SPATIAL BEHAVIOR IN PUBLIC AREAS: A SOCIO-CULTURAL ANALYSIS OF SEATING PATTERNS IN NEPAL

 

In a quiet park in Kathmandu, a row of benches lines the path. Despite the space available, most people choose to sit toward the edges, not the center. Two friends sit with some distance between them. Their knees angle slightly outward, and they place their bags between them like polite barriers. At a bus stop, strangers avoid sitting next to each other unless they have to. In cafes, solo visitors take up entire tables and only give them up when pressured. What seems like a casual arrangement of bodies in public spaces actually reveals Nepal’s social and cultural norms.

Seating patterns are rarely neutral. They show the subtle structure of our social lives. They reflect how we deal with class, gender, privacy, hierarchy, and community without saying a word. In Nepal, these unspoken rules are especially revealing. We are a collectivist society, but we also value personal space. We are connected, but we also observe hierarchies. The way we sit—who we sit next to, how far apart we are, whether we take up space or minimize our presence—tells a story of personal comfort and social conditioning.

One noticeable pattern is the use of gendered space. In microbuses, temples, and school hallways, women often sit at the edges or next to other women if they can. When near male strangers, their body language changes. They pull their arms inward, cross or tuck their legs, and look away. It’s not just about safety; it’s about habit and the learned expectation to occupy less space in public. Meanwhile, groups of men often spread out comfortably, taking seats with a sense of entitlement that goes mostly unquestioned.

These seating habits form early. In schools, boys and girls naturally create separate zones, often reinforced by teachers. In college cafeterias, groups become territories—arts students sit at one end, science students at the other; seniors occupy the back, while first-years are pushed to the edge. Even in libraries, which aim to be fair, seating becomes a quiet negotiation of silence, status, and social closeness.

Urbanization is slowly changing these patterns. New cafes with shared tables and co-working spaces promote a more mixed culture of sitting, but the change is inconsistent. In rural areas or traditional homes, seating still carries significance—elders get the best seats, men sit in the center, and women often find themselves near the kitchen or hidden behind a curtain. Guests are shown the most visible spots, while hosts might sit on the floor, indicating both humility and hierarchy.

What’s interesting is how these patterns persist even in spaces meant to be neutral. Public benches, airport lounges, and hospital waiting rooms—all theoretically democratic—still follow unspoken rules. We typically leave a seat empty between ourselves and someone unfamiliar, older, of a different gender, or visibly from a different social class. That gap is not just physical; it is cultural.

However, there are beautiful exceptions. Festivals, protests, and shared moments of grief can break down these barriers. People sit closely together during Bhaitika or on temple steps during Shivaratri. In times of communal celebration or crisis, we share space without hesitation, as if a deeper truth temporarily overrides our conditioned distance.

When we look at seating behavior in Nepal, we’re not just reading body language—we’re seeing the social contract in action. Who takes space? Who is expected to hold back? Who occupies the middle, and who ends up on the edges?

As cities grow denser and spaces become more contested, we should ask: Can we create public areas that encourage not only comfort but also fairness? Can we design parks and plazas where people of different genders, castes, and classes feel equally entitled to sit—not just physically present, but also welcomed?

The way we sit reflects the way we live. Perhaps to change one, we should start with the other