Some moments do not need deep thought or political context to feel wrong. They hit you right away, at a human level. Watching the Bihar Chief Minister casually pull down a Muslim woman’s niqab on a public stage was one of those moments. It wasn’t a gesture, and it wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was power crossing a boundary it should not have crossed. It was a woman’s dignity being treated as if it could be negotiated. And it was a clear disrespect for the Constitution.
What should have been a proud moment for a woman doctor, a public acknowledgment of her dedication and work, turned into a moment of discomfort and humiliation. Her body, faith, and personal space were treated like public property. A man in the highest executive position in the state felt entitled to touch, adjust, and expose, as if her consent did not matter. That brief act carries a weight far heavier than many are willing to admit.
This is not just about a piece of cloth. It is about control. It shows a dangerous belief that having power allows someone to intrude on another person’s body. When an elected leader touches a woman’s religious attire without permission, it sends a deeply unsettling message. It suggests that dignity can be ignored by those in power, that visibility can be forced, and that minorities must always prove their place.
As a Muslim woman wearing the hijab, this incident was not only frightening but felt very personal. Tugging the hijab is not a trivial act for someone else to do. It is part of every Muslim woman’s faith, her autonomy, and her identity. Seeing a public official forcibly remove a woman’s veil felt like witnessing the loss of choice itself. It was a stark reminder of how fragile our freedoms are and how easily they can be taken away when those entrusted to protect them forget that authority has limits.
From the legal perspective, the silence around this incident is even more troubling. Article 21 of the Indian Constitution guarantees the right to live with dignity. Article 25 protects freedom of conscience and religion, while Article 29 safeguards the right of communities to conserve their culture. These are not just symbolic promises; they exist to prevent the kind of actions we witnessed. These rights do not disappear on a public stage, nor do they shrink in front of political authority. When a Chief Minister publicly ignores these principles, it normalises the idea that constitutional rights are optional and only upheld when it suits those in power.
What troubles the most is not only the act itself but also the reaction that followed. There are efforts to downplay it. There is an expectation that women should not “make a big deal” out of their boundaries being crossed. This is how injustice survives, not always through loud oppression but through quiet dismissal. If something like this can happen on a stage, in front of cameras, it forces us to ask an uncomfortable question: how safe are ordinary citizens when no one is watching? This was clearly a gendered act. A powerful man altering a woman’s clothing without her consent is not harmless or trivial; it is symbolic violence. It reinforces the idea that women’s bodies are open to public control, especially when those women are from minority communities. That message directly opposes any real claim of gender justice or secular governance.
This behaviour can also be understood within the patriarchal system that normalises men touching, correcting or “adjusting” women as a display of authority or dominance. Patriarchy conditions women to be silent and polite, even when violated and instructs men that boundaries can be porous when they are on the side of power. When a male leader, determines to change the attire of a woman against her will, it mirrors an attitude that views women’s bodies as public props, available for manipulation and handling.
Moreover, this incident sheds light on other sectarian and religious prejudices. There has been a long history of political controversy, mockery, and clothing “fixation” with the apparel of Muslim women. The act was not only gendered specific, but religiously specific as well. It represents a system of psychology where the dominant system chooses to remain neutral in a very oppressive manner over the bodies of the minorities. Such actions reinforce stereotypes, normalise intrusion and deepen the feelings of exclusion. It quietly deepens communal unease between the communities.
There is another uncomfortable truth that we must recognise. The woman whose niqab was pulled down did not react at that moment. She did not protest or speak out. Her silence should never be used against her; fear, shock, and the weight of power imbalance can make anyone momentarily voiceless. Yet this silence should lead us to a broader and more urgent conversation. Women, especially those at public spaces, cannot afford to remain silent. Every violation that goes unchallenged encourages the next one. Resistance does not always have to be loud, but it must exist. The moment an act is labelled as wrong, power begins to shift back. When women publicly assert their boundaries, they send a message far stronger than any apology: that dignity is not negotiable.
An apology from the Chief Minister is not just a courtesy; it is a constitutional requirement. However, words alone cannot fix the damage unless they come with accountability and real reflection. Public officials need to remember that having power does not mean they can be personal, and governance does not mean they can treat others as their property. As a law student, this moment requires more than just anger. It needs a strong reaffirmation of a basic truth: no position, power, or protocol gives anyone the right to violate a woman’s dignity without her consent. If we do not state this clearly now, we risk teaching the next generation that silence is necessary for survival. That is a lesson no democracy should accept.