MICROAGGRESSIONS IN EVERYDAY NEPALI CONVERSATIONS: A LINGUISTIC AND CULTURAL STUDY

They slip in quietly, almost invisibly, dressed as jokes, concern, compliments, or tradition. 

“You don’t look like a Madhesi.” 

“Your daughter is dark, but she’s still cute.” 

“Oh, you’re still unmarried?” 

“You speak good Nepali—for a Newar.” 

“You’re so smart for a girl.” 

In Nepali conversations, whether between neighbors, relatives, classmates, or colleagues, language often carries more meaning than what is said. Words are not just words; they carry assumptions, judgments, and hierarchies rooted in culture that we rarely examine. But we must, because these subtle digs, these microaggressions, are not just mistakes in language. They remind us of the hidden lines that separate us. 

Microaggressions are those everyday comments or questions that may seem harmless or even well-meaning but actually reinforce stereotypes, marginalization, or exclusion. They don’t shout; they whisper. In doing so, they normalize a system where some people are always explained, excused, or judged based on caste, gender, ethnicity, language, or lifestyle. 

In Nepal, caste and ethnicity are common areas for these microaggressions. A janajati student might hear they “must have gotten in through quota,” reducing their hard work to a policy loophole. A Dalit colleague’s last name could be met with a pause, a polite smile, and a slight but noticeable change in how the conversation continues. Someone from the Tarai may be teased for their accent, as if linguistic differences signal inferiority. None of this is always hostile. In fact, it often comes with laughter. And that’s the problem—humor often hides harm. 

Gender is another frequent area for microaggressions. A woman sharing a strong opinion in a meeting may be told to “calm down.” A working mother is subtly asked, “How do you manage everything?” suggesting that her professional role is somehow unbalanced. A man choosing to be a stay-at-home parent might receive awkward admiration with hints of deviance. These comments aren’t always made with bad intentions, but they support a narrow view of what’s “normal” and quietly shame what falls outside it. 

Microaggressions are especially harmful because they often go unchallenged. The person on the receiving end is expected to laugh along, say “kasto ramailo kura,” or just change the subject. To object might seem petty, humorless, or oversensitive. As a result, most people learn to swallow the sting, nod politely, and carry it home like an invisible bruise. Over time, these small wounds add up. 

Language serves as a powerful reflection of society. In Nepal, many of our everyday phrases—passed down without question—are laced with outdated hierarchies. We call unmarried women “boys” to praise their independence, as if womanhood cannot offer strength on its own. We say someone “talks like a city person” as praise, suggesting that rural life is lacking in sophistication. We joke about accents, skin color, or food habits, assuming shared cultural superiority without realizing that these remarks often exclude or hurt others. 

Acknowledging this does not mean abandoning humor, tradition, or informality. It means becoming more aware of how our words travel, what they carry, and where they land. The solution is not silence; it is sensitivity. 

This awareness begins with how we listen. Are we quick to dismiss someone’s discomfort because “that’s not what we meant”? Do we measure the impact of our words only by our intentions and not by their effects? Are we open to the idea that we might have unknowingly hurt others? 

Recognizing microaggressions is not just about language; it is also about morality. It asks us to notice what we’ve learned to overlook, to name what we’ve normalized, and to rethink what it means to be respectful—not just in tone but also in sincerity. 

As Nepali society moves forward, becoming more diverse, mobile, and vocal, we have a rare chance to recalibrate how we speak to and about each other. Language is not fixed; it can evolve. It must evolve. 

One day, perhaps, compliments won’t carry hidden messages. Humor won’t depend on hierarchy. Conversations will feel lighter not because they avoid difficult topics but because they don’t have hidden weight. 

Until then, the smallest phrases will still matter the most.