Every morning you’ll find me in the same spot, doing the same thing: deeply lining my eyes with kohl, and after one too many spritzes of my setting spray, pulling open my drawer to carefully extract something from a sticker sheet and firmly press it in between my brows.  

Wearing a bindi has been popularized by global icons, notably by Lara Raj from the girl-group Katseye and her sister Rhea Raj — both of whom are also Tamil women like me, reintroducing a tinge of Desi magic to their wardrobes. But this isn’t just a fashion statement; it’s liberation from confining ourselves to one identity over the other. In her article, “Indian American Women are Reclaiming the Bindi,” Yati Sanghvi discusses balancing both worlds.  

“For the longest time, my solution to being an ABCD — or American-born confused desi, a term that encompasses the dilemmas of assimilation into American culture … was to balance the American and Indian parts of myself as two separate halves, suppressing one or the other as needed,” Sanghvi said.  

Not only me, but millions of Indian Americans resonate with Sanghvi’s words. Be a Roman in Rome, right? But what happens when you’re a foreigner both here and in the homeland?  

I’m too Indian for America and too American for India. Where do I belong? In fact, where do we even begin to place millions of others in the diaspora?  

A plane crash is what it took for me to reclaim my identity.  

I landed in Sri Lanka early on the morning of June 12, 2024. We’d stopped at an elephant sanctuary to take pictures. On the drive back, I opened my phone to see my feed filled with the terrible aftermath of an Air India plane crash that claimed the lives of 242 people. It was haunting; just the week before, I had flown via Air India for my cousin’s marriage reception. I replayed the videos constantly in my head; the way the plane had begun a graceful plunge into a nearby medical college, not even a minute after taking off. How something that looked so intentional could claim so many lives. I counted myself fortunate to not have been a passenger on that plane or a medical student in that dining hall. But I mourned, as did my entire family. It could have been any one of us.  

Perhaps, what angered me the most was the comments I saw below each one of these videos, mocking things like what the plane may have smelled like, how having less Indians was a good thing, trash about scamming, etc. And we, as Indians, have known this for ages; racism against us is not only so normalized; we play into it, feeding into these harmful stereotypes. They permeate everything we consume; from derogatory cartoons in our childhoods to coming-of-age tales of young Indian Americans that do more harm than good. When these anchors exist everywhere, it makes sense how they will never truly allow us to reclaim the beauty of our identity.  

Let me take you to the bustling markets of Chennai, where aromas of ground herbs and fresh vegetables hang in the air. Where, everywhere you look, you see our beautiful women adorned with jewelry, each accessory curated to their saris. Come with me to the temples; rather than worship we can trace the intricacy of each sculpture with our eyes, inhale the rich scent of vermillion powder. The India you claim to know is entirely foreign to me; it devalues the rich culture I’ve been brought up in, the history and tradition that permeate every facet of my life. 

So, tell me then, how I’m supposed to behave when the lost lives of my brothers and sisters are treated as merely a spectacle, something to be made fun of. In fact, that joke that you make, or the sneer plastered across your face when one person mocks the accent of my rich history, is entirely half of me. Something incorrigible that I can’t get rid of. That I can’t hide.  

That is why I started wearing the bindi — because many Indian Americans try so hard to assert the “American” before the “India,” but we fail to acknowledge that when someone sees us, they will always see that we’re different. When “American” is the status quo, it makes sense why so many people feel the need to choose that over an identity that remains stigmatized and berated. But I can’t control how others perceive me. 

It’s time to change the narrative.  

I realized this bindi served not only as my silent protest but an invitation to both international Indian students and Indian Americans alike. Because this tiny symbol on my forehead screams, “I own this culture, and I want to reclaim this identity. In fact, I want to reclaim it with you.”  

Vanderbilt, look around you. There’s so much diversity to appreciate. Human beings were meant to be curious and learn before they judge. When you take the time to understand what you are unfamiliar with, you inspire others to celebrate the beauty of exploration.  

I am Indian before I am American. Respect my culture like how you respect every other. This bindi isn’t decoration. It’s a declaration — of where I come from, who I am and who I refuse to shrink into.