THE UNSPOKEN RULES OF QUEUEING: PATIENCE AND COURTESY IN EVERYDAY LIFE

 

In the crowded landscapes of Nepali life—bus stops, bank counters, public offices, hospital lines, cinema ticket booths—there exists a quiet battlefield where patience is tested, tempers are restrained, and ethics play out in miniature. It’s the queue, or at least the idea of one. We don’t always talk about it, but how we behave while waiting in line reveals more about our social fabric than any grand political slogan ever could.

Queueing, by its very design, is an act of trust and fairness. It assumes that people will take turns, that everyone’s time matters, and that no one is more important than another. And yet, in Nepal, the line is often a place where these ideals are both practiced and routinely betrayed. Despite signs that read “Please stay in line” or “First come, first served,” the reality on the ground often paints a different picture. A man confidently walks to the front of the counter claiming he only has “one small question,” a woman pretends she didn’t see the line at all, and an elderly person is nudged aside by someone in a rush. No one quite explodes, but a collective frustration simmers. Everyone notices, but few speak up.

Part of the problem lies in how we’ve been conditioned to view hierarchy and urgency. In many social settings, especially those burdened by inefficiency or lack of structure, people often believe that the rules are meant to be bent—and that being smart means finding a shortcut. Some even consider standing in line as a sign of low status, a thing for those without connections or confidence. The presence of a queue, in this mindset, becomes a challenge rather than a shared commitment.

But deeper than the act of cutting a line is the erosion of mutual respect it implies. Every person waiting in line has made a silent agreement to honor others’ time. Breaking that pact is not just impatience—it’s a subtle form of disregard, a signal that one’s need is more important than the next person’s. What makes it worse is that such actions often go unchecked. Bystanders rarely intervene, and the authorities at the counter, overwhelmed or indifferent, tend to serve whoever’s loudest or closest. Over time, this breeds cynicism. People stop believing in the fairness of the system and begin to rely on strategies of personal advantage.

And yet, despite all this, there are moments that restore faith. A young man in a hospital queue gestures to an older woman to go before him. A group of students waiting at a food stall gently guides someone trying to sneak in to the back of the line. A security guard at a bank insists on order and enforces it with firmness and calm. These small acts of fairness often go unnoticed, but they form the quiet core of a more ethical public life.

What the queue teaches us—when it works—is more than just order. It teaches empathy. It reminds us that even in crowded, impatient spaces, we can choose to be kind. In a society where so much is outside our control—corruption, inequality, injustice—the queue is one of the few places where equality can be practiced simply by waiting your turn. It is democracy in motion, happening not in elections but in everyday moments.

Of course, improving how we queue isn’t just about scolding people into better behavior. It requires better systems too. Clearer signage, physical markers, and staff trained not just in task delivery but in crowd management can make a huge difference. But more importantly, it requires a cultural shift—one where patience is not seen as weakness and decency is not mistaken for passivity.

In a time when everyone seems to be rushing—rushing to beat traffic, to beat the system, to beat each other—the act of waiting calmly in a line becomes a radical gesture. It says: I am no more important than you, and we are all here together. It reclaims the public space from chaos, even if just for a few meters. And maybe that’s exactly where change begins—not in grand reforms, but in small, shared moments of patience, repeated every day, one person at a time.