I cannot make it
Wealth in Kathmandu is no longer flaunted through family connections, inherited titles or one’s place of origin alone. It is now signalled through leisurely brunches over white wine at Bagaichā, where your child goes to school, which supermarket you complain about the avocados in and the suspiciously frequent “business trips” to Bangkok, where the only spreadsheet reviewed is the spa’s menu. To be rich is good. But to look rich is a performance art. Consider this your survival guide to manoeuvring Kathmandu’s high society.
Start with fashion. The old-money uniform favours understated elegance: men in crisp Savile Row shirts, smaller watches (think Cartier) that sit neatly on the wrist and loafers that look gently worn (laces, even on high-end shoes, suggest work). With good clothes, a cheap Casio can be an even bigger flex (think billionaires and American presidents): because nothing screams “I’m so rich, I don’t even need to try” like a watch that costs less than your morning coffee. A pair of Tod’s loafers under a daura suruwal at a diplomatic reception speaks louder than a Gucci belt in LOD. Women in Raw Mango sarees, heirloom emeralds and an air of effortless indifference. Even better if your kurta was tailored by someone with an exclusive client list in Babar Mahal. Hair thick and glossy; skin well-nourished. Fabric quality, too, is an important marker when sizing up others’ fortune. New money, by contrast, revels in Balenciaga hoodies, oversized Prada sunglasses, chunky watches and a passion for anything name-droppable: “This? Just picked it up in Dubai last week.” The louder the logo, the quieter the bank balance. The middle-ground flex is Lululemon tights while shopping at Labim, a statement handbag from Louis Vuitton and locally made jewellery but only if sold at The Local Project.
Transportation, naturally, is next. In a city where traffic jams outlast governments, your car is more than a mode of transport: it is an extension of your identity. The starter-pack rich cruise in Hyundai Tucsons and white Jeep Compasses with black rims and tinted windows: all mystery and mild aggression. Aspiring magnates level up to a Range Rover Vogue or Deepal, which is required to be parked diagonally across two spots at Bhat-Bhateni while its owner pretends not to hear the security’s whistle. Electric cars meanwhile are the new symbol of conscious affluence. Nothing says “I have some money and values” quite like a Tata Nexon EV that never ventures outside Ring Road. After all, saving the planet does not mean risking road wrecks. If you are in an old Suzuki, you are a commuter. If you are gliding over potholes in a Prado with white plates, you are connected. Legacy money, however, rides in a beat-up Land Cruiser with diplomatic plates and a faded sticker from a now-defunct INGO. It does not run that well. Then again, neither do most national institutions, and they still command respect.
Still, cars are only half the performance. The real display unfolds on Instagram, the capital’s digital party. Done right, it is where you prove your net worth. Casual opulence looks like champagne indulgences at The Chimney Restaurant, captioned “Grateful ”, and mirror selfies in a Hilton bathroom. The travel tease: a “quick break” in Istanbul, where you just happen to be seated in business class. A shot of you reading The Economist in the Tribhuvan Airport lounge? Chef’s kiss. A moody black-and-white post of your father beside King Birendra, captioned “Legacy”. Avoid overusing reels of a Hermès bag unless you are in Paris. Otherwise, it shouts: imported aisle at Bhat-Bhateni.
But the stage on which wealth is most extravagantly performed is still the wedding. In Kathmandu weddings are less about love and more about large-scale theatrical productions with budgets that rival flop films. The Hyatt is a safe venue, but if you are rich-rich, you rent out Gokarna Forest Resort, get married under a Swarovski chandelier. Attire must be Sabyasachi, head to toe. Tip: the bride’s lehenga should weigh more than the average scooter. Photography demands drone shots, slow-motion sindoor moments and a teaser video longer than The Godfather titled “Eternal Vows | Sujal Weds Kritika | A Cinematic Love Story”. Guests should leave with confusion, indigestion and existential crises about their own financial inadequacies. Fantastic.
Yet no amount of embroidery can outshine a well-practised English accent. It is less a language here and more a luxury accessory. The old elite speak in clipped British tones, carefully omitting Rs and exuding the vibe of having once debated Keynesian economics at Oxford, even if it was only a semester abroad in Reading. The mid-tier swagger is Americanised with heavy use of “like”, “literally” and “you know what I mean?”. The international school effect is a linguistic melting pot: “Bruh, this thali slaps—deadass.” If your kid says “valid” and “delulu” in the same sentence, congrats: they are fluent in Gen Z wealth. The cardinal sin is a fake-sounding accent that flickers like an inverter light during power cuts.
Then there is real estate, the eternal flex. The classic one is a Lazimpat or Sanepa bungalow with mismatched colonial furniture and a gardener who has been with the family since the Panchayat days. The nouveau riche opt for a 3bhk flat in a building named something vaguely European: “Casa Firenze,” “Chateau de Kathmandu,” “The Monaco.” The off-centre move is restoring an ancestral house in Patan with exposed bricks and French windows. Owning a modernist villa in Bhaisepati is nice. Living in a crumbling-but-charming Rana-era mansion in Baluwatar is a fortune you do not need to explain; these homes are monuments to continuity, where your grandfather kept his first hunting rifle, and your cousin just installed a wine fridge, proving that culture sometimes trumps plumbing. And if you are lucky enough to own a weekend home in Pokhara—preferably lakeside—you have achieved Nepali real-estate enlightenment.
Of course no discussion of Nepali opulence is complete without family names and connections. This is the original currency of Kathmandu society. Before there was the stock market, before Gulf remittances and hydropower IPOs, status came with your surname. Old power names—Shah, Rana, Rajbhandari—mean your family tree appears in a 1960s British travelogue and opens doors before you knock. More contemporary power names—Adhikari, Agrawal, SJB—signal dynasties in banking, construction and politics. But the most elite know saying less is more. True status is when you do not drop a name. You simply drop into the party, and everyone already knows who the hell you are.
There is also education. It is the gold standard for class distinction. The OG elite send their kids to Rato Bangala, Lincoln or St. Xavier’s. Schools with European-sounding names or British-style blazers are the benchmark. New-age parents prefer UWC, Mahindra United World College or somewhere in Canada where the tuition equals Nepal’s entire annual education budget. The ultimate power move, though, is Eton and anything ending in “Prep” on the East Coast. If your kid says, “I don’t remember much Nepali”, but flawlessly critiques TikTok trends in four languages, you have made it.
Where are you tonight?
The final test of looking rich is how detached you seem from the pursuit of riches. You can afford not to care about the next iPhone, the next opening, the next political shake-up. You can joke about moving to Goa, pretend you do not know the market rate of gold, and yet still somehow secure the best seat at Le Sherpa on a Friday night, for real wealth is knowing the right waiter not the right company stock. ■
