Why Gyanendra Shah is in little hurry
By Sanjay Upadhya
Behind the boisterous demands for the restoration of Nepal’s monarchy, after the country’s elusive quest for newness, there exists a defiant wall of silence. Former king Gyanendra Shah’s apparent disinterest in growing public demonstrations in his favor remains baffling to loyalists and critics alike.
It shouldn’t, at least from that individual’s point of view. Prince Gyanendra Shah survived the still inexplicable royal palace massacre in 2001 only to be accused of masterminding it. As he unexpectedly ascended the throne a second time in half a century, Gyanendra confronted a country that was as unsure of its future as it was in 1950.
When King Tribhuvan led his family into Indian exile as part of the growing popular movement against the century-old hereditary Rana prime ministers, he had left behind his toddler grandson. Gyanendra did much more than occupy the throne.
Much remains murky about what transpired in New Delhi and Kathmandu over the four months between November 1950 and February 1951. Declassified files, mostly from Britain archives, suggest a hectic geostrategic power play between newly independent India and the Anglo-American West. Nepal ultimately maintained its independence and sovereignty amid fears of the Maoist juggernaut in China.
Bad optics
Gyanendra did not appear in the official dynastic succession annals, although the Ranas had organized an elaborate coronation. Over the years, he worked closely with his father, King Mahendra, and brother, King Birendra, as Nepal sought to consolidate its international identity through the Cold War’s chills. Most Nepalis, however, only saw him as a palace hardliner intent on preserving his extensive business interests.
That general impression only worsened with the waywardness of his only son, Paras, accused, among other things, of running over a popular singer/musician outside a Kathmandu bar. In the aftermath of the palace massacre, there was a ready fall guy as the sole surviving prince ended up becoming the prime beneficiary.
As the successor to his slain brother and nephew, Dipendra – the official heir apparent who was crowned briefly under a coma before his own death – King Gyanendra’s assertiveness instantly alienated mainstream politicians. The parties shrewdly deflected public attention from their own mismanagement to the new king’s purported hunger for absolute power.
After a growing Maoist insurgency prevented fresh elections to a legislature an elected prime minister dissolved – a decision the Supreme Court subsequently upheld – King Gyanendra confronted Nepal’s traditional machinations where political factions contended for partisan interests. Considering it the most prudent path, the king assumed total powers promising an elected government within three years.
The king evidently detected an opportunity for the palace to regain much of the power and influence it had lost in 1990, when a popular movement turned Nepal into a British-style constitutional monarchy. Still, the parties had provided him with that opportunity. Nepal’s crisis was real, and it was worsening. Ultimately, the very notion of the king serving as his own prime minister united the mainstream parties and the Maoist rebels against the monarchy, albeit not without overt external prodding.
King Gyanendra probably understood the risk he was taking. After all, he had never shown an interest in an official coronation for the history books. When the monarchy was abolished, and Nepal turned into a secular and federal republic in 2008, after another round of widespread protests two years earlier, Gyanendra surprised many by holding a press conference. He said he was handing over the crown to the people – its true custodians – before driving off to his private residence a few kilometers away.
When monarchs lose their crown, they invariably flee into exile, if they are fortunate to keep their heads. Gyanendra stayed in the country and soon began hectoring his successors to remain faithful to the people. This annoyed the politicians, but they eventually lost the credibility to criticize the ex-king. Instead of reopening an investigation to the palace massacre to prove their charge of the ex-monarch’s complicity – something that had contributed significantly to anti-palace public sentiments – politicians were busy establishing themselves as new potentates.
As Gyanendra began visiting India on trips that would soon acquire overt political connotations, the Chinese, too, were becoming less reticent about their contacts with the ex-monarch. Over the years, Gyanendra’s public comments, during key Hindu festivals and political anniversaries, became less tolerant of the prevailing political shenanigans. It was as if he was reminding the parties that had stepped out of the way because they promised they could do a better job running the country.
When public opinion began shifting palpably on the streets by mid-2020, many Nepalis expected Gyanendra to step into the national arena more assertively. Prominent royalists soon were left lamenting they could do little when the ex-king wasn’t terribly interested in restoring the monarchy.
Gyanendra is believed to tell his domestic and international interlocutors alike that only the Nepali people could restore the monarchy. His subtext: Nepalis needed to find a way to do that.
They haven’t – so far. The pro-monarchy camp is splitting hairs between terms like ‘royalist’ and ‘monarchist’, driven by a reluctance to be seen as advocates of a return to autocratic rule. Others seek the enthronement of Gyanendra’s grandson, Hridayendra, a teenager. Some want a ceremonial monarch, others a cultural king, that elected representatives would choose.
Clear distinction
Gyanendra is clutching on to a clear distinction between a republic and a monarchy. In the latter, others don’t get to choose who sits on the top. More importantly, in his view, is the question of why Nepal needed a monarchy again.
The clear premise would be that the country faces a vacuum. If so, would ‘cultural’, ‘ceremonial’ or any other nomenclature stand in the way of the monarch doing what he is supposed to: provide guardianship to the people and safeguard Nepal’s independent and sovereign identity above and beyond the elected representatives?
Gyanendra’s insistence on such clarity can be easily confused as nonchalance or, worse, disregard for the country. But, then, upon his second enthronement, he had repeatedly insisted that he would serve as a hands-on monarch because that was the kind Nepal needed.
The line between activism and apathy can be inconsistent amid Nepal’s enduring political and geopolitical fault lines. “The parties did not enthrone me, nor did the people dethrone me,” Gyanendra is reported to have said to recent visitors. Supporters may be in a hurry, but he seems confident enough to contend with the judgment of history.
