The Nepali Way

The Nepali Way

The other day, I asked someone for directions in Kathmandu and ended up getting not just a route, but a full report on recent road repairs, a shortcut through someone's backyard, and an unsolicited opinion about the location itself. In Kathmandu’s maze of gullies, directions usually arrive like this: “Turn right at the old pipal tree, then ask Shyam dai at the tea shop. And by the way, why do you even want to go there?” Sometimes, by the end of it, three people and a street dog know exactly where I am going and why. Some might call it an invasion of privacy, but to me, it is just another Tuesday. 

While much of the world outsources daily errands to chatbots and self‑checkout kiosks, we still prefer a quick conversation with humans. The bank clerk will tell you how she watched a crazy movie last night as you fill out your form. The corner shop has a mental loyalty scheme, the owner rounds down your bill when you’re five rupees short. Colleagues aren’t just people you work with, they tell you about the amazing tea shop close by the office, then take you there, and suddenly you have a ritual where you’re cackling at the silliest things together while eating the best aloo chop ever. Even the unsolicited opinions of neighbours, frustrating as they might be, are not always unwelcome. An unfamiliar motorbike parked outside your house might lead to whispers, but it also doubles as a neighbourhood alarm system funded entirely by curiosity.

Nepal is full of these little human entanglements. You ask a stranger something simple, and suddenly you’re part of a slow-moving info exchange involving half of the neighborhood. That, in a nutshell, is Nepal to me: slightly inefficient but relentlessly human. 

It’s not like we’re still living in the Stone Age here, the tech scene is abuzz. From ride-sharing and food-delivery apps to the use of advanced AI, people are getting more and more tech-savvy, but our humanness is yet to be buried beneath the digital layer.

The contrast sharpens the moment you’re abroad. Need customer support? “Press 4 to hear our privacy policy.” Want to complain? A chatbot will “look into it.” If your lights stay off for two days, your neighbours might assume you’ve moved. Or died. Either way, it’s none of their business. Be it for a job, dating, or friendships, you’re always on a roster. In the end, efficiency wins but at the dear cost of intimacy.

Therapy buzzwords like “trauma dump” and “protecting your peace” are thrown around on the daily now, but I think there is something weirdly comforting about knowing others and being known. In a time when people are turning to AI for actual emotional support, I very much cherish and find solace in the tea-talks with friends and acquaintances as we ramble on about nothing and everything at once.

Does this quaintness hold us back? Probably. Queuing at a counter instead of clicking a button costs time. A chat with the neighbour can derail your perfectly optimised morning. But it also undercuts the loneliness that seems to be the subscription fee for modern convenience. Capitalism may prefer us isolated, yet communal life keeps finding loopholes in the form of borrowed chargers, shared umbrellas in monsoon, and directions from Shyam dai. 

I’m no technophobe, and I don’t always love the inefficiencies. But I’ll happily take five extra minutes, three neighbourhood opinions, and one unsolicited marriage suggestion over talking to a chatbot any day.