THE EXPECTATION TO LAUGH WHEN ELDERS JOKE—EVEN WHEN IT’S NOT FUNNY

 

There is a particular kind of smile we learn early in life—the one reserved for elders when they make a joke that’s not quite funny. It’s a careful blend of politeness and performance: just enough laughter to honour the moment, not so much that it seems forced. The joke lands, we laugh, and the room continues on, everyone satisfied, even if no one was actually amused.

In Nepali households, to laugh at an elder’s joke is not merely a response to humor—it is a ritual of respect. Jokes from elders carry weight not because they are clever, but because they are offered. And when they are offered, especially in gatherings, at weddings, or during long tea breaks, they expect a kind of return gift: your laughter.

We do not evaluate these jokes for their comic value. We receive them as we might a blessing or a second helping of food we didn’t ask for. To refuse—by staying silent or awkwardly half-smiling—is to disrupt the social order. The laughter is not about amusement; it is about affirming the elder’s presence, their role, their belonging in the rhythm of the room.

Often, these jokes follow a predictable script—mild teasing, recycled puns, old anecdotes dressed as punchlines. The same stories are told again and again. And still, we laugh again and again, because in that repetition lies something more important than novelty: the maintenance of relationship.

There’s also a certain vulnerability in elders when they joke. As they age, and as the world becomes quicker, more digital, and less dependent on their authority, humour becomes one of the few remaining ways they can still command the room. It’s their gesture of trying to remain part of the conversation, even if the language of that conversation has shifted. So we reward that attempt with laughter, not out of pity, but out of quiet recognition.

But this expectation can also be quietly exhausting. Especially for younger generations who are taught to laugh even when the joke touches a nerve—about appearance, career, relationships, or weight. Many of these jokes are harmless in intention but outdated in tone. Still, we play along, because not playing along feels like defiance. To correct the joke, or question its premise, is to seem arrogant. So we laugh—not just to honour the elder, but to preserve the peace.

This laughter is not dishonest. It’s layered. It says, “I hear you,” more than it says, “That was funny.” It is social glue, not applause. And perhaps we all understand that, on some level. The elder knows their joke may not be fresh, the listener knows their laughter is partly staged, and yet, the exchange feels complete.

In Nepali culture, respect is rarely loud. It is in the small gestures—pouring the tea before you drink your own, stepping aside so an elder can walk first, and yes, laughing even when the joke doesn’t land. We are taught that maintaining harmony sometimes matters more than expressing sincerity.

Still, perhaps there’s space to expand this tradition. To let laughter be more shared than expected. To allow elders to tell their jokes, but also to listen when the younger ones offer their own. Not every joke has to be a test of loyalty. Sometimes, it can just be a joke.

And sometimes, we laugh not because something is funny, but because someone we love is trying to connect. That, in itself, might be the most meaningful punchline of all.