HOW PEOPLE ADJUST THEIR CLOTHES WHEN THEY FEEL WATCHED

— A quiet choreography of self-awareness.

It begins subtly. A hand smooths the sleeve. Fingers tug at the end of a kurta. A scarf is refolded, even though it was just fine a moment ago. When people feel watched—truly seen—they begin to perform small rituals of adjustment, as if to reassure themselves that they belong in the moment being observed.

In the streets of Kathmandu, in classrooms, on bus rides, or while walking past a group of strangers—this phenomenon plays out quietly, universally. Someone sits straighter. A shawl is wrapped more tightly. Trousers are pulled down slightly to rest right at the ankle. It’s almost instinctive, the way the body reacts to perceived attention—not out of vanity, but something closer to defense. An attempt to gain control of how one is perceived before someone else decides for them.

Especially in a culture like ours, where being too visible can feel risky, these gestures become part of our social armour. In urban settings, a young woman walking alone may quickly scan her kurta for wrinkles, readjust her dupatta across her chest, tuck stray hair behind her ears—not for comfort, but to minimize exposure. On the other hand, in a job interview waiting room, a young man may tighten his collar, polish invisible dirt off his shoes, or re-button a cuff—acts of self-composure, cloaked in grooming.

We learn this choreography early. As teenagers in school uniforms, when a teacher walks in or peers glance our way, we fiddle with our collars, tie knots tighter, adjust our belts. It’s not insecurity as much as a learned response to being measured—by others, by society, by its standards of neatness, gender, class, or propriety.

Sometimes, it’s not even about physical appearance. The act of adjusting clothes becomes a way to adjust our selves. To reframe our presence in the room. A silent statement that says: I’m in control. I am okay. I am managing.

At family gatherings too, where eyes are constantly on who wore what and how, the adjustments are more frequent. A married woman may pull her shawl over her head when elders arrive. A man may retuck his shirt before standing to speak. A child might fix their socks because a relative jokingly commented on their messy look. It’s all minor, all habitual. And it says everything about how deeply we live in relation to how we’re perceived.

But sometimes, these gestures also become acts of quiet rebellion. Of claiming space. A teenager refusing to pull their jeans higher despite their mother’s glare. A non-binary person choosing a shirt that doesn’t conform to expectations, even if it draws stares. And in these moments too, the adjustment becomes symbolic—not of shame, but of choice.

To observe how people adjust their clothes is to witness how people carry their identities in public. With care, caution, sometimes pride, sometimes apology.

And perhaps, the next time we catch ourselves straightening a fold, fixing a crease, or adjusting a button when someone looks at us, we can pause—not to correct, but to notice. That in this tiny act lies a whole world of meaning.
A tension between how we see ourselves and how we fear others will.

And somewhere in that quiet fidget, is the most human thing of all: the desire to be seen, but only on our own terms.