When I was little, I used to watch my mom press a small red bindi to the center of her forehead before leaving the house. It was the final touch, the quiet punctuation to her morning routine. To me, it looked like a dot of sunlight — something simple, yet impossible to miss.
At first, I thought of it as decoration, something pretty that matched her sari or shimmered against her gold earrings. But to her, it was something deeper. In our culture, the bindi represents the third eye — a symbol of wisdom, protection, and spiritual connection. It’s placed where intuition lives. My mom once told me, ‘It’s a reminder to see the world not just with your eyes, but with understanding.”
What I didn’t know then was that the bindi’s story stretched far beyond our home. Its origins trace back over 5,000 years to ancient India, where it symbolized divine sight and spiritual awakening. Traditionally made from vermilion powder, it was once worn by married women as a sign of love and prosperity. But as centuries passed, its meaning evolved — from being a sacred symbol to a statement of identity, resilience, and womanhood. Generations of women, including my grandmother and her mother, carried that small mark as both protection and pride, even through times when their voices were unheard.
When my grandmother emigrated to the U.S., she told me she hesitated to wear her bindi. “People stared,” she said, “:But I wore it anyway.” I didn’t understand her courage then — what it meant to hold onto something so visible in a place that made you feel like a stranger.
When I was younger, I loved wearing one too. I’d sneak into my mom’s room and peel the tiny stickers from their plastic sheet, pressing one slightly off-center on my forehead. I’d stare in the mirror, fascinated by how something so small could make me feel so different — elegant, rooted, seen.
But as I grew older, that feeling shifted. The bindi that once made me proud started to make me self-conscious. I began to associate it with difference, with standing out in classrooms where no one else looked like me. I’d take it off before going out, wiping away not just color, but a piece of where I came from.
It wasn’t until years later, after leaving home for college, that I began to miss it. Away from my family, I started to crave the small traditions I’d once overlooked — the smell of incense during evening prayer, the soft rustle of my mom’s bangles, the way my dad folded his hands before stepping out the door. I realized that I’d spent years trying to simplify my identity to fit in, when in truth, it was the layers—colors, languages, and rituals—that made me who I was.
Now, the bindi means more to me than it ever did before. It’s not just a family tradition or an aesthetic choice; it’s a continuation of history — a quiet declaration that what survived empires, migration, and misunderstanding still lives through me.
When I wear a bindi now, I think of the women in my family—my mother, my grandmother, and those before them—who wore it as both adornment and affirmation. It connects me to their strength, their quiet defiance, and the beauty of traditions that have traveled continents without losing meaning.
The bindi is small, but it holds entire histories within its curve — of faith, womanhood, migration, and belonging. For me, it is a reminder that visibility is power, and that what once made me feel different now makes me whole.
