By Deepak Parvatiyar*
Respect Her Choice, Not Her Cover
A five-second gesture at a Bihar ceremony last week—Chief Minister Nitish Kumar pulling down a young Unani doctor’s niqab with a question “Yeh kya hai?”—has done what budgets, manifestos, and marathon speeches rarely manage: it yanked the nation’s attention to the real battlefield where Indian society keeps fighting itself.
The trigger was tiny. The explosion was massive. FIRs rained from half a dozen states, hashtags trended for days, ministers offered “fatherly affection” as defence, opponents demanded resignation, and one Union minister suggested dissenting women could kindly relocate to hell. Memes bloomed like monsoon weeds: Nitish Kumar photoshopped as a reluctant stylist, captions reading “Bihar’s new AYUSH treatment—forced unveiling for clearer vision.” Anchors smirked, panels shouted, effigies burned. Classic Indian tamasha.
But let’s admit it: the tug wasn’t the story. The story is us.
Every few months, we find a fresh spark—an advertisement, a film dialogue, a uniform rule, a comic strip—and promptly set the house on fire debating what women should wear, how they should behave, who gets to decide. We turn personal choice into public referendum, faith into political football, modesty into morality Olympics. One side cries “empowerment!” while quietly policing bodies. The other side cries “respect!” while quietly policing choices. Both sides claim to speak for women, but few bother asking the woman in question.
The young doctor? Her achievement—cracking a tough exam, earning a government post—got drowned in the controversy. Her dignity became raw material for prime-time ratings and vote-bank arithmetic. In the end, nobody won: not the “progressives” who want to liberate her by force, not the “traditionalists” who want to protect her by control. Only the circus profited.
Here’s the punch we keep missing: In a country that loves to lecture the world on diversity, we remain spectacularly intolerant of individual autonomy. We want women educated, employed, empowered—but only if they dress, speak, and live by the script we approve. Left, right, centre—everyone has a preferred uniform for half the population. The niqab today, the bikini tomorrow, the skirt the day after. The target shifts; the instinct doesn’t.
Real respect isn’t adjustable. It doesn’t come with paternal tugs, moral policing, or viral outrage cycles. It means letting adults—especially women—decide for themselves, without unsolicited stage directions from leaders, ministers, or keyboard warriors.
So next time a five-second clip threatens to derail national discourse, perhaps pause before picking sides in the tug-of-war. Ask instead: Whose life is this anyway?
Bihar’s fleeting gesture has handed society a mirror. The reflection isn’t flattering—but it’s honest. And honesty, unlike niqabs, can’t be pulled away.
