I recently received a call from the hospital at midnight for an emergency surgical procedure. As a doctor and public health advocate, I know that every minute can matter when a patient needs urgent care.
But when I get on my bike in the middle of the night, I sometimes find myself worrying about something completely different. What will I say if the traffic police stop me and ask for my licence?
The reason is simple. My probationary driver’s licence (Licence number 01-10-01440401), issued on April 19, 2023, expired on April 18, 2024.
I had already done everything required to get a permanent licence. I completed the necessary process, submitted my application several years ago and paid the required fees to the Transport Management Office. As a citizen who had followed the rules, I expected my permanent licence to arrive soon after my probationary licence expired.
It didn’t.
As of September 2026, more than two years after my probationary licence expired, I still do not have my physical permanent licence.
Where did my licence go?
Frustrated, I approached officials at the District Transport Management Office in Tulsipur to find out what had happened. The answer was surprisingly casual. I was told that my licence was either missing or may have been destroyed in the fires during the September 2025 Gen Z protests.
That was when I realised this was bigger than my own missing licence.
Across Nepal, thousands of people have been left in a similar situation. They have paid for their licences, completed the required procedures and are now stuck between a government system that says their digital licence is valid and a system on the ground that often still demands a physical document.
Following the paper trail
After my probationary licence expired in 2024, I repeatedly contacted the District Transport Management Office in Tulsipur. I was given assurances that the matter would be resolved, but nothing happened.
Then came the September 2025 protests.
The Department of Transport Management’s central infrastructure in Kathmandu was damaged and set on fire. With the country’s main smart-licence printing facility affected, many licences that had already been printed but had not yet reached citizens were reportedly destroyed.
At that point, I gave up trying to chase my licence.
Recently, however, I decided to try one more time. I sent a formal complaint to the Department of Transport Management’s grievance-handling email address.
The response I received explained the government’s position. If a physical licence is unavailable, the government recognises the original bank revenue receipt together with the digital licence shown on the Nagarik App.
But there is a problem.
Once a licence has been marked as printed in the central system, it is treated as though the government has completed its part of the job. If that licence never reached the citizen, the system does not necessarily treat it as the government’s responsibility to replace it.
Instead, the citizen may have to apply for a duplicate licence through the provincial transport office, file a police report about the missing document and pay another fee.
In other words, even if the licence disappeared while it was still in the government’s hands, the citizen can end up being treated as though they lost it. That does not seem right.
A digital solution with a very real problem
The government’s response to the crisis has largely been digital.
The Nagarik App now allows drivers to display their licence digitally, and traffic police can verify the QR code through the relevant system.
This is useful. Digital services can make life much easier. But a digital licence cannot solve every problem.
In Kathmandu and other major cities, traffic police may be familiar with the system. But enforcement can be less consistent in districts, rural areas and at border points. Some drivers are still asked to show a physical licence.
For someone like me, who may have to travel long distances at short notice for work, that uncertainty is frustrating.
There is another problem too.
A digital licence that is accepted inside Nepal is not automatically accepted outside Nepal. If I need to prove my identity or driving credentials for an international process, an app on my phone may not be enough. A screenshot or an expired paper receipt certainly may not be accepted.
So the digital licence is helpful, but it is not a complete replacement for the physical document that citizens were promised.
Who is responsible?
This is where the problem becomes even more frustrating.
The Department of Transport Management controls the central database and the main printing system. Provincial transport offices, meanwhile, deal with many of the services citizens need at the local level.
When something goes wrong, the citizen is left moving between the two.
The federal system says the licence has already been printed. The provincial office says a replacement requires another process. And the citizen is left asking a very simple question.
If I paid for the licence and followed all the rules, why should I have to pay again because the government could not deliver it?
That is the real issue.
What should happen next?
The solution does not have to be complicated.
First, Nepal should have more decentralised licence-printing facilities. The country should not have to depend on a single central system to produce licences for citizens across all seven provinces.
Second, licences that were printed but destroyed before reaching citizens should be automatically reprinted. Citizens should not have to apply and pay again for something they never received.
Third, the government should make the legal status of the digital licence completely clear. Traffic police across the country should have the same instructions and the same system for verifying digital licences.
Most importantly, citizens should not have to figure out which level of government is responsible every time something goes wrong.
More than just a driver’s licence
My missing licence may seem like a small administrative problem. It isn’t. It is about whether a government can deliver a service after taking a citizen’s money and completing the required process.
The Nagarik App is an important step towards modernising public services. But digital technology should not become a substitute for fixing the systems behind it.
A government that can collect revenue from citizens within seconds should also be able to deliver the document they have paid for.
Until that happens, people like me will continue to face the same frustrating situation. We will carry an expired paper, show a digital licence on our phones, explain the situation to traffic police and hope that the next officer understands.
All because a licence that was supposed to reach us never did.
