Cost Of Convenience

Navigating government offices in Nepal is less about understanding processes and more about finding the right middleman. From the tea seller outside the gate to the janitor mopping the floors, anyone could be an agent offering to “sort things out” for a fee. The system has become so entrenched that skipping the line and paying a fixer isn’t just an option, it’s often the only realistic way to get things done.

This network of middlemen is as deep-rooted as it is widespread. “Fifteen thousand rupees is the standard price,” says Jeevan (name changed), a tea seller operating near a government office. “By the time it goes through the authorities, I get just three thousand.” His words reveal the grim reality: most of the money flows up the chain, greasing palms at every level while the calmness in his voice shows how ridiculously easy it is. 

For those willing to pay, Rs. 20,000 is often the going rate to secure a driver’s license without going through the proper process. At the ground level, the individuals facilitating these deals take home just Rs. 3,000, while the rest flows upward, keeping the dysfunctional system alive and thriving for all the wrong reasons. The stakes are highest in the driver’s license department. Ideally, a license certifies that the holder has the skill to drive safely. In reality, Rs 15,000 can buy a license for anyone, regardless of whether they can tell the brake from the accelerator. This isn’t just bending the rules rather it’s playing with lives.

Kathmandu’s streets are a testament to chaos, with narrow roads, heavy traffic, and unpredictable conditions. For experienced drivers, every day feels like a battle. “It’s not just about driving carefully; it’s about keeping others safe, too,” says Sushant Giri, a seasoned rider. But that battle is becoming harder to win, with roads increasingly populated by drivers who got their licenses through backdoor deals.

 In 2023 alone, Nepal issued over 1.3 million driving licenses, according to the Department of Transport Management. How many of these licenses were earned through legitimate tests remains a mystery. This shortcut culture thrives because the official system feels deliberately broken. The government’s promise to introduce modern smart cards for driving licenses remains unfulfilled. Instead, citizens are handed flimsy paper licenses that feel like placeholders for something better. But that “something better” never arrives. “The paper is not just a license; it’s a reminder that we’re stuck in limbo,” says Joyal Joshi.

The delays are staggering, and the process painfully slow, unless you pay extra. Strangely, the system does speed up the process when the applicant is planning to travel abroad. Is this efficiency reserved for those going abroad, or is it simply another layer of dysfunction designed to keep middlemen in business? The rise of middlemen raises uncomfortable questions. Are underpaid government employees forced to rely on side hustles to make ends meet? Or is it the citizens, tired of waiting in endless queues, who willingly pay for shortcuts?

Paying a middleman for convenience might save time, but it corrodes the system from within, eroding trust and fairness. The cost of this culture isn’t just financial, it’s moral and, in many cases, fatal. Innocent people lose their lives to unqualified drivers. Public institutions lose credibility. Fixing this system will take more than superficial reforms or a salary hike for government employees. It demands transparency, accountability, and a cultural shift, one that refuses to tolerate shortcuts and demands better from both the government and the citizens. Until then, the shortcut culture will thrive, offering quick fixes at a cost Nepal cannot afford to keep paying.