Thomas Bell has described Kathmandu in one of his books as ‘the greatest city in the Himalayas’. Cultural practices that have long since disappeared elsewhere in South Asia persist here. Along with this praise for Kathmandu, Bell also offers another harsh assessment – ​​a ‘case study’ of hypocrisy, a model of failed democracy, botched intervention and environmental disaster.

After living in Nepal for more than a decade and describing its politics to the outside world, he came to understand Kathmandu not as a 'postcard' city, but as a complex, layered, contradictory and deeply revealing 'political organism'.

Bell's phrase 'paradigm of failed democracy' has resonated with us badly by now. It is not shouted from a podium. It is whispered in quiet conversations at squares, tea shops, party offices and other people who are constantly worried and concerned.

As the bitter cold of February begins to set in, Kathmandu slows down. And politics too settles into a familiar rhythm: less spectacle on the streets, more calculations behind closed doors. Cities across the country are often shrouded in fog for days on end. The sun is rarely visible . And, people are looking for warmth .

In Kathmandu, politicians do the same . They gather in warm rooms, reassure each other and seek the minimum warmth necessary to maintain morale . However, despite the many gatherings, the nature of politics remains cold . Bodies are warm, alliances are temporary, and trust is rare . The cold outside may have passed, but the cold inside politics shows no sign of receding .

Pus always carries a hidden political meaning in Nepal . By this time, the crops have been harvested, the festivals are over . The cold has sapped both resources and patience . Symbolically, it is a difficult month . Promises made at the beginning of the year demand implementation . The gap between rhetoric and reality can be difficult to bridge . The streets of Kathmandu are quiet, but the rooms where power is exercised hardly get cold! Many important political decisions in Nepal have a history of taking shape in such silent moments of winter, not in public turmoil.

This silent tension has weighed heavily on the Nepali Congress this winter.

There is no particular enthusiasm in this oldest party at the moment. The factions have frozen, not getting closer to each other, but rather walking at a deliberate distance from each other. The elders want to work within a narrow scope of thought, considering long-term validity and only continuity as relevance. Their tendency is not to innovate, but to survive. Preserving their existence is everything to them, even if the purpose for this is not to be sacrificed!

The Congress party has its own clear constitution. Which specifies what to do and what not to do. The special general convention is not a favor done by the leadership, it is a provision of the constitution. It is the right of the members. Therefore, the current debate is not about legitimacy, but about intention. At this time, the trust of the common people in the party has been shaken. There is a lot of restlessness among the cadres. Questions are constantly being raised about the relevance of the leadership. Despite all this, it is ironic that the leadership has come to such a strong resistance to the special general convention.

The respected Pradeep Giri can be an instructive moral reference here. Giri has always disagreed with the inertia hidden under the cover of stability. His understanding was that parties do not fail when they lose elections, but rather rot when they stop debating honestly with themselves. For him, internal democracy is not just a process, but a source of political vitality. Special general conventions are opportunities for reform, not a threat. It is an opportunity to reconnect ideology with reality, leadership with legitimacy.

Here it is appropriate to remember why the Nepali Congress split in 2059 BS. It was not just a clash of personalities. Dissent was suppressed there and decisions were postponed in the name of unity and time. The result of the hesitation was division. Pradeep Giri himself played a role in shaping that disagreement. It may have been sad to separate, but he understood that it should be accepted for a happy outcome with democratic objectives. Many of those opposing the special general convention today had once made their political heights by speaking the language of internal disagreement and reform. And, they had even become the cause of division. This interesting issue cannot be ignored at this time.

If it is argued that special congresses lead to division, they should be asked honestly whether imposing unity without renewal is any less dangerous. History tells us that parties that refuse internal reform often end up badly fragmented.

There are many examples in world history of this. Britain's Labour Party emerged from its long decline by confronting the old leadership rather than preserving it. Germany's Social Democrats rose again after a humiliating electoral defeat by accepting a generational transition. In South Africa, the ANC's decline accelerated when negotiation skills replaced new leadership. Parties that survive by managing internal bargaining lose their ability to inspire. Those that choose renewal at the cost of discomfort become bright lights in bad times.

Today, the Nepali Congress is also standing in a similar middle ground. If separation becomes inevitable, the generation that wants change will not have left the party. They are the ones who are pushed out due to inertia. If this happens, the party may survive as an organization, but it may lose its historical role as a democratic trust. Over time, this will definitely weaken not only the Congress Party, but the republic as a whole.

The resistance to the special general convention seems to have come from a well-known psychological pattern. Political psychology offers a general explanation that the old leadership groups have often prioritized damage prevention over renewal. They fear uncertainty more than irrelevance. The general convention brings change, challenges the hierarchy, and redistributes power. Therefore, the leadership that has survived for decades by negotiating instead of competing may find the special general convention a weapon to destabilize.

Many senior leaders are urgently raising the threat of division in the party and weakening the election campaign if a special general convention is held before the federal elections. But the irony is that refusing a special general convention now seems to be more likely to cause more damage. Because a political party that enters the election without internal clarity always looks confused outside. Voters feel this clearly. In this situation, workers become inactive. Energy is wasted. Stability without legitimacy cannot convince anyone.

The role of Congress General Secretary Gagan Thapa cannot be ignored here. Whatever one may think about his politics, it cannot be denied that he made the party politically visible at a time when street politics began to reflect generational fatigue rather than ideological debate. The Gen-G opposition, which was less driven by principles and more by the failures of power, could easily have ignored the Congress altogether. But Gagan’s presence, his thoughtful expressions and his commitment to reform helped build at least a bridge between institutional politics and generational resentment. One that was not complete, but important.

Gagan did not build that time, he replied. In doing so, he reminded the party that staying in modern politics does not mean waiting for voters to return out of habit, but rather walking halfway towards them with honesty and reform.

Therefore, the argument for a special convention is not weak, but rather firmly established. Delaying reform is rejecting reform. A convention before elections does not weaken the party, it gives clarity. It signals thoughtfulness. It acknowledges generational change. It restores internal legitimacy. Only parties that are internally renewed are able to show their wisdom externally and can confidently launch their election campaigns.

In this sense, Pus is not limited to a month on the calendar for us. It is a test of winter. It is a political image. It reveals comfortable areas. It rewards those who are ready to deal with discomfort, not those who avoid it. Kathmandu has already seen this. In 2017, the decisive step of the then King Mahendra matured in silence before it exploded publicly. The major negotiations before the democratic transition took place in cold rooms, not in the warm sun. In this city, political destinies are often decided when the streets are deserted and the wind is strong.

This winter alone may not decide everything. But it will definitely decide something. For the Nepali Congress, this month will determine whether it chooses innovation over hesitation, courage over calculation. For Kathmandu, it will once again show whether the city remains a ‘paradigm of failed democracy’ or a place where decisions taken silently still have the power to change direction.