India has witnessed many political controversies, but some moments cut deeper because they strike at the very idea of dignity and constitutional morality. The recent incident in Patna, where Bihar Chief Minister Nitish Kumar was seen pulling off the hijab of a young Muslim girl while handing over a certificate at a public function, is one such moment. What should have been a routine ceremonial gesture turned into a deeply disturbing act that raises serious questions about power, patriarchy, prejudice and the shrinking moral compass of those in authority.
The act itself was unacceptable. A woman’s attire, especially one rooted in personal faith and identity, is not for any man—least of all a constitutional authority—to touch, alter or mock. Consent is not optional. Respect is not conditional. Yet what makes this episode far more alarming is not just the Chief Minister’s conduct, but the shameless defence mounted by his party members and political allies. Instead of unequivocally condemning the act, they chose to trivialise it. A Cabinet Minister from neighbouring Uttar Pradesh went to the extent of making a shocking remark that the Chief Minister had “only grabbed the dupatta or hijab”, as if that somehow lessens the gravity of the act. One shudders to imagine what moral abyss such logic opens up—if this is acceptable, where does one draw the line?
This is not merely about one individual or one incident. It fits into a larger, dangerous pattern where minority religious communities, particularly women, are increasingly made to feel like second-class citizens in their own country. Ironically, those who routinely accuse the opposition of “minority appeasement” have themselves crossed many lines that should never be crossed in a civilised, constitutional democracy. The relentless politicisation of the hijab, the selective outrage, and the calculated silence all point to a deeper malaise.
The Constitution of India guarantees every citizen the right to practise and profess their religion. Muslim women, like women of any other faith, have the right to dress in accordance with their beliefs. That right does not diminish because a Chief Minister is present, nor does it evaporate on a public stage. The hijab debate has already poisoned public discourse; this incident now drags it into the realm of personal violation and institutional complicity.
Equally troubling is the silence of institutions meant to protect women. Neither the National Commission for Women nor the Bihar State Women’s Commission has taken suo motu cognisance of this incident. There has been no condemnation from the women’s wings of the ruling party or its allies. This silence speaks volumes. It reinforces the growing perception that these bodies function in tandem with political power, springing into action only when the victim fits a “selective background”. Justice for women cannot be filtered through ideology, religion or political convenience.
The larger question, then, is unavoidable: until when will women from minority religious communities continue to face such discrimination and humiliation? The Prime Minister frequently invokes slogans like “Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao” and speaks eloquently about respect for women from the ramparts of the Red Fort. If respect for women is truly a primary agenda, will there be a clear and unambiguous condemnation of this act by a Chief Minister who belongs to an allied political formation? Or will moral courage once again be sacrificed at the altar of political arithmetic?
When those at the very top are seen normalising or defending behaviour that amounts to outraging the modesty of a young woman, the consequences go far beyond one state or one government. It sends a dangerous signal to society at large—that power can excuse impropriety, that minority women are fair game, and that accountability is optional for the powerful. This is not just a women’s issue; it is a law and order issue, a constitutional issue and a moral issue.
In such circumstances, the burden of justice inevitably shifts to the courts. If executive and statutory bodies fail, the judiciary must step in to safeguard the rights and dignity of citizens. The courts must examine whether a cognisable offence has been committed and act without fear or favour. When the head of a state appears to get away with such conduct, the erosion of public trust is inevitable, and governance itself loses its moral legitimacy.
India has seen this pattern before. Christian nuns and missionaries working with marginalised women have been stopped, arrested and falsely accused under the pretext of conversion or trafficking, only for the truth to unravel later. The message is consistent and chilling: those who serve or belong to minorities are suspect, while those who violate their rights often enjoy impunity.
But what kind of Rajya are we witnessing today, where women are publicly humiliated, minorities are routinely targeted, and institutions remain mute spectators? In the epic, even in the court of the Kauravas, there was at least one voice of conscience—Vikarna—who spoke up against injustice. Is there no Vikarna left in today’s ruling dispensations?
One is compelled to ask, with anguish rather than rhetoric: when will a Saviour descend to protect the women of this country from the Kauravas of our time? Or will India finally find the courage to uphold its Constitution, its conscience and its promise of dignity for all—before power strips it away completely?
Who will protect women when power offends?
