THE ART OF PRETENDING NOT TO HEAR: AVOIDANCE ETIQUETTE IN NEPALI CULTURE

There are moments in Nepali life when the best response is no response at all—not because we didn’t hear, but because we chose not to. A passing comment, a subtle summon, a name called without urgency. We catch it—our ears alert—but our eyes stay forward, our body unmoved. We pretend not to hear, and everyone involved quietly understands.

This act is not always rude. In fact, in Nepali culture, it can be the most polite possible response. It is a form of avoidance etiquette—an unwritten code that allows us to sidestep discomfort, confrontation, or unnecessary entanglement without outright denial. We stretch silence like a polite curtain between ourselves and a situation we would rather not enter.

In a society that values indirectness over bluntness, pretending not to hear becomes a graceful social tool. It allows us to say “no” without saying “no.” It lets us opt out of conversations without rejecting the person. It gives us a pause—a retreat—without the embarrassment of having to explain ourselves.

Sometimes, this selective hearing is used to protect another’s dignity. A joke that lands poorly, a self-invitation that feels awkward, a request too demanding—by pretending not to hear, we spare the speaker the sting of rejection. We let the moment dissolve. No conflict. No shame. Just a mutual, silent agreement to let it pass.

It happens in family settings, too. An elder mutters a wish that no one wants to fulfill. A relative comments on something we’d rather not respond to. We don’t challenge. We simply don’t respond. It’s not disrespect. It’s restraint. We allow the words to hang in the air, untouched.

But this art also appears in the streets, in buses, in neighborhood corners—especially when someone calls our name in a way that suggests obligation. A neighbor needing help with something. A distant cousin wanting to chat. A classmate whose presence demands energy we cannot spare. The call reaches us, but we look the other way. We walk faster. We give the moment a chance to fade. It is avoidance, yes, but with a social grace that says: I heard you, and I hope you understand why I didn’t respond.

What makes this fascinating is that both parties often know exactly what’s happening. The speaker knows they were heard. The listener knows they heard. But both choose not to expose the truth. It’s a mutual performance, driven not by dishonesty, but by the shared desire to preserve harmony.

In more individualistic cultures, this might be called passive-aggression or evasion. But in the Nepali context, it’s something else: a quiet negotiation of boundaries, a balancing act between duty and personal space. In a society where relationships are dense, layered, and constantly overlapping, directness can be too sharp. Pretending not to hear becomes a soft refusal, a polite distance.

Of course, not all silence is avoidance. Sometimes we truly don’t hear. And sometimes we pretend not to hear not out of politeness, but out of irritation or even defiance. But what makes this act so culturally rich is how frequently it functions as care—as a way of not escalating, not wounding, not saying what doesn’t need to be said.

In the end, pretending not to hear is less about deception than discretion. It is part of a broader Nepali ethic of indirectness—where silence is not absence, but strategy. In a world that often glorifies boldness and clarity, this quiet cultural habit reminds us that sometimes, not answering is also a kind of communication. And sometimes, it’s the kindest one we can offer.