In a country that many outsiders might regard as ancient and unchanging, history is moving very quickly.
There is a new Constitution and a new national anthem. Citizenship rights have been conferred to millions of formerly disenfranchised Nepalese.
The very ground rules of nationhood are being rewritten here. In a sense, the Nepalese are making themselves into citizens of a nation rather than subjects of a king.
In fact, the monarchy itself is an open question. A special assembly is to be elected next year to decide whether Nepal needs a king at all.
It is difficult to overstate how radically and quickly the ground is shifting in Nepal since King Gyanendra gave up his absolute rule in April and returned the government to an elected parliament that was dismissed four years ago. Since then, government leaders and Maoist insurgents have been engaged in negotiations to end a decade-long civil war. The guns are quiet, but have not been put away. The rebels are slated to soon join the government.
More than that, the fundamentals of Nepali life are being reviewed. Under consideration now, for instance, is how many seats should be set aside in parliament for women or for Dalits -- those who were once referred to as "untouchables." The new Constitution is to determine whether Hinduism will remain the official state religion.
The so-called Madhesi ethnic group, which by some estimates represents as much as a third of Nepal's population of 29 million, has been granted citizenship rights for the first time in the 50-year history of independent Nepal.
The physical landscape, too, bears the signs of radical churning. In the heart of this capital, where the king's pronouncements used to be posted on tin billboards, there now hangs a banner, sponsored by a motor oil company, reminding commuters to fasten their seat belts.
And in a move on Saturday that would further strip Gyanendra of power, the rebels and the governing coalition approved the draft of an interim Constitution that gives the prime minister complete executive authority and leaves the king with none, government officials said. In the spring, the king lost many significant powers and command of the military.
Still, Nepal's leaders seem not to want to revisit one area, and that is the question of what to do about the brutality of the past 10 years of war.
The Maoist insurgency, with the king's crackdown, left a trail of human rights violations. An estimated 13,000 people were killed, primarily civilians. Scores disappeared, never to be found. Children were recruited to fight.
Mandira Sharma, who leads the Advocacy Forum, a nonprofit group that painstakingly documents rights infractions, wants prosecution of what she calls "gross" human-rights abuses over the past decade.
"Nepal's problem is the culture of impunity," she said.
The peace accord, which the government and the rebels signed last month, includes the establishment of a truth and reconciliation commission. Yet neither side seems ready to commit to putting people suspected of wrongdoing on trial.
"We will try to make reconciliation in the country -- only that much I can say," Home Minister Krishna Prasad Sitaula said recently in an interview. "Whether we will punish or not, I don't want to say. It will be too hurried to say now."
He promised that the commission, due to be appointed as soon as an interim government takes over, would investigate rights violations both large and small.
"If we think reconciliation will come from punishing someone," he went on, "then we will punish."
Baburam Bhattarai, the Maoists' second-in-command, issued a remarkably similar call: "First let the truth come out. Then we'll see."
He said he personally favored the notion of punishing those who had committed the worst offenses.
But he was swift to add: "We can't go for revenge. We have to go for reconciliation, for the sake of peace."
An early version of the peace accord included a high-level commission to investigate disappearances. That was dropped from the final agreement.
The UN high commissioner for human rights, while praising the idea of the commission, has pressed the new Nepalese government to start holding people accountable as well.
"The truth commission is a useful contribution to the peace-building process and should not be done in place of prosecutions," said Kieran Dwyer, a spokesman for the UN human rights office in Nepal. "It's a question of re-establishing the rule of law."
Why, wondered C.K. Lal, a columnist for the Nepali Times, should his compatriots worry about that now, when there has never been a collective accounting of human-rights abuses before? After all, he pointed out, in Nepal's deeply stratified society, an upper-caste villager could always exploit the child of a lower-caste family. Or during the pro-democracy movement of the 1980s, a man like himself could be arrested and held for having a banned newspaper in his bag. Would justice really help his country move forward?
"My heart says this has worked. Why not forget?" he said. "My mind says no, there's a better way. Maybe bigger crimes can be punished. Maybe then it will be better for my children. So I don't know, really."
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