By Janardan Subedi
There was a time in my youth when I was known not for my opinions on social decay or political failures, but for my sense of humor. I could walk into a room full of strangers, tell a few stories, and suddenly the air would feel lighter. People — sometimes total strangers — would ask their friends to bring me along to their social functions just to entertain their guests.
At first, I didn’t take it seriously. It felt like an amusing accident — being treated as a walking, talking comedy set. But over time, I began to notice something: the same people who laughed with me, admired me, and said “You must come again!” would forget me the moment the party was over. My humor was disposable — delightful while it lasted, unnecessary the next morning.
That’s when it struck me — I was not a person in those moments; I was a plate. A clean, shining plate when serving laughter, and a dirty one when the meal was done. And that, I realized, is not just the story of social gatherings — it’s the story of human life.
We eat from a plate, enjoy the meal, and the second we’re done — the same plate turns dirty. One bite ago, it was a noble vessel of nourishment, even sacred in a way. Now it’s something to be scrubbed, avoided, or pushed aside. What changed? Not the plate — just our perception of it.
And that’s how society works. We value people when they serve our needs, when they’re “clean” in our context — useful, amusing, compliant. But once their utility fades, we label them differently. We forget that yesterday’s laughter, or service, or sacrifice, came from the same source we now dismiss.
It’s absurd when you think about it — so absurd it’s funny. The entire structure of social life is basically a giant dishwashing system pretending to be civilization.
The sociologist Émile Durkheim could have written a thesis on this. He called it the sacred and the profane — two states of meaning that depend on context. You’re pure when you’re useful, and impure when you’re not. Society needs both categories to function, otherwise the kitchen gets confusing. But really, it’s all the same plate — it just passes through different hands and moods.
If Jerry Seinfeld ever studied sociology, he’d probably say, “So what’s the deal with plates? One minute they’re fine china, the next minute they’re disgusting. It’s the same plate! Did it suddenly commit a moral crime?”
Eastern philosophy would nod at this joke and turn it into enlightenment. The Buddha might say, “The plate was never clean or dirty. Only your mind made it so.” Krishna, in the Bhagavad Gita, would tell Arjuna, “Wash your dishes without attachment to the result.” And Arjuna, knee-deep in existential crisis, would probably ask, “But seriously, who’s doing the dishes?”
The truth is, purity is a performance. Cleanliness, whether physical or moral, is temporary — and often overrated. You can scrub a plate, or a conscience, or a reputation, but eventually, life will serve another meal.
Nepal, of course, offers its own tragicomic version of this. We worship purity in rituals but live knee-deep in garbage. We call our leaders corrupt after electing them. We treat the “clean” bureaucrat as a hero, until he refuses to serve our interests — then he’s dirty again. The same officials who were “visionary” last week become “rotten” the moment their plate of favors runs empty. It’s not politics; it’s table manners.
Even our spiritual devotion follows the same cycle. We light lamps before spotless idols, then toss the burnt wicks into polluted rivers. We want gods who are clean but are perfectly fine with temples surrounded by trash. We confuse ritual with renewal, and cleanliness with sanctity.
The modern world runs on the same comedy. We call it consumer culture. You buy, you use, you discard — whether it’s a phone, a friend, or a political ideal. Out of sight, out of moral responsibility. The rich consume and the poor clean up, both pretending the system is hygienic. Globalization, in truth, is just the world’s biggest sink.
Even relationships follow the dirty-plate principle. People are loved when they feed our emotional hunger — admired for their charm, humor, kindness — and then quietly placed in the sink of forgetfulness when their sparkle fades. How many friendships have ended not in conflict but in silence — that awkward, invisible moment when one plate was no longer needed?
And don’t even get me started on social media — the dishwasher of reputations. Everyone’s polishing their lives for display. You scroll through photos of shiny plates, all filters and smiles, no residue of reality. But scroll long enough, and you’ll see the grease underneath — the fear, the fatigue, the faint smell of burnt ego.
Our bureaucracy might be the biggest kitchen of all. Every government swears it’ll do the washing this time. They bring in reform as the new sponge. They scrub, they pose for a few photos, and then they leave the sink clogged. The next government comes in, looks at the mess, and says, “Wow, who dirtied all these plates?” Then they proceed to dirty a few more.
And through all this, we keep pretending to be clean — morally, politically, socially. But the truth is, the cleanest hands often belong to those who’ve never cooked. Maybe that’s why sages always said purity isn’t about soap — it’s about detachment. You can’t stay spotless if your purpose is to serve.
Eventually, you learn to accept it. Life is not about staying clean; it’s about learning how to wash with grace. Eat, dirty, wash, repeat — that’s the cycle. The mature ones laugh through it. The wise ones see it as rhythm. The rest of us keep buying new plates and wondering why the sink never empties.
So the next time you finish a meal, take a pause. Look at that plate. It’s not dirty — it’s simply experienced. It’s gone through joy, hunger, satisfaction, and mess. Just like you.
Because maybe the goal isn’t to stay clean. Maybe it’s to live fully, laugh heartily, and then accept the mess as part of the meal. To see comedy in contradiction. To know that the same people who loved your jokes yesterday might ignore you tomorrow — and to find peace, not bitterness, in that realization.
In the end, civilization is just a cosmic dinner party with seven billion guests — each one convinced their plate is cleaner than the rest. The joke’s on us.
But that’s okay. Because as long as there’s soap — and maybe a little humor — there’s hope.
Now seriously — who’s doing the dishes? Madam Sushila Karki and her team? Do they have enough water to clean it, or are they just sprinkling moral slogans and calling it detergent? Because judging by the stains left behind, I’d say the plates are still greasy, the soap is expired, and the water tap of justice hasn’t worked since 1990.
Maybe that’s the ultimate Nepali joke — everyone arguing about whose plate is dirtiest while the sink keeps overflowing. And somewhere in the chaos, the dishwasher is still waiting to be appointed.
(Dr. Janardan Subedi is Professor of Sociology at Miami University, Ohio. He writes on political ethics, democratic transitions, and institutional accountability in South Asia.)