On Threshold Of Power

Close to the entrance of the historic Hanumandhoka Durbar Square, Nrisimha has already dealt with Hiranyakashyap. According to legend, Hiranyakashyap wrested a boon from Brahma (the creator) after intense tapasya to avenge the slaying of his brother Hiranyaksha by Vishnu (the preserver) during his Varah (boar) avatar, rendering him almost invincible: he could not be killed by any being created by Brahma—neither by day nor by night, neither indoors nor outdoors, neither on land nor in the sky, nor by any weapon.

As the Daitya king, powered by that boon, unleashed a reign of terror, Vishnu intervened, taking the form of Nrisimha—the man-lion—to restore cosmic balance. The brilliance of this intervention—slaying Hiranyakashyap at twilight, on a threshold, with bare claws—finds vivid expression in a stone sculpture at the entrance. It is not merely a relic of faith, but a lesson in the calibrated use of power—even against an implacable foe.

In retrospect, dealing with forces inimical to Nepal—a shadow of its former self—is no mean feat.  Nepal’s young, largely untested political leadership—born of protest and its brutal suppression on September 8-9, 2025—would do well to heed this lesson in statecraft: power demands not brute force alone, but intelligence, timing and restraint. Close by, the horse of Taleju Bhawani is a creature of his own free will. 

A little ahead lies a striking image: a reclining Vishnu upon Sheshnag, adrift in a drying pond. Scriptures describe Vishnu resting in the ocean brimming with water—kshirsagar—with Sheshnag as bed and canopy, and Lakshmi by his side.

From the mythic kshirsagar to a trickling pond in an urban sprawl—the decline is not merelyecological but civilisational. My companion informs me that modern construction—an intrusive shopping complex—has blocked the underground channels that once nourished this site, leaving heritage dry and divinity thirsty.

Within one of the palace chambers, legend has it, divinity once played pasa with royalty in medieval secrecy. 

Jayaprakash Malla, a devoted follower of Taleju, was granted a rare boon: the goddess would visit him at night, in mortal form, to play—and to counsel him in matters of governance. For a time, the arrangement held, offering the king both counsel and divine company. Even in those days, walls had ears. Today, they have eyes too. Time wounds all heels—and it did not deal kindly with the Malla king. One fateful night, the king failed to play his cards close to his chest—with disastrous consequences. 

The goddess appeared in her full splendour, and the king could not restrain his gaze. Worse still, he had forgotten to bolt the door. The queen witnessed the scene, and chaos ensued. Sensing impropriety and disrespect, the goddess vanished, leaving behind a curse that had a key role in shaping the destiny of modern Nepal: she would never return—and the king would soon lose his kingdom.

In 1768, the kingdom of Kantipur fell to Prithvinarayan Shah, the king of Gorkha, on a campaign to reunify Nepal at the peak of British expansionism. Much has changed since. Regimes have changed—from monarchy to republic—but the habits of power have proved stubborn. History suggests that rulers did not fall for lack of power, but for failing to bridle it. The lesson endures—in stone, in silence, and in the fate of those who ignore it. Nepal’s current crop of rulers would do well to read the writing on the wall.