Recently, while traveling from Juhu to Bandra, I witnessed something that, while entirely normal in India, still manages to surprise me every time. An auto-rickshaw—technically built to seat three—was carrying five fully grown adults, not including the driver. It looked like something out of a slapstick comedy sketch—like one of those clown cars where bodies just keep pouring out.
Let me clarify the scene: four passengers squeezed themselves into the back row, contorting like human origami, while the fifth perched casually in front beside the driver. This front-seated passenger had his arm draped around the driver’s shoulders—as if they were two old friends on a Sunday drive instead of total strangers navigating Mumbai traffic.
Now, I’ve seen this before, many times in fact. But this time, something about it made me pause.
Having spent the last four years in the U.S., where personal space is almost sacred, this scene stood out to me more than it might have before. In the U.S., even an Uber driver may hesitate to let you sit in the front seat—sometimes declining altogether or expressing visible discomfort. The idea of sharing such an intimate space, let alone physically touching a stranger while they drive, would likely be met with resistance.
So I started wondering: is personal space just not a thing in India? Or is there something deeper going on here?
As it turns out, there is. This isn’t just about space—it’s about norms, context, and culture. Behavioral science has a name for this: proxemics, the study of how humans use space in social interactions. What’s “comfortable” varies wildly across cultures. In India, what would be considered crowding in one culture is often interpreted as closeness—or even care—in another.
India’s behavioral defaults are deeply influenced by a collectivist ethos. Shared spaces, shared experiences, and shared discomforts are part of everyday life. There’s even a word for this in daily Indian parlance: adjustment. You’ll hear people say it constantly, and it’s not just logistical—it’s emotional. We adjust our expectations, our plans, our personal bubbles. This “adjustment culture” reflects not just a tolerance for inconvenience, but an ingrained preference for interdependence over personal boundaries.
Contrast this with the West, where individualistic values dominate—independence, autonomy, clearly defined space. In behavioral economics, this translates into sharper risk boundaries, lower tolerance for ambiguity, and stronger emphasis on personal agency. In the U.S., a shared Uber is seen as a service downgrade; in India, it’s often just how transport works.
There’s also the theory of cultural tightness and looseness, which helps explain this further. “Tighter” cultures tend to have stronger social norms and less tolerance for deviance. “Looser” cultures are more flexible, spontaneous, and tolerant of variation. India’s looseness in norms around space, transport, and noise doesn’t indicate disorder—it reflects an evolved coping system in a complex, high-density environment. What looks chaotic is often deeply cooperative.
Of course, this does not mean India lacks a concept of personal space altogether. In urban areas, especially among younger generations as I see with myself and my first circle of contact, there is a growing awareness and preference for boundaries and individual comfort. Yet, the overarching cultural ethos remains one of inclusivity and togetherness—even if it means being uncomfortably squished in the back of an auto.
The behavioral backdoor 