THE MOMENT JUST AFTER SOMEONE LEAVES: THE STRANGE QUIET OF ABSENCE

In Nepali homes, the end of a visit is never abrupt. It is layered—filled with repeated farewells, “aba hidne ho” said more than once, slippers being shuffled into place, and someone inevitably insisting, “basna ni arko choti ta” as the guest steps out the door. There are parting smiles, hands pressed together in namaste, sometimes a plastic bag of guavas or leftover sel roti slipped into the guest’s hands. Then, the final click of the gate, the sound of sandals growing faint down the alley—and suddenly, silence.

It is in that silence that something shifts. Not just the volume, but the feeling of the house itself. The living room that was just warm with conversation now feels slightly too still. The steel glasses used for tea sit quietly on the tray, still bearing the ring of use. Someone might wander into the kitchen, another pretends to tidy up, but really, everyone is adjusting to the absence of someone who was, just moments ago, present.

In many ways, this moment is uniquely Nepali. In our culture, hospitality is more than etiquette—it is a quiet form of devotion. We feed guests until they refuse three times. We insist they stay a little longer, even if we’re exhausted. We send someone to the chowk to buy more biscuits if the packet runs out. The house becomes brighter when someone visits—not because of the lights, but because of the energy they bring. When they leave, that light dims just a little.

I remember, as a child, watching my grandmother stand at the door long after guests had gone. She’d squint into the sun, watching them disappear into the bend of the road, her hand still half-raised in a goodbye that hadn’t quite finished. Then she would return inside and mutter something like, “Kasto suno suno lagcha aba,” as if the house itself had sighed.

Even now, years later, I find myself echoing that same habit. After a friend leaves my room, or after family departs post-festival, there is always a stretch of air that feels denser. The cushions look messier, yes, but not in a chaotic way—in a lived-in way. And I resist straightening them right away. It feels like erasing something too soon.

This quiet moment is not always sorrowful. Sometimes, it’s a soft gratitude—the kind that lingers after laughter or a good story. Other times, it’s reflective: did I say enough? Listen enough? Was anything left unsaid?

In Nepal, where togetherness is often prioritized over privacy, absence is always noticeable. Whether it’s after Dashain when the house slowly empties of relatives, or after a casual cup of chiya with a neighbor, we notice when someone is no longer there. The silence is not empty. It carries echoes.

And perhaps, this is what makes the moment just after someone leaves so tender. It reminds us that our spaces aren’t just made of walls and things—but of people, voices, energy. And when that energy shifts, even if only for a while, we feel it.

So we sit with it, let it settle, and sometimes, we even miss them before they're fully gone.