Image: Francesco Ciccolella
NOT SO LONG ago, a glass of whisky at the end of a dusty day in Kathmandu was the universal sign of a job well done. Today it is increasingly treated as a cry for help. A new, pious orthodoxy is taking hold. The World Health Organisation flatly declares there is “no safe level” of drinking. To refuse a drink has become a mark of virtue; to pour one, a sign of a failing character. Even a sip of chyang at a family wedding now comes with a side of guilt. But must a society’s relationship with drink be so simplistic?
The science behind this new prohibition is less settled than the scolds suggest. Nobody disputes that sustained, heavy drinking is a scourge, linked to addiction, illness and family breakdown. The question is about moderation. Some studies have hinted at benefits for the heart; others dismiss these as statistical flukes. Even if the benefits are fake, however, the current messaging grossly exaggerates the risks of the occasional drink. Yes, alcohol can kill. So can crossing a street in Kathmandu. Conflating a weekly beer with chronic abuse is not science. It is scare-mongering.
Yet nuance is the first casualty in modern health crusades. Nepal’s growing sobriety movement, buoyed by NGOs and moralisers, treats all drinking as equally sinful. This puritanical approach ignores why humans have consumed alcohol for millennia: it is woven into the fabric of culture, community and commerce. The goal was never an early grave.
Start with the economics. From Thamel’s bars to Pokhara’s resorts, alcohol sales are the lifeblood of hospitality. For many establishments, drinks bring in the lion’s share of profits. “Remove alcohol and we shut down,” says one Kathmandu bar-owner. Local microbreweries would fold. Tourism would become a joyless trudge. There is a cross-subsidy, too. The convivial atmosphere at weddings or festivals, enjoyed by all, is often fuelled by the spending of those who drink.
The greater cost of prohibition, however, may be social. Nepal is fragmenting. Its urban youth report overwhelming loneliness and anxiety. It is no coincidence that alcohol, used judiciously, is a social lubricant. A shared drink can turn strangers into confidants; a village bhãti or city pub is a forum for storytelling and spontaneous connection. These are not trivial luxuries in a disconnected age.
Then there is creativity. Nepali artists and musicians have long found inspiration in a glass. One comedian quipped that iconic stage shows were written with one hand on the harmonium and the other on a bottle. This is not to romanticise drunkenness. But at low levels, alcohol can disrupt rigid patterns of thought, encouraging playfulness and originality. One international study found mildly intoxicated people solved creative puzzles faster than their sober peers. The brain sometimes needs loosening.
None of this is to dismiss alcohol’s very real harms. Drunk driving, domestic violence and addiction call for serious policy responses. But the answer is not blanket condemnation. The vast majority of alcohol-related harm in Nepal is down to a minority of heavy drinkers consuming high-proof local spirits. Smart policy would target that group through stricter regulation and taxation of hard liquor, as well as better education and support for treatment—not by pretending a sip of beer is poison.
Rational adults make trade-offs every day. They marry for love despite the risk of heartbreak; they chase promotions at the expense of sleep. A glass of wine with friends is part of that same human calculation—the belief that a life well-lived is about more than just the pursuit of maximum longevity. If the new temperance wins, Nepal may end up with slightly cleaner livers, but it will be a duller and lonelier place. A longer life is a poor trade for a joyless one. ■
