THE MEANING HIDDEN IN “BUJHIYES?”—DO WE REALLY WANT AN ANSWER?

 

There are few words in the Nepali language as deceptively simple and deeply loaded as “Bujhiyes?” At face value, it’s a question: Did you understand? But in daily conversation—especially when spoken from authority to subordination—it becomes something far more complex. It is not merely an inquiry for clarity; more often than not, it is a stamp of finality, a subtle command disguised as concern, a rhetorical checkmate that closes rather than opens dialogue.

“Bujhiyes?” frequently appears at the end of instructions, lectures, and scoldings. A teacher finishes reprimanding a student and throws in a sharp “Bujhiyes?” A parent finishes laying down the household rules and ends with a brisk “Bujhiyes?” A boss at work hands over a task with little context and secures their dominance with a firm “Bujhiyes?” But here's the irony—it is rarely a question meant to be answered, let alone questioned in return.

What this single word often carries is an expectation of submission. It is not so much about comprehension as it is about compliance. The question may be grammatically small, but its cultural weight is significant. In a society that still leans heavily on hierarchy, obedience, and one-way communication, “Bujhiyes?” functions as a verbal full stop. It discourages doubt, avoids mutual exploration, and often leaves the listener with no choice but to nod, regardless of whether they truly understood or not.

This performative understanding—nodding without clarity—is something many Nepalis learn early. Children grow up learning that asking too many questions might seem disrespectful. In school, seeking clarification can be seen as a challenge to the teacher. At home, curiosity can quickly be mistaken for defiance. As a result, “Bujhiyes?” becomes less of a bridge between minds and more of a ritual exchange between power and silence. It allows the speaker to believe they've explained something, and forces the listener to act as if they’ve received it.

Interestingly, “Bujhiyes?” also reflects our discomfort with ambiguity. The sentence doesn't wait for a natural pause or an open-ended response. It’s about tying things up, ensuring the listener doesn’t deviate from the intended path. It’s not the gentle “Does that make sense?” of a peer but the sharp “Got it?” from a figure who assumes they are right. It is rooted in the anxiety of being questioned and the desire to shut down discussion before it begins.

Yet, this phrase isn’t always uttered with ill intent. Many times, people say “Bujhiyes?” out of habit, thinking it is helpful. Sometimes it is genuinely meant to check in, to offer reassurance. But in the way it has been shaped by usage—repeated over generations as a top-down prompt—it often loses its caring tone and becomes another way to signal the end of a conversation rather than an invitation to continue it.

There is something telling about how rarely we hear people respond to “Bujhiyes?” with a sincere “No.” Because to say no risks sounding slow, inattentive, or worse—rebellious. And so, even in situations where confusion lingers, where instructions feel incomplete, or where ideas haven’t landed properly, people often say “yes” to move the moment forward. But what gets left behind is real understanding.

To rethink “Bujhiyes?” is to rethink how we talk to one another. What would it mean if we used the word not to assert but to invite? What if it were followed by silence, by space, by an openness to hear “Not really” or “Can you explain that again?” What if “Bujhiyes?” became a doorway to mutual learning rather than a rhetorical lock on someone’s lips?

In truth, the word “Bujhiyes?” has the potential to be beautiful—when it is asked with sincerity, with patience, and with a willingness to engage. But that would require unlearning the way it has been used for so long as a substitute for authority. It would mean embracing the possibility of being questioned, of being wrong, of listening as much as speaking.

Until then, “Bujhiyes?” will continue to echo in classrooms, offices, and homes not as a real question, but as a carefully coded command. And we will keep nodding, half-understanding, half-resisting, in the silence that follows.