THE FEELING OF FOLDING SOMEONE ELSE’S CLOTHES WITH CARE

It’s such a small act—folding someone else’s clothes. A quiet, domestic moment tucked between chores. And yet, it carries a kind of intimacy that words often fail to match.

In Nepali homes, the act of folding someone’s clothes is more than just about neatness or tidiness. It’s love, duty, familiarity—all wrapped into a simple, repetitive gesture. Mothers fold their children’s school uniforms with practiced fingers, smoothing out creases they know will return the moment the child runs out the door. Wives fold their husbands’ shirts without needing to ask where they’ve been. Sisters gather washed t-shirts from shared rooftops, shaking the dust off, pairing socks, adjusting collars. And when someone is away—on a trip, in another city, or in a place we can’t reach—sometimes we fold what they left behind as if to say, I haven’t forgotten you live here.

There’s something deeply human in this. Unlike the grand gestures of care that demand attention, folding clothes is soft, unnoticed. There’s no applause for it. But it holds within it the texture of memory. The scent of detergent mixed with the smell of a person. The recognition of someone’s shape in the way a kurta falls, or the sleeves of a worn-out t-shirt curl at the edges. You get to know someone by the way their clothes wear out—by which pocket sags, which buttons are loose, which parts are faded from sun or effort.

It’s also an act of preservation. Of restoring something to order before it is worn again and thrown back into the cycle of use. Of pausing the chaos for just a moment.

And sometimes, it’s an act of grief. When someone has passed away or left, the folding becomes ritual. Each shirt, each sari, handled with the reverence of memory. I remember my grandmother gently folding my grandfather’s daura suruwal for months after he was gone, before finally packing them away. She didn’t explain it. She didn’t need to. Some clothes carry presence even in absence.

But folding doesn’t always come from loss. More often, it’s from care. From those many small acts in our culture that don’t get spoken of—cutting fruit for someone without being asked, re-boiling tea for someone who’s late, bringing in someone’s laundry when clouds gather, silently knowing their clothes are dry before they do. These are not romantic gestures, but they are full of affection.

We often talk about love as something that must be expressed, named, declared. But sometimes love is this quiet choreography—smoothing out another person’s shirt, folding it just the way they like, placing it where they’ll find it. Not because they asked. But because we noticed. Because we care.

So the next time you fold someone else’s clothes, pause for a moment. Think of the stories stitched into the fabric, the weight of the everyday, the nearness of the person, the small tenderness of your gesture. In that moment, you are saying more than words ever could.

You are saying: I see you. I care. You belong here.