TITLE: Bindi
AUTHOR: Kallie E. Sage
ARTIST: Jacarri
Miles and miles of fabric wraps itself around my waist, draping the ends across my shoulder. What feels like millions of safety pins stab tiny holes into the thin cloth, making sure everything is precisely where it belongs. The string holding my blouse together pulls itself as tight as possible, but not enough to steal my breath.
I’ve had this outfit chosen for weeks.
After seemingly hours of fiddling with my lehenga, I finally shift my attention to the deep, unbroken shadow cascading from my temple. I’ve decided to do something special with it today. Working swiftly, I pull the strands away from my face, pinning them with clips and bands behind my head. The push and shove of each adornment as they fight for dominance over my hair is nothing compared to the joy reverberating through my veins, my joints, my nerves.
I turn to the mirror, a smile spreading across my lips as I realize the strength I hold when I am dressed like my ancestors. This strength carried them through thick and thin. This strength was necessary for their survival.
There’s only one step left.
I venture into my mother’s closet of endless clothes and jewellery, ready to put the finishing touch on my look. A bindi. I pick a small maroon sticker from the pages and pages of various colours, shapes, sizes. This is the perfect addition to my existing outfit. No cultural Indian wear is complete without it.
I am not complete without it.
To some, it may seem like an insignificant circle in the middle of one’s forehead. Some may laugh at it, muttering their disapproval beneath their breath.
To me, a bindi means embracing my culture, embracing my ancestors, embracing those who came before me. It means understanding that I am privileged; I can remove this symbol from my body whenever I wish to do so. I can be whomever I choose to be in a given moment, whomever is convenient in the circumstances.
It means that I am me.
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