffectiveness. A country with Nepal’s fiscal constraints, a tax-to-GDP ratio barely above 20%, chronic budget deficits, and deep dependence on foreign aid and remittances, cannot afford to give modest benefits to everyone. What it can do, if it is disciplined, is give meaningful support to those who genuinely cannot help themselves. Universality sacrifices that possibility on the altar of political optics.

Europe’s welfare states were not constructed by poor countries that decided redistribution should come before growth. They were assembled, slowly and at enormous cost, by societies that had already achieved high levels of productivity, institutional capacity, and tax compliance. Denmark, Sweden, and Germany built their social architectures on a foundation of industrialisation, strong property rights, functioning courts, and decades of capital accumulation. They became wealthy first. Then they redistributed.

Nepal’s GDP per capita is roughly $1,300. Its civil service cannot reliably deliver the services the government already promises. Its infrastructure is chronically underfunded. To graft a Nordic entitlement structure onto this base is not ambition. It is a category error, like fitting an expensive roof onto a house with no foundations.

There is a further demographic irony. Nepal’s demographic window, the period when its working-age population is proportionally at its largest, is open right now. This is exactly the wrong moment to begin diverting productive capacity into universal transfers. Every year spent expanding welfare rather than investing in education, infrastructure, and productive capacity is a year of squandered demographic dividend.

The people who will bear the heaviest cost of today’s populism have not yet voted. Some of them have not yet been born. This is the oldest and most reliable feature of fiscal irresponsibility: the costs fall on those with no voice in the decision. Universal benefits, once granted, are nearly impossible to withdraw politically. Every household receives them; every household votes. What begins as a modest stipend becomes, over time, a structural claim on the budget that crowds out the capital investment a developing economy desperately needs. Roads that would connect hill farmers to markets. Power lines that would allow small manufacturers to run machines. Schools that would give the next generation a reason to stay in Nepal rather than migrate to Qatar or Malaysia. The left calls this solidarity. A more honest word is mortgaging.

Mr Wagle did not enter public life to manage the slow fiscal deterioration of his country. He has the training to understand what is happening and the standing to say so clearly. He should demand rigorous means-testing for every existing benefit programme and publish transparent data on what each one costs per beneficiary actually lifted above a meaningful poverty threshold. He should resist, firmly and publicly, any move toward universalising transfers that the country’s budget cannot sustain. He should make the case, to the cabinet, to the parliament, to the public, that a government which tries to give something to everyone ends up giving nothing meaningful to anyone.

Above all, he should refuse the bargain that awaits every finance minister in a fragile coalition. Nepal has already made that bargain too many times. A welfare state is not evidence of a society’s compassion. It is, at best, a record of its intentions. What matters is whether those intentions translate into lives that are actually better, or whether they translate, as they so often do, into bureaucracies that grow, deficits that widen, and a next generation that inherits a poorer country than it deserved.

Mr Wagle has the knowledge to know the difference. Nepal is waiting to see if he has the nerve to act on it.

As a young economist in Washington in the early 2000s, Swarnim Wagle spent his days at the World Bank writing reports about countries that could not implement them. Nepal, the landlocked Himalayan republic where he was born, featured often in the footnotes. Its problems were well-documented: a tax base propped up by the remittances of young men working in Qatar, capital budgets that went unspent year after year, and an economy captured by a small circle of businessmen with better access to ministers than to markets. Mr Wagle knew the diagnosis. He is now, at last, in a position to attempt the cure.

On March 27th he was sworn in as finance minister in the government of Balen Shah, a rapper-turned-mayor whose Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) swept Nepal’s elections with 182 of 275 parliamentary seats, the largest majority in the country’s modern democratic history. Mr Wagle, the party’s vice-chair and intellectual architect, holds degrees from the London School of Economics, Harvard and the Australian National University. He spent 25 years at the World Bank and the UNDP’s Asia-Pacific bureau, where he shaped economic policy for 36 countries. He is also, unusually for a Nepali technocrat of his pedigree, a politician with a growing personal mandate. His majority in the Tanahun-1 constituency expanded from 15,000 votes in a 2023 by-election to nearly 22,000 in March.

The RSP’s central promise is to grow Nepal’s economy from below $45bn today to $100bn within five to seven years, sustained by annual growth of 7%. Mr Wagle is not the first Nepali finance minister to arrive with large numbers and good intentions. He may, however, be the first one who has read enough economic history to know why his predecessors failed.

His structural thesis is that Nepal need not follow the conventional path of industrialisation. Landlocked, seismically active and chronically short of the infrastructure that factories require, it should instead leapfrog into a knowledge- and service-driven economy, using digital transformation, fintech and eco-tourism to generate growth that geography cannot strangle. IT exports, currently negligible, are to reach $30bn within a decade. A target of 30,000 megawatts of hydropower is meant to shift the economy from remittance-funded consumption toward something that actually produces tradeable goods. Some 1.2m domestic jobs are to be created, enough to make emigration a choice rather than a condition of existence.

The diagnosis behind this agenda is accurate even if the ambition is steep. Bank deposits have swelled to nearly Rs 7.7 trillion, yet credit expansion remains anaemic and investment demand subdued. Capital is piling up in vaults rather than building anything. Capital expenditure has slipped to just Rs 63.7bn, a figure that reflects not a shortage of money but a chronic inability to deploy it. Nepal is not a poor country pretending to be rich. It is a reasonably-resourced country governed, for decades, as though the principal purpose of the state were to distribute its proceeds among those who ran it.

On his first day in office Mr Wagle announced the abolition of the Revenue Investigation Department, long regarded as an instrument of harassment rather than compliance, and committed to scrapping or amending fifteen separate acts on the recommendations of a high-level reform commission. He promised 100-day, semi-annual and annual action plans. It was the behaviour of a man who understands that in Nepal, where announcements routinely substitute for action, the only way to be believed is to move before anyone can organise against you.

Budgets, however, are intentions. Between Mr Wagle’s intentions and a $100bn economy stand three institutions whose leaders he cannot instruct and whose cooperation he cannot assume.

The most consequential is Nepal Rastra Bank, whose governor, Biswo Nath Poudel, a UC Berkeley-trained economist, took office last May. On arriving he pledged to align monetary policy with the government’s fiscal priorities while preserving the independence of the central bank. Those two commitments are compatible only up to a point. Mr Wagle’s growth agenda requires credit to move from deposits into investment; the governor’s mandate requires it not move so fast as to stoke inflation. The finance minister will need to build the kind of working relationship, through regular consultations and shared targets, that makes coordination possible without making the central bank look like a subsidiary of the treasury. That requires trust, which requires time, which Mr Wagle is acutely short of.

The second figure is Gunakar Bhatta, the newly appointed vice-chair of the National Planning Commission. Dr Bhatta spent fifteen years at Nepal Rastra Bank, rising to executive director, before resigning in the expectation of becoming governor, a post that was blocked by political manoeuvring under the previous government despite what he had been led to believe were firm assurances. He is, in short, a man of considerable ability who has been treated badly by the establishment he served, and who now sits at the apex of the institution responsible for sequencing Mr Wagle’s entire investment programme. Handled well, he is a validator with unmatched knowledge of Nepal’s financial architecture. Handled poorly, he is a vice-chair who files meticulous plans that nobody implements.

The complication is that Poudel and Bhatta are not strangers to each other’s professional shadow. The Nepali Congress originally backed Dr Bhatta for the governor’s post before the appointment eventually went to Poudel after weeks of coalition deadlock. Two accomplished economists, one of whom was passed over for the job the other now holds, are being asked to align their institutions behind the country’s most ambitious economic programme in a generation. Mr Wagle must ensure that coordination meeting does not become a cold room.

His published vision calls for a competitive social market economy built on rule of law, meritocracy and production-led growth. The language is unimpeachable. The Competition Promotion and Market Protection Act has existed since 2007 and has been enforced approximately never. The syndicates and cartels that his manifesto promises to dismantle are not abstractions; they are organisations with lawyers, lobbyists and, until recently, ministers of their own.

His 100-day plan will be the first real signal. If it sets measurable outcomes, credit-to-GDP targets, disbursement rates for capital spending, time-bound reforms to the investment climate, it will suggest that Mr Wagle intends to be judged by results. If it reads like the vision documents his predecessors produced, investors will draw their own conclusions.

Nepal has never lacked for economists who understood its problems. It has lacked politicians willing to make enemies in fixing them. Mr Wagle, for the first time in a long while, has both the intellectual tools and the parliamentary numbers. Whether he also has the stomach for it is what the next hundred days will begin to reveal.