The Paradox of Nepal’s Job Market

There are moments in a country’s life when it must stop and ask itself a difficult question. Nepal is standing before such a moment today. We have more degree holders than ever before, yet strangely, fewer true professionals. We celebrate certificates with pride, but when the real world knocks on the door, many young people freeze. Families spend fortunes on education believing it will secure the future. The truth, however, is uncomfortable: degrees are everywhere; skills are not.

This quiet contradiction is shaping an entire generation. It is an education bubble we created ourselves—slowly inflated by our expectations and now floating above a reality that refuses to change.

A typical Nepali story begins with sacrifice. Parents give everything for their children’s education. They sell small pieces of land, empty their savings, and borrow quietly, all for the dream of success. The child studies hard, passes exams, earns a degree, and the family celebrates as if the finish line has been crossed. But the real race begins that day—and many discover they were never trained to run.

When graduates walk into job interviews, they struggle not because they are incapable but because 
they were never prepared for what lies outside the classroom. Speaking with confidence, thinking 
independently, making decisions, working with others are everyday requirements in the real world 
but hardly practiced in college. Our system taught students how to memorize. It never taught them 
how to manage. Inside companies, the gap becomes visible very quickly. Employers hire fresh  graduates with genuine hope, but within a short time, they confront an uncomfortable reality. Students arrive with habits that do not work in real life. 

Years of exam-driven learning create a mindset of repetition, not reflection. Before teaching new  skills, companies must first help graduates unlearn old patterns and adopt practical, more grounded 
ways of thinking. Many have never worked on a real project. Others have never faced deadlines or 
decisions. Even the most sincere student finds the gap too wide to bridge quickly.

Over the years, I was often invited to speak in some of Nepal’s most respected colleges. One moment has stayed with me. In a fourth-semester MBA class, I casually asked if anyone had heard of Harmonic Code. Not a single hand went up. These were bright young people, capable, attentive and ambitious but completely unaware of a concept that modern managers in global environments regularly come across. That silence was not their failure, it was the system speaking through them.

In another classroom, I asked whether students knew basic Incoterms such as CIF or FOB. Again, no hands. These are not advanced ideas. They are everyday words in international trade, logistics, 
procurement, and sales. Yet they had never been taught. Not because they were unwilling to learn 
but because the curriculum did not think it was important.

I often remind myself to stay humble when I share their experiences. I never studied commerce or 
management. Everything I learnt came from more than three decades of work, trial, error, long  nights, difficult decisions and responsibilities that did not allow excuses. My understanding of 
business came from the field, not the classroom. That is precisely why these gaps trouble me. They show a distance between education and reality that is now too wide to ignore. This is not the student’s fault. They are products of a system designed for a different era.

Most colleges still follow an outdated formula: classrooms without laboratories, degrees without 
internships, and attendance without experience. Many institutions have quietly turned into business 
models rather than learning environments—more seats, more batches, more certificates, and less 
learning. When education becomes a commercial product, students become customers, and
passing exams replaces genuine growth. This is how Nepal produces thousands of graduates each year but fails to meet the talent needs of its industries. The math is strange but simple. We produce 
degrees faster than skills, and expectations faster than opportunities. When expectation rises  without opportunity, young people look outward.

This is where the quiet roots of ADS begin to spread. ADS, a term I once used to describe the 
American or Australian Dream Syndrome, is not just about ambition. It reflects a deeper pattern 
among Nepali youth who are not running toward foreign countries, but escaping a system that leaves them underprepared and uncertain.

Once abroad, many experience something they rarely felt at home: clarity, independence and a sense of direction. Work teaches them faster than classrooms ever did. Responsibility sharpens them. Gradually, the emotional pull of returning weakens. When they see peers settling permanently, building stability, and being valued for what they can do rather than what they studied, staying back begins to feel irrational.

What begins as a temporary plan quietly becomes a permanent exit. In this sense, ADS is not a 
migration problem at all. It is the aftershock of an education and employment system that promises mobility but delivers uncertainty. The education bubble has become a direct contributor to brain drain. We are losing far more than bright students. We are losing the very people who could have shaped our industries, strengthened our institutions, built companies, driven innovation and contributed to the economic engine Nepal desperately needs.

Businesses feel the impact first. Without skilled manpower, companies cannot scale. Projects slow, 
productivity stagnates, innovation becomes rare, and training costs rise as beginners require far more support than expected. Industries struggle to move forward when the talent pipeline is weak. At the national level, the effects run deeper. An economy cannot modernize without skilled workers. Infrastructure projects face delays, technology adoption slows, and manufacturing  struggles to take off. A country that wants to grow must first grow its people—and this is where we 
are falling short.

Education was meant to be a bridge, but in Nepal it has become a wall. Still, walls can be rebuilt 
and distorted systems can be realigned before lasting damage is done.

The starting point is simple—alignment. Every college must connect its curriculum to the real needs of the job market. Degrees without internships should not exist. Students should solve real 
problems before they graduate, not after. Practical sessions must include communication, teamwork, emotional intelligence, problem solving and leadership. These are not luxuries, they are 
necessities.

Next, institutions and industries must collaborate. Apprenticeships, corporate mentorships, and  project-based learning are global norms. However, they are rare in Nepal. Exposure to the real  world must be embedded in education, not treated as an optional add-on.

Regulators must also take responsibility. Not every course suits Nepal’s job market. Not every 
college has the infrastructure it claims. Therefore, approval must be based on capability and not 
commercial expansion. Quality cannot be sacrificed for convenience. Students, too, must rethink what success means. A degree is not a destiny; it is only a doorway. Skills, discipline, exposure, adaptability and resilience matter far more. In the real world, it is the learner who rises, not the one who pretends to learn.

Parents must change their mindset too. Not every child needs a foreign degree, and not every child 
must chase the collective dream. Education is not a race; it is a journey of discovering one’s true 
capability. The goal is not to produce graduates, but individuals who can stand strong on their 
own.

If Nepal aligns education with economic reality, everything else will fall into place. Our industries will expand, companies will innovate, and our talent will stay. ADS will gradually lose its pull. Our young people will move from job seekers to job creators.

Nepal is at a crossroads. One road continues with more degrees and more disappointment, while the other leads to genuine learning, real competence, and national transformation. Our youth deserves the second path. Our economy depends on it. Education was never meant to be a bubble. It was meant to be the foundation, a bridge, and a beginning. If we act with honesty and courage, we can rebuild that foundation and reclaim Nepal’s most powerful asset: the human mind.

(This report was originally published in February 2026 issue of New Business Age magazine.)