TO THE congratulatory whirring of millions of unseen insects, enlivened by the rising Himalayan sun, Nepali voters turned out early on April 10th. In the villages of the Kathmandu valley, long queues awaited the opening of polling stations. Within three hours, some had recorded a 50% turnout. As a preliminary endorsement of a troubled election, Nepal's first in almost a decade dominated by civil war and political strife, this was cheering.

Campaigning for the poll was violent, even by South Asia's grisly standards. Two candidates and a score of party workers were killed by rival party thugs. A dozen bomb blasts, including one at a mosque last month that killed two worshippers, further blighted the process. Diehard supporters of the soon-to-be-axed monarchy, as well as ethnic separatists in the southern Terai plain, were probably to blame.


More worrying, most of the pre-election violence was carried out by one of the main contestants: the Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist), which in 2006 ended a decade-long armed struggle. Its 23,000-strong rebel army is corralled under UN eyes, but intact. On the stump, Maoist leaders argued that anything less than a sweeping victory for their party would be evidence of massive rigging.
That was ominous: the Maoists are believed, in the absence of any reliable opinion poll, to be widely detested. But that they took part in the election—twice postponed, once on their account—was worth celebrating. Nepal, a country of 28m people, is a poor, lawless and fractious place. It faces worsening ethnic, caste-based and regional conflicts. The hoarding of power and riches in the capital, Kathmandu, causes huge resentment, which fed the Maoist insurgency. Indeed, under the terms of a shambling peace process, the basic shape of the Nepali state is an open question. The election has improved the odds the answer will be found peacefully.

Assuming, that is, the Maoists accept the results. Winning at least 80 seats—out of a possible 601—is rumoured to be the bottom line for their continued commitment to democracy. But a convoluted electoral system, voter intimidation and the passage of time since Nepal's last serious election, in 1999, make the outcome hard to predict. The aggrieved southerners should also win at least 80 seats, though split between different parties. They are one of several marginalised ethnic or caste groups for whom a block of seats has been reserved. The Terai lot successfully agitated for improved terms in February through a two-week blockade of Kathmandu.

Once convened, the next assembly's main task will be to draft a constitution that satisfies as many potential agitators as possible. It will be difficult. The peace process, which began with a popular movement against the dictatorial King Gyanendra in 2006, is based partly on a commitment by the parties to make Nepal a federal republic. But they disagree about what this should in practice entail. The Maoists want an executive president and provinces drawn on ethnic lines. The Nepali Congress party, which led the interim coalition government, wants a figurehead president.

Some Congress members might even hope to retain King Gyanendra as a constitutional monarch. That is probably impossible. As its first act, the new assembly is supposed to finalise a decision of its predecessor to scrap the 240-year monarchy. So it was strange, and faintly alarming to his subjects, when the king broke a long silence on April 9th to urge his “beloved countrymen” to turn out and vote.