Illusion of choice - Borders, Bodies, and Belonging
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| Cover image created using AI (ChatGPT), based on the themes of the blog |
I was in Manchester to submit my bundle of documents to Country X (not naming it for now). I had an early appointment so I woke up even earlier, wore my favourite winter clothes and matching bindi, so that my visa photo would look nice!
It was from the centre informing me that my biometrics weren't clear and that they needed to take it again. In that moment, I assumed it was my fingerprints. That seemed routine and procedural.
When I reached the booth, I was told it was not my fingerprints, but my photograph. And, not because it was blurry or because of poor lighting or posture.
But because of my bindi.
My small cute harmless bindi.
I was asked: 'We need another photo without the bindi. Is that okay?' while setting up the system to click another photo.
I was given about a second to respond. With a smile.
However, that second did not exist in a vacuum as my mind was already elsewhere calculating whether I would miss my train, if i could claim a refund for two trains, how long a taxi would take, how much time I had to spare, whether the whole trip would unravel if I was delayed. My nervous system was already in logistics mode.
On top of that, my mind went into an overdrive. Was I overthinking this? Am I getting unnecessarily political? How is such a small bindi even affecting my photograph?
I had never faced this question before in my life.
I've always worn my bindi as a matter-of-fact part of my attire, part of my daily routine, especially before leaving my home. I have been asked what it signifies for me, the religion I grew up in, its cultural meaning, etc. But, never before had I been asked to remove it.
Anyway, I instinctively replied yes. Mostly so as to not create a fuss (lifelong conditioning).
I slowly removed my bindi from my forehead and placed it on my left thumb's fingernail to pass their tests of acceptability.
Before looking up, almost defensively, I added, that I had travelled extensively and had never faced this issue before. The person in question simply smiled, and then came the sound of a click. It was done.
I looked at my bindi feeling oddly sorry for disrespecting it. I silently apologised, put it back on my forehead and stood up to leave.
Only after geting up did the sharp feelings hit me hard.
I felt Agitated. Hurt. Humiliated.
What unsettled me the most was not just that I was asked to remove a cultural marker that shapes my identity but the context in which it happened. The woman who asked me was herself wearing a hijab. That added a layer I’m still struggling to process.
A part of me felt betrayed. Shouldn’t those of us who carry visible cultural or religious markers be instinctively protective of one another? Shouldn’t we understand, more than anyone else, how vulnerable it feels when your identity becomes something to be 'adjusted' for institutional comfort? Atleast, wasn't this the spirit behind our feminist struggles for choice? Wasn't this why I took to streets under the banner of 'not in my name'?!
Another part of me knows this is more complicated than individual intent. I understand compliance, employment, scripts, power hierarchies which sit between people and their values. That's me giving her the benefit of the doubt.
And yet, the sting remains.
What also lingered was this thought: If a country has a problem with my bindi, would I even want to visit it?
If I had been given time, real time, I know what I would have done. I would have politely said: 'I would prefer the photograph to be submitted as it is. I understand the consequences and I accept the outcome.'
If my visa were rejected because of a bindi, perhaps that would have been information for me, about where I do and do not wish to expend my energy and presence.
What troubles me is that I wasn’t given that choice. Consent given under time pressure is not free consent.
What also troubles me is that I may never know whether the embassy itself holds such restrictions or whether this was a decision taken at the level of the visa processing centre.
This entire episode also made me curious about other people with:
- visible religious symbols
- tattoos
- brightly coloured hair
- piercings
- scarification
- Hijabs, turbans, crosses, bindis
How are these bodies negotiated in such bureaucratic spaces? Who decides what is okay and neutral? And why does neutrality so often mean erasure?
If compliance requires removing parts of ourselves, then institutions at the very least owe us time, isnt it? Time to think, to ask, to refuse, to act with our own agency.
A recent photo in Rashtrapati Nilayam with my mom, aunt, and Mother-in-law. All of us in our lovely yellow attires and red bindis, saluting the freedom fighters on the wall behind us.
Bindi may not hold the same meaning for everyone. We give meaning to it. For me, the bindi I wear is not random, it binds me to my kin back home, to the generations of women on whose shoulders I stand on today. The bangle I wear connects me to my mother. These are MY meanings. They are relational. They are belonging.
And they are not things to be casually removed or erased for mere institutional approval.
I want to talk more about this someday, when Im less angry at myself for not declining the repeat photograph. I want to question systems, to speak with other women who have experienced simialr moments. I've read and heard so much about discrimination muslim women face, and I realised not having read enough about what women with Hindu identities experience left me unprepared.
All this to say: Identity should not be negotiated in seconds. We deserve time to think and act on our own terms. And no one should feel they have to compromise who they are just to keep a process moving.
For now, I am sitting with the discomfort and not rushing to resolve it. But, with a promise that I will not erase parts of who I am just to visit a country - be it for opportunity or vacation. On the train back, I had tears for not putting my foot down. For not being the strong person I seemed to think I was.
And, hopefully, someday I dont have to learn all my life lessons through pain and mistakes.
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