THE PAUSE BEFORE SITTING: A MOMENT OF UNSURE BELONGING

There is a small, nearly invisible moment that happens in public spaces across Nepal every day. It involves a fleeting hesitation, a scan of the surroundings, and a brief moment of uncertainty before someone takes a seat. Whether it’s a park bench in Ratna Park, a plastic chair at a social gathering, or a spot on the back seat of a microbus, this pause reveals more about us than we realize.

What seems like a practical decision—“Is this seat clean? Is it available?”—is often tied to deeper, unspoken questions: “Do I belong here? Will I be judged? Am I intruding?” In that split second, social hierarchies, class anxieties, gender roles, and unspoken cultural norms come together.

We live in a society where seating isn’t neutral. It indicates status, familiarity, and comfort—or the lack of it. In a formal gathering, where the stage is raised and decorated, who sits where is predetermined. In waiting rooms or wedding parties, guests often choose to stand rather than risk sitting somewhere they’re not “supposed” to. We hesitate not because we don’t see the chair, but because we’re unsure if it was meant for us.

Think about how women often hover near seats in male-dominated teashops or office lounges. Consider how Dalit individuals in rural areas may stand even when chairs are open, having absorbed years of exclusion. Or take the student who arrives late to class and quietly debates where they can sit without drawing attention. That moment of pause is not indecision; it is social calculation.

This hesitation also spans generations. Elders look for recognition: “Do I know anyone here?” Young people look around to assess: “Am I welcome here?” The act of sitting, often seen as the end of arrival, actually marks the beginning of negotiation—of identity, of space, of inclusion.

Even on public transportation, where the rules should be simple—pay the fare, take a seat—the situation is more complicated. Some seats are "unofficially reserved" by unspoken codes: the front row for men, the back corner for young women wanting solitude, the edge seat near the door for someone eager to escape.

We rarely discuss these micro-moments, yet they shape our experiences. They remind us that belonging is not always given; sometimes, it must be carefully enacted.

But what if we could change that? What if public seating was truly public, not just in structure, but in spirit? What if we could sit without fear of judgment, without needing to justify our presence?

The pause before sitting is not just about choosing a spot to rest. It is a quiet reflection on how we see ourselves in relation to others. If we pay more attention to it, it may teach us how to create spaces where no one has to hesitate before claiming their place.