Mother’s bindi, My bindi

By Paromita Talukder

This poem unveils my initial relationship with a specific part of my culture, the bindi, and the change that I go through to fully accept an obscure piece of my identity.

the point at which creation begins¹,

                                                               what does it matter, ma!

piercing orbs cut in two

sewn unfastened by unruly tentacles

and in between lies

                                                               why does it matter!

a single tear-drop of a million

women

their cries rippling²,

                                                                get rid of it!

they watch with their third

and warn of the trap

capturing clouded light,

                                                                you don’t need it anymore!

just as the eyes lure in radiance and

deviously encage it,

the burden of a spiraling trap of 

disowning what brings tenor in life

makes way.

.

a moment of heat, brief security,

like the wind coerced into a cocooned gossamer veil,

I felt as I walked with her, gripping her fingers, 

our leveled staccato footfalls

losing tempo 

as eyes peered up at the middle of her forehead

and pierced through the veil,

wavering my steps,

why do you still wear it ma! I had asked,  

“they look at you funny and keep

 asking me these silly questions!”

questions that I had no answer to

so I screamed with my lidded mouth,

clenched my anxiety tightly within my fist,

and floundered,

because how was I to know the reason why

you cling on to that dot as hard

as it clings on to you,

like it gives you meaning just

as you give it meaning,

a mutual bond, agreement, of sorts to remember where

you, and I, and it comes from,

when, I wonder, did my feet fall into step again

into a metronome, 

and clenched fists turned to slacken fingers

that align the speckle between my brows, 

and offer another dimension to my

vision .

1 In the Nasadiya Sukta (Hymn of Creation), the middle of the forehead is said to be the point at which creation begins, the seat of concealed wisdom, and the focal point of the subconscious mind that serves as the third eye. 

2 In the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971, which was partially religiously motivated, hindu women were easily identifiable and targeted because of the bindi on their forehead. They were brutally raped and murdered, and yet they continued to square their shoulders, tighten their sarees and raise their heads in an attempt to fight back. They were not going to have their culture torn away from them as easily as one can tear off a bindi. 

Process

My Indian/Bengali culture has shaped me to be the person I am today, but I didn’t always proudly embrace certain practices and traditions. My mentor had asked me to talk about any childhood experiences that led me to try and hide my identity and I told her about an unpleasant interaction I had with children my age a few years ago. We decided to base my personal voice around that experience, and use imagery and vibrant descriptions to draw out powerful scenes. I also used various historical events and religious terms throughout the poem, which many people might not know about, so my mentor suggested we further explain certain concepts and words using footnotes.