By Janardan Subedi
When I posted on social media asking forgiveness from friends and family in Nepal for not being able to meet them during my recent visit, I expected polite nods and a few “no worries” comments. Instead, one reply stopped me in my tracks.
It came from my old and dear friend, Mr. Sushil Kumar Pant. It was short, sharp, and—knowing him—full of love wrapped in barbed wire: “If you really mean what you wrote, send me a ticket. I will come over and slap you on your face for not even calling once while you were here.”
Now, some might read that and see only the slap. But if you’ve grown up in Nepal, you know this kind of message is a jewel. This isn’t hostility—it’s affection in its rawest, most unpolished form. It’s the kind of thing a friend says when the bond is so deep that no amount of time, distance, or missed calls can erase it.
That’s the paradox of true friendship. Your closest friends are the ones who will welcome you with open arms—or an open palm across the cheek—depending on how badly you’ve neglected them.
### The Guilt of Absence
My wife and I had come to Nepal with the simple, happy plan of meeting everyone—family, friends, old neighbors, the tea shop owner who still remembers my usual order from decades ago. But life, or more precisely, illness, had other plans. Ten days of our trip were hijacked by sickness, and my schedule collapsed like an old footpath after monsoon rains.
When you’ve been away from home for years, each visit feels like a race against time. Every face you want to see, every hand you want to shake, every conversation you want to have—they all compete for the same short hours. And when you fail to meet someone dear, it’s not just their disappointment you feel. It’s yours too.
In Nepali culture, visiting someone’s home is not just a social act—it’s an affirmation of the relationship. To not visit, especially when you’re in the same city, can feel almost like a betrayal. That’s why I posted my apology on Facebook: a blanket attempt to say, “I’m sorry. I wanted to see you. Life didn’t cooperate.”
### The Friend Who Would Slap Me
Enter Sushil. I’ve known him long enough to know that behind the mock threat is a simple truth: he missed me. He was hurt. And he was letting me know in the most Sushil way possible—by turning pain into humor and humor into a mild threat.
Friendships like ours survive precisely because they allow for this kind of honesty. You don’t need to coat your words in layers of politeness. You can be blunt, even abrasive, because the foundation is trust. You can say “I’ll slap you” and mean “I care enough to be angry.”
In sociology, we talk about strong ties—relationships that are emotionally close, durable over time, and resilient to conflict. These are the friendships where absence is noticed, silence is felt, and neglect—however unintentional—gets called out without ceremony.
### The Culture of the Unspoken
Nepali friendships have their own language, and much of it is non-verbal. A raised eyebrow can replace a paragraph. A joke can hide a wound. A mock insult can be a declaration of loyalty.
When Sushil said he would slap me, he was really reminding me of the unspoken contract we’ve shared since our youth: no matter where we go in life, we will show up for each other. Missing a meeting is not a small thing—it’s a breach in the rhythm of our bond.
### Distance Makes the Heart Ache (and Sometimes Swear)
For those of us living abroad, every trip to Nepal is a mix of joy and anxiety. Joy because we’re home, anxiety because we know we won’t be able to see everyone we want to. There’s always someone you miss. Always someone you couldn’t call. And sometimes, it’s the ones you miss the most who take it the hardest.
The slap Sushil threatened me with is a metaphor for that ache. It’s the sting of realizing that friendship requires more than fond memories—it demands presence. And when presence isn’t possible, absence hurts.
### The Social Media Apology Problem
My Facebook post was sincere. I wanted to reach everyone at once, to say “I’m sorry” in public. But social media apologies are tricky. They can feel impersonal, even lazy. They lack the warmth of a phone call, the intimacy of a conversation over tea.
In fact, the reason Sushil’s comment hit so hard is because it exposed the gap between intention and action. Yes, I meant my apology. No, I didn’t make the call I should have. That’s the uncomfortable truth of living in the age of instant communication—we can broadcast our feelings to hundreds of people at once, but still fail to connect with the one person who really matters.
### Friendship as a Political Statement
It may sound odd, but friendship in Nepal is almost political in the way it demands loyalty and visible support. Just as in politics, absence is noticed, silence is interpreted, and showing up is everything.
In a country where trust in institutions is low, personal networks—friends, family, allies—become the most reliable currency. To not maintain them is to risk losing the safety net that we all depend on, consciously or not.
Sushil’s reaction reminded me that in our context, friendships are not just emotional—they are social contracts. They carry expectations that are as binding as any written agreement.
### The Slap as a Blessing
If I’m honest, I think I needed Sushil’s slap—at least metaphorically. It was a wake-up call to not let distance and busyness erode the ties that give life its meaning.
We often assume that old friendships don’t need tending, that they’ll simply endure on the strength of shared history. But history alone is not enough. Relationships, like gardens, need care. Neglect them for too long and you’ll find weeds where flowers used to grow.
In that sense, the slap is a blessing. It’s proof that someone still cares enough to be upset, still values the relationship enough to demand better.
### A Promise for December
I’m back in the U.S. now, but I’ve made myself a promise: when I return to Nepal in December 2025, I will see Sushil first. No excuses, no apologies. And if he still wants to slap me, I’ll take it with gratitude. Because in that slap is a lifetime of shared stories, shared struggles, and the kind of loyalty you can’t buy or fake.
Until then, I’ll carry the reminder that friendship is not about grand gestures—it’s about showing up, even if it’s just for a cup of tea.
And to all my friends who I missed this time: I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll try to earn your laughter before I risk earning your slap.
((Dr. Janardan Subedi is Professor of Sociology at Miami University, Ohio. He writes on political ethics, democratic transitions, and institutional accountability in South Asia.)