HOW PEOPLE AVOID EYE CONTACT TO AVOID RESPONSIBILITYHOW PEOPLE AVOID EYE CONTACT TO AVOID RESPONSIBILITY

 

In the shared spaces of Nepali life—crowded buses, family kitchens, office meetings, chowks—we often find ourselves caught in moments where someone must step up. A task has to be done, a seat needs to be offered, a bill must be paid, a truth has to be acknowledged. And in that brief pause before action, eyes begin to wander—but not toward the problem. They scatter elsewhere: downward, upward, to the side, into the phone, into a pretend distraction. We become suddenly busy with something—anything—that doesn’t require us to meet another person’s gaze.

Avoiding eye contact is not always an act of shyness or humility. Sometimes, it is a quiet strategy to sidestep responsibility. If we don’t look, maybe we won’t be seen. If we aren’t seen, we can’t be asked. And if we aren’t asked, we won’t have to say no.

In Nepali culture, where indirectness is often preferred over blunt confrontation, avoiding eye contact becomes a subtle language of its own. It allows people to say I don't want to deal with this without actually having to say anything at all. The logic is simple: eye contact creates a connection, and with connection comes accountability. So we look away, and in doing so, we excuse ourselves—quietly, invisibly.

It plays out in small but telling moments. The shopkeeper who pretends not to see the customer waiting to ask for change. The family member who doesn’t make eye contact when elders are asking for help. The colleague who becomes intensely focused on their screen the moment a group decision is being made. Even among strangers, eye contact can feel like a silent contract—once it’s made, ignoring the situation becomes harder. So we master the art of looking away.

Children learn this early. They know when to look their parents in the eye and when to avoid it altogether. Students know the exact technique to not get picked by the teacher: don’t make eye contact. And adults carry this learned choreography into adulthood, where it becomes less about fear and more about self-preservation.

But what’s interesting is that this avoidance is often mutual. The person making the request also sometimes avoids looking directly, sensing reluctance and not wanting to embarrass the other. It becomes a shared dance of silence—two people carefully not looking at each other, both hoping the moment will pass without a decision being made.

This is not to say we are irresponsible as a culture. On the contrary, many Nepalis are deeply responsible—toward their families, their guests, their communities. But when responsibility is not assigned clearly—when it floats in the room waiting to be claimed—eye contact becomes a high-stakes act. To look up is to risk being the one who must take it.

There’s something deeply human in this quiet tug-of-war. Eye contact makes us vulnerable. It makes our intentions visible. And sometimes, in a culture that prioritizes harmony, visibility is too much. We’d rather not be chosen than have to decline. We’d rather not see than be seen hesitating.

Yet, in avoiding that gaze, we also sometimes miss the opportunity to step into small moments of courage—of simply showing up. Maybe responsibility doesn’t always fall to the person who’s best prepared, but to the person who first dares to look up.

And maybe that’s where change begins—not in bold declarations, but in quiet acts of eye contact. In letting someone know, without words, I see this. I see you. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to take the first step forward.