WHEN ‘TARA’ (BUT) HIDES A THOUSAND HESITATIONS

 

In Nepali conversations, there’s a tiny, seemingly harmless word that slips in almost unnoticed, often midway through a sentence: tara—meaning “but.” On the surface, it serves its expected grammatical function, bridging two ideas, adding contrast, or offering nuance. Yet beneath its simplicity, tara often carries far more than linguistic value. It carries fear, doubt, politeness, and pressure. It reflects the inner balancing act many Nepalis perform daily—between wanting to speak honestly and needing to speak carefully.

“Tara” is the word that comes when someone wants to disagree but fears being seen as disrespectful. It’s what softens critique, dilutes ambition, and interrupts courage mid-sentence. “Malai pani bolda man lagcha, tara...”—“I also feel like speaking, but…” That ‘but’ rarely needs completing. It holds within it the cultural weight of hesitation, of thinking twice, of social obedience. In a society that often prioritizes harmony over confrontation, seniority over assertion, and tradition over change, tara becomes more than just a conjunction. It becomes a survival strategy in conversation.

People use tara when they feel they’re crossing a line, or even just approaching one. A daughter might say, “Timi ko kura bujhe, tara hajurama sanga kura garda sajilo hudaina,” when she wants to express her discomfort without sounding rude. A young man might say, “Padna man ta chha tara ghar ko awastha thaha nai cha ni,” quietly shelving a dream behind the wall of expectation. And in politics, diplomacy, and polite conversation, tara is often the bridge between truth and silence, giving people room to pull back without openly withdrawing.

What’s remarkable is how much tara reveals without revealing. It doesn’t shut a door—it simply pauses at the threshold. It’s a word full of internal negotiations, and sometimes internal conflicts. The speaker may feel deeply about something, may even be ready to act, but tara steps in like an elder with a gentle hand, reminding them to reconsider, to weigh the consequences, to think about what others will say.

But tara is not always timid. Sometimes it is used to push back, to claim space, to disrupt passive agreement. “Yes, I agree with what you said, tara…” is a powerful lead-in to dissent, wrapped in politeness. It lets people express disagreement in a way that doesn't sound like rebellion. It allows them to step into a difficult conversation without making the air too sharp. In this way, tara becomes a middle ground—neither full confrontation nor complete submission. It is how people say, “I have more to say,” without shouting.

And yet, tara also reflects how deeply hesitation is stitched into the Nepali social fabric. From classrooms to kitchens, from office rooms to family gatherings, people are often trained to soften their voice, second-guess their instinct, and balance honesty with obedience. Speaking boldly can be mistaken for arrogance. Challenging norms can be labeled disrespect. In such spaces, tara becomes both a safety net and a cage—depending on who’s using it and why.

This small word also plays a crucial role in how people process change. In times of social transition—when gender roles are questioned, when old values are challenged, when new ideas enter conservative rooms—tara appears frequently, cushioning the discomfort. “Ho, chhori lai padhnu parcha, tara bihe ko kura pani ta chintan garnu parcha ni.” Here, tara is not just a word—it’s the sound of an older world holding on, even as a new one tries to emerge.

Language holds mirrors to our minds, and tara reflects the Nepali habit of weighing every word. It shows how we rarely jump from thought to action without thinking about how it will land, who it might offend, and what expectations it might disturb. That mindfulness is often wise—it teaches tact, respect, and patience. But it can also become a habit of self-censorship so deeply ingrained that people forget what they truly wanted to say in the first place.

To listen for tara is to listen for the layers beneath a sentence. It is to hear the emotional math people do before they speak. Sometimes, the pause after tara says more than what follows. It is the space where courage hesitates, where dreams meet duty, where truth is shaped into something more acceptable.

And perhaps, the challenge for this generation is not to stop saying tara, but to notice when we’re using it to protect others, and when we’re using it to hold ourselves back. Because while tara can be the gentlest form of respect, it can also become the quietest form of self-erasure. And knowing the difference might be the first step to finding our full voice.