THE MOMENT JUST AFTER SOMEONE LEAVES: THE STRANGE QUIET OF ABSENCE
In Nepali homes, the end of a visit is never abrupt. It is layered—filled with repeated farewells, “aba hidne ho” said more than once, slippers being shuffled into place, and someone inevitably insisting, “basna ni arko choti ta” as the guest steps out the door. There are parting smiles, hands pressed together in namaste, sometimes a plastic bag of guavas or leftover sel roti slipped into the guest’s hands. Then, the final click of the gate, the sound of sandals growing faint down the alley—and suddenly, silence. It is in that silence that something shifts. Not just the volume, but the feeling of the house itself. The living room that was just warm with conversation now feels slightly too still. The steel glasses used for tea sit quietly on the tray, still bearing the ring of use. Someone might wander into the kitchen, another pretends to tidy up, but really, everyone is adjusting to the absence of someone who was, just moments ago, present. In many ways, this moment is uniquely ...