Of misplaced Bindis (colorful dots that Indian women wear on their forehead)

They are everywhere...on the mirrors, on the bathroom walls, on the dressing table cabinet, even on the headstand of a bed. In the hotels, resorts, beds and breakfasts and even in the shacks. On the roads, ambulances and police vans...they are there too.

The first time I saw them, left on the bathroom mirror of a hotel room, I immediately thought of the story of the forehead that adorned it and the owner of the forehead that abandoned it to oblivion in a hotel room on a bathroom mirror. The forehead that adorned it will never return to fetch it, the forehead will easily replace it, the forehead that may not even exist any more. 

The misplaced bindi does not have much control over its state. Of course it is true that the ones that are misplaced are mostly the red, black or the maroon ones, so in the bindi caste system they surely come way down at the bottom. I don't think I have seen any of the ornamental bindis misplaced. So as a bindi, it needs to move up in the bindi caste system to ensure the forehead's loyalty to it. But we digress, any social revolution needs time, before that we must really first know their stories.


It is my believe that every misplaced bindi has its own story, what brought them to that place, the bathroom, that particular hotel and who accompanied the forehead. So like a fool, every time I see them, misplaced, forgotten, left, trampled, I talk to them, I ask them these questions...I want to know their stories. 

One misplaced bindi once told me that it was not the intent of the forehead to leave it on the dining chair. The forehead was having an heated argument with it's companion, one thing led to another and a slap across the forehead dislodged the bindi to the dining chair. I found it quite improbable, the trajectory, the force of the slap and the perfect placement of the bindi on the dinning chair, but I did not quite argue. If that's what makes the bindi feel comfortable, then that's the story am gonna tell every body.

The other misplaced bindi in one of the run-down motel room bathrooms told me that the forehead was in a hurry. While washing her face she saw on the mirror that she still had the bindi on, callously stuck it on the mirror, washed her face and then walked out of the bathroom, leaving the bindi on the mirror wall to talk to me, someday. I don't like this bindi's story much, it has a matter-of-fact way about it, no room for imagination, a tad bit depressing and way too practical. But again, if that's what the bindi tells me to tell every body, then that's what am gonna do.

Their love blossomed under the trees, the bindi said. "I was her lucky bindi", the bindi proclaimed. "she was wearing it the day, he asked her out." They held hands together, against the sun, the rain, the families and the society. They stood together, by it all, and then won. It was a monsoon evening, the bindi said, when they came to this resort after 30 years of togetherness. They sipped their tea on the balcony in silence. He looked at her and asked her not to go. The forehead said that she was ready. She was happy, content and ready to go. She touched his face and said, "I lived with you, I now need to go." She took off her worn-off bindi from her forehead and placed it on the balcony frame. She looked at the bindi and said, "I have all the luck that I needed all through my life. I set you free." This story made me teary. The bindi wanted me to tell every body that it was not forgotten, it was not misplaced, it chose to be there, that evening, left on that balcony frame as a witness to life and death.

Her heart rate grew faster. The strong hands pushed her, her frail body could not resist. Her saree got stuck, they ripped it and shoved her into the van. The others followed, all cramped in that van, shivering, sweating and numb. Strong hands slapped them, pulled their hair, kicked them. They endured. They knew they will be back in this van, again, few months later, and it would be the same. The bindi on the van floor told me so. I looked at it, I picked it up and carried it with me. "Why are you doing this?" the bindi asked me, "there will be more. will you be able to pick each one up?" I stay silent.

The siren blared through the traffic as the ambulance sped. She couldn't stop crying, she held his limp hand firmly, hoping that every breathe in her body goes to his, gives him life, gives him health. The siren kept blaring, she wiped her sweating forehead, walked out of the van with the stretcher, rushed to the emergency, the misplaced bindi on the road hoped and prayed for his good health. Do you know if he is fine now? the bindi asked me. I assured it that he is.

The misplaced bindis, they all have stories, I believe. They all have...