Dear consumers of news,
There are moments in the public arena that pass fleetingly and dissolve in the pandemonium of background noise of daily news. Others, though very brief, leave a lasting, indelible mark on some minds. When you watch them first, you feel they will erode, but they linger; the recent incident involving Bihar Chief Minister Nitish Kumar was one of them. The incident occurred during a government function in Patna, where appointment letters were being distributed to newly recruited AYUSH doctors. A Muslim woman doctor, identified in media reports as an AYUSH appointee wearing a niqab, was on stage to receive her appointment letter from the Chief Minister when the episode took place.
During the interaction, Nitish Kumar is seen gesturing toward the woman’s face covering, indicating that she should lower it. Before she can respond, he reaches out and pulls the veil down himself, exposing her mouth and chin in full public view as officials and staff look on.
For many people it may have been just an incident where he pulled a niqab off a woman doctor’s face, or maybe an awkward, inappropriate gesture, but for me, who has been a niqabi for a significant number of years, it felt personal.
Initially, I thought in a day I would keep this incident in the dust of old news, but two days have passed and my anger remains the same, or maybe has brewed. What makes me more crestfallen is the reaction of the public. In years of my niqab journey, I have seen people treating it as an object for debate or arguments and have politicized and scrutinized it; however, this recent incident did not irk the very same people. The moment was not fleeting; the casual reactions of the people were not “casual”. These things lingered, pierced, and shattered my heart.
The niqab is not merely a piece of cloth or accessory that can be adjusted or unveiled by another’s hand for mere inquisitiveness or authority. It’s an identity, an honor, and a dignity. In Islamic theology, modesty—ḥayāʾ—is considered a core moral value. The Qur’an explicitly addresses modest conduct and dress for both men and women. Verses such as Surah An-Nur (24:30–31) and Surah Al-Ahzab (33:59) instruct believing women to draw their coverings over themselves so they may be recognized and not harassed. While the Qur’an does not explicitly mandate covering the face, it establishes a framework of modesty that later Islamic scholarship interpreted in varying ways. When that veil was pulled away in public, it was not just a breach of personal space; it was a violation of spirituality and femininity.
This was not an interaction between equals. This was a chief minister and a Muslim woman. A representative of the state and a citizen from a community historically policed, surveilled, and disciplined for its visibility.
For niqabi women, consent is central to visibility. Our faith and love for our Lord decide when and whom to show our face to. That choice is deeply spiritual. When someone authorized that choice even for a second, it sent a chilling message that our body, our boundaries, and our faith are negotiable in the presence of power. For many readers, it might sound like I am waking up from slumber, but it took me two days to get rid of the noise, the internal bewilderment, and the listlessness. How can a politician do this publicly and the incident not irk the world? How can this incident get such a smattering of criticism?
How can Bihar’s Minority Welfare Minister defend the move, stating Kumar showed “fatherly affection” toward the doctor, like an elder highlighting her success, and accused critics of misinterpreting to embarrass her.
“Nitish ji just showed love to a Muslim daughter. He wanted society to see the face of the girl after she became successful in life,” the minister said.
“Those in the opposition who are raising questions about his mental health are revealing their mindset,” he added.
Benevolent patriarchy is often more dangerous than open hostility. It smiles while it violates. It justifies transgression as care and intrusion as protection. When consent is overridden in the name of love, women are left defenseless.
Meanwhile, another minister downplayed the incident, arguing there was excessive fuss over merely touching the veil and smiling while questioning what if “somewhere else” was touched.
The remark, flippant and deeply disturbing, exposes more than a lack of discretion. It lays bare a mindset that continues to view women’s bodies not as inviolable sites of autonomy and dignity, but as objects open to speculation, comparison, and casual violation. In a single sentence, the discourse shifted from questions of consent and respect to a crude hypothetical that trivializes sexual boundaries.
For me, and for countless niqabi women, this was not merely a political misstep or a social faux pas. It was a visceral reminder of vulnerability. It was a warning that our choices may not always be respected, even in spaces meant to be safe, even by those entrusted with leadership.
This is not about veils alone. It is about whether women—especially Muslim women—are permitted sovereignty over their own bodies in public life. It is about whether consent matters only when it is convenient and whether dignity survives proximity to power. If a chief minister can unveil a woman without consequence, then the question is not what happened on that stage—but what kind of republic we are becoming.
