KATHMANDU: Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) came to power carrying a deceptively simple political promise: choose people who know what they are doing. Its election slogan-“Choose those who know”-captured the public’s frustration with traditional parties and their familiar failures.

But four months into government, a curious problem has emerged. Some of the party’s lawmakers appear determined to demonstrate just how much they know. In the process, several have found themselves at the centre of controversy-not because of the policies they have proposed, but because of the way they speak to citizens, civil servants, contractors and other institutions.

Some have threatened questioners. Others have spoken of dragging officials out of offices or taking contractors to jail. One has suggested changing the name of the historic Singha Durbar. Another has invoked physical force against a contractor. A former senior police officer turned House of Representatives reprimanded a school principal for failing to greet him.

These incidents may look like isolated examples of political exuberance. Taken together, however, they suggest something more consequential: the early signs of a governing culture in which impatience with the state’s dysfunction risks becoming impatience with the rules that govern the state.

That is an uncomfortable development for a party whose central political proposition was that it would do politics differently.

The government’s honeymoon is already fading

The RSP government has been in office for only four months, yet some of its strongest criticism is coming from within its own parliamentary ranks rather than from the opposition.

The contrast between its campaign promises and the experience of government has become increasingly difficult to ignore.

During the election, the party promised “No Line, Only Online”-a neat encapsulation of its pledge to make public services faster, simpler and more digital. Yet Nepalis have recently been spending hours in queues to obtain cooking gas, sometimes returning home empty-handed.

The point is not merely that a government cannot solve every shortage within four months. It is that the distance between political messaging and administrative reality is beginning to show.

As criticism intensified within the party, Prime Minister Balendra Shah wrote on Facebook: “Sometimes you have to fight alone. This is not the first time.”

Manish Jha, an RSP lawmaker, responded with a pointed reminder: “No one is alone in a two-thirds government.”

The exchange was more than social-media sparring. It exposed a growing question inside the governing party: is the government struggling because the old state machinery is resisting change, or because the new political leadership has yet to learn how power actually works?

The minister who wanted results-too badly

Sunil Lamsal, infrastructure minister and member of the Prime Minister Shah core team has presented as part of his effort to rebuild the country.

During a field inspection in Dhading of the Nagdhunga-Muglin road project, Lamsal reportedly became angry after learning that electricity poles had not been removed on time. In front of the chief district officer, the superintendent of police and project officials, he said that contractors who failed to work should have their legs broken.

The frustration is understandable.

Nepal’s infrastructure projects are notorious for delays caused by poor coordination among government agencies, contractors and utilities. A minister demanding that work be completed on schedule is hardly controversial.

The language is.

Public officials are supposed to enforce contracts through contracts, regulations and law-not threats of physical punishment. The same minister also reportedly warned the company contracted to build the Butwal–Gorusinge road that it could be sent to jail for three months. There were reports that police were used to bring the contractor to the ministry and keep him there temporarily.

The distinction matters. A government can-and should-punish non-performing contractors where the law permits. But when political authority substitutes intimidation for due process, the problem ceases to be merely one of rhetoric. It becomes a question of the rule of law.

When Parliament starts sounding like a police station

Hari Dhakal, an RSP lawmaker elected from Chitwan-1 and chairman of the State Affairs and Good Governance Committee, has also become embroiled in controversy.

At a public programme, he suggested that Singha Durbar should instead have been called “Anamnagar Durbar”, arguing that Nepal does not have lions and therefore there was little reason for the name.

Singha Durbar is more than a government complex. It is a landmark of Nepal’s modern political history, and Dhakal’s comments predictably drew criticism. Even after the backlash, he defended his remarks by arguing that he had made them after studying the history.

The larger question is why such a debate should occupy political attention at all.

Nepal has no shortage of substantive questions: rising living costs, unemployment, corruption, weak public services and sluggish economic growth. For a government promising competence and reform, political capital is a scarce resource. Spending it on symbolic arguments over historical names looks less like disruption and more like distraction.

Another RSP lawmaker, KP Khanal, faced criticism during a discussion concerning Lamki Chuha Hospital in Kailali. Addressing a person who asked questions, Khanal reportedly pointed a finger and warned that he would have the person arrested if there was evidence.

An elected representative’s job is, among other things, to hear complaints. Citizens do not need to prove their innocence to a politician. Where allegations exist, they should be investigated by the appropriate authorities. A parliamentarian threatening citizens in a public forum reverses that relationship.

Anger may be justified. The language still matters.

Khagendra Sunar became controversial after the suspicious death of a young man in police custody in Sindhuli triggered protests demanding justice.

Sunar accused authorities of attempting to cover up the incident and protect those responsible. Speaking up for victims was entirely legitimate.

But he went further, saying that if justice were delayed, he would “drag the SP from here.”

The anger surrounding a death in custody is understandable. Indeed, public representatives should be among the first to demand accountability in such cases.

But democratic accountability is not strengthened when lawmakers threaten to take the law into their own hands. It is strengthened when they insist that investigations be independent, evidence be examined and those responsible be prosecuted through established procedures. The distinction is crucial: a representative can be fierce without being lawless.

The bulldozer mentality

Rajunath Pandey, an RSP lawmaker from Kathmandu-3 and former chief of the Kathmandu Metropolitan City’s municipal police, also found himself under scrutiny after arriving with a bulldozer during an effort to widen a road corridor near Gokarna.

A military captain on duty reportedly asked for an official letter or order authorising the work. Pandey responded that a military barracks was not more important than the people.

The sentiment is politically attractive. Public infrastructure should ultimately serve the public.

But institutions cannot operate on slogans alone. The video of the confrontation circulated widely on social media, showing the officer making a procedural request while Pandey appeared visibly more confrontational. The episode was followed by a meeting between Chief of the Army Staff and Prime Minister Shah, although details of their discussion were not made public.

Pandey later sought to soften the controversy, expressing respect for the Nepali Army and clarifying his position.

The episode nevertheless raised an important question: if an official order is required, does political authority have the right to bypass it simply because the intended project is popular?The answer in a constitutional democracy should be no.

Status is not a substitute for public service

Perhaps the clearest example came from Bishwaraj Pokhrel, a former deputy inspector general of Nepal Police who is now an RSP lawmaker.

During a village inspection, Pokhrel reportedly rebuked a school principal because the principal had not come outside to receive him. He reminded the principal that he was a former senior government official and the area’s elected representative.

The backlash was swift-even within his own party. Under pressure, Pokhrel issued a statement acknowledging that his conduct had hurt the dignity of the teacher and the school community and offered a written apology.

The episode exposed an old political reflex that the RSP was supposed to challenge: the idea that public office confers personal status.

It does not.

A parliamentarian is not entitled to ceremonial deference from a civil servant. If anything, elected representatives should be judged by how little personal privilege they expect from public institutions.

The appointment question

Then came Kavindra Burlakoti, an RSP lawmaker and former general secretary of the party.

Burlakoti said that when appointments were made to universities and other state institutions, the party’s longstanding members should receive preferential consideration-a “grace mark”, effectively placing them ahead of others.

That proposition sits awkwardly with one of the RSP’s own central commitments: depoliticising appointments to universities and government institutions.

Burlakoti later clarified that he had been referring not to government appointments but to the allocation of election tickets.

Yet media reports and fact-checkers subsequently published the original video of his remarks, after which the controversy largely spoke for itself.

For a party built on promises of institutional reform, this is arguably more serious than a careless remark.

It touches the architecture of the state.

If public appointments are to be based on political loyalty, the RSP would simply be reproducing the patronage system it once condemned. Changing the people at the top without changing the rules underneath would amount to political rotation, not institutional reform.

Seven names in four months-and perhaps counting

Seven names in four months is not, by itself, evidence of a systemic failure. Political parties contain individuals with different personalities, levels of discipline and political experience.

But patterns matter.

The controversies share a common feature: a willingness to use the authority of public office as a display of personal force.

That is precisely where the RSP faces its most important test.

The party did not win public support merely because its candidates were supposedly more knowledgeable. It won because millions of voters believed that a new generation of politicians could bring competence, accountability and institutional reform to a political system that had repeatedly disappointed them.

Knowledge is useful.

But democratic government requires something more difficult: restraint.

A minister can demand performance without threatening violence. A lawmaker can challenge a civil servant without humiliating him. A politician can defend a victim without threatening to become the investigator, prosecutor and enforcer. A representative can demand development without bypassing procedure. And a party can reward loyalty without turning public institutions into political property.

These are not signs of weakness. They are the mechanics of a functioning state.

The RSP’s challenge, therefore, is not simply to control the words of seven lawmakers. It is to decide what kind of political culture it wants to build.

The party’s supporters voted for people who “know better”.

Now they will judge whether those people also know where the limits of power lie.

And if lawmakers cannot learn that distinction, the question is no longer who will restrain them.

It is whether the party itself will.