On a recent working day, a public bus heading from Rabi Bhawan to Harhar Mahadev carried the usual afternoon crowd — shoulder-to-shoulder passengers, slow traffic outside, and a long stretch of silence inside.

The man seated next to a passenger was on his phone, scrolling through TikTok. The volume stayed high for the entire hour-long ride. He watched a clip, replayed it if it caught his attention, and flicked past anything that didn’t hold it.

No one asked him to lower the sound. No one reacted. The bus moved through the city in the usual rhythm, but inside, attention stayed locked to screens. Nearly everyone on board was absorbed in their phones.

Scenes like this have become increasingly common in public spaces.

And this practice has entered the English lexicon — “phubbing.”

It is a portmanteau of “phone” and “snubbing”: Ignoring physically present people in favour of a smartphone.

At first glance, phubbing may look like nothing more than individual distraction. But taken together, these small moments reveal something larger and deeper — attention in shared spaces is no longer automatic; it’s divided, negotiated and often withdrawn into screens.

How often does one now walk into a room of a cafe and find people together, but not really together?

“Quite a lot,” says Arjun Kandel, who jointly runs Aarya Khaja Ghar in Tinkune with his family. In five years of running this place, he has seen a significant shift in consumer behaviour.

“In joints like ours, people didn’t just come to eat. They came to hang out, talked about a wide range of issues and even made new connections across the tables,” Kandel says. “But that is becoming rare now.”

He notices customers rushing in and out, always in a hurry. Even when people sit together, they are not really “together.” Attention rarely stays on each other for long.

“This place used to be filled with murmurs and laughter, and now, on most days, all one hears is the loud noise of Reels or TikTok,” he says. “Social media has made communication easier, but it has also quietly changed what it means to be present with someone; it has affected human connection.”

This growing shift is not only about etiquette or distraction. It is gradually reshaping the texture of everyday interaction — how people stay with each other, how deeply they listen and how easily they drift away.

It hasn’t just affected human connection; in some cases, it has also transformed into unsafe behaviour.

An Instagram user going by the name of @lifeaskrii recently shared a video on the platform on May 24. In it, her Yango rider is scrolling Reels on his phone while riding—his attention split between the road and the screen.

“About 25 minutes of watching Reels, TikTok, and YouTube Shorts while driving. Multiple near misses. Repeated warnings ignored. By the end of the ride, the driving became even more reckless,” she wrote. In the video, the rider is seen cruising on the road, his fingers on the screen.

But the shift in attention is not limited to the road. It is also visible in the way people now talk — or fail to talk — to each other.

For many, even simple conversation has begun to feel filtered.

Mira Tamang, 24, a student, originally from Baiteshwor, Dolakha, says online conversations often lack genuineness and emotional clarity.

“Even when we have a lot to say, it feels like we need to filter things out,” she says. “Sometimes I overthink even simple messages. There is no flow to such conversations, and it feels like texting for the sake of texting.”

She remembers a different rhythm of life in Dolakha, when she and her friends would loiter all evening, chatting away about their dreams and lives without any pressure.

Now, she says, even meeting friends feels scheduled and structured.

“It feels like we are adding too many filters, and aren’t having a raw, genuine connection,” says Tamang.

She also notices that the spontaneity is fading.

What appears as “busyness” is often something else: a cultural pressure to stay occupied, visible and constantly engaged.

“And when we chase busyness or pretend to be busy, the fewer chances there will be for casual conversations and spontaneous gathering,” she says.

More than a decade ago, when load-shedding was at its peak in Nepal, social life moved differently. People would be on the terraces talking to neighbours, or at the nearby chowk discussing politics, and family members around a candle or a lamp, having conversations.

“Back then, when there was electricity, my dad kept on listening to the news, but after the light went out, he sat beside me, asked how my day was, and about my homework,” Tamang recalls.

Those moments were not scheduled; they simply emerged in the absence of screens.

The contrast is not just nostalgic. It highlights how external conditions once created natural spaces for conversation, while today’s environment often feels every gap with digital content.

Writer and sociologist Rameshwori Pant says this change is now deeply visible inside homes.

Smartphones, she says, have drawn people inward.

“Family members may sit in the same room, yet no one has the time to talk to each other,” she says. Earlier, evenings meant shared stories after work. In village squares and chautaris, people exchanged news, opinions, and everyday life. Now, much of that has moved inside screens.

Pant also points to a growing pressure among young people, shaped by comparison and constant online pressure.

“Our valuable traditions, morality, and cultural values are gradually disappearing. What has increased instead is abuse, insults, and hatred,” she says. “If used properly, technology has made human life easier and more convenient. But its misuse is affecting the peace and harmony of society.”

A related — and serious — concern is the growing distance between parents and children, as the trend of kids getting hooked to smartphones has dramatically increased.

Many children these days are introduced to smartphones at a very early age, often using them while eating or to stay occupied for long periods.

“Ironically, it is often parents themselves who create this habit,” Pant says. “On one hand, parents are busy with work and modern lifestyles, and on the other, they need an easy way to keep children quiet. As a result, smartphones have become the simplest solution.”

Because of this, children no longer have the enthusiasm to talk with their parents, and parents no longer have the time to tell stories or folktales, or to share fun experiences with their children.

Pant has noticed a large gap between the younger generation (children) and the older generation (grandparents), that children are being deprived of the valuable knowledge and life experiences of elders.

Due to these many reasons, people are isolated in a ‘connected world’. A person now feels alone even while surrounded by a crowd.

The psychological implications of this can be catastrophic.

Psychosocial counsellor Dristy Moktan says these everyday interactions—loitering, casual talks, unplanned meetings—act as a form of emotional release. “We get the freedom to act, talk, and express ourselves without the pressure of being the ‘perfect’ around our loved ones,” she says.

Human beings, she adds, regulate emotions through each other—through shared presence, laughter, and simple time spent together.

But as screen time replaces these interactions, daily emotional grounding begins to weaken. Over time, even small disagreements or emotional conversations can feel harder to navigate.

“Many young people now regulate their emotions through devices,” she says.

When real conversations decrease, people begin turning to devices not just for entertainment, but also for emotional expression.

“So over time, devices become not just entertainment, but also a primary emotional outlet,” Moktan says. With constant digital access, she adds, society is entering an overstimulating era.

Attention shifts constantly. Fast content replaces slow presence. Boredom becomes uncomfortable. And in that shift, she says, moments of reflection quietly disappear.

At its core, phubbing is not just about distraction; it is about the redistribution of attention, and with it, a quiet reshaping of how people experience presence, intimacy and even silence.

Slowly, the nature of togetherness is changing. It is no longer just about being in the same place. It is about whether we are still present in it. And in buses, cafés, and living rooms across Kathmandu, that question remains quietly unanswered.

It’s like a crowded bus moves through the city but inside, everyone is connected — yet no one is really connected.

As Mira Tamang puts it simply: “Everyone is doing something. Everyone is busy. And when someone isn’t busy, they pretend to be.”