Hijabs and Ghunghats

I find a strange dichotomy in my thoughts when it comes to hijabs and ghunghats.

To be honest, I like them. I love them, even. Not in the way society usually frames them, but in the way I see them, simply as clothing, as a language of expression. There is something undeniably beautiful about them, something quiet and maybe intentional, something that communicates without trying to explain itself.

A hijab covers everything in one colour, leaving only the eyes visible. And there is something quietly striking about that. The way it narrows attention. The way it refuses distraction. It gently forces you to look where expression truly lives. The eyes.

Nothing else is revealed, yet somehow everything is. You can sense joy before it becomes a smile. You can notice hesitation before it turns into words. You can catch anger, sadness, curiosity, warmth, all without a single feature being exposed. Someone once said that eyes speak more than words ever could, and the hijab seems to do the same.

In a world obsessed with visibility, the hijab does something counterintuitive. It hides to reveal. It covers the focus. It tells you that beauty doesn’t have to announce itself loudly. A woman’s eyes become the first thing you notice. Not her body. Not her shape. Just her gaze. And in that gaze, you are asked to slow down, to read, to feel. 

The ghunghat does something similar, at least the kind that doesn’t block, but softens. The slightly transparent one. It doesn’t hide beauty, it delays it. It creates a pause between seeing and knowing. It suggests that beauty isn’t meant to be consumed instantly, but discovered slowly, through closeness, through comfort, through trust.

A ghunghat allows presence without exposure. You see enough to be curious, but not enough to claim. It teaches patience without saying a word. It reminds you that some things are not meant to be rushed, that attraction doesn’t have to be immediate to be real.

There’s a scene in Devdas that captures this perfectly. When Devdas returns after years, Paro doesn’t reveal herself right away. She stays behind a sheer curtain, her back turned, her voice reaching him before her face does. She asks him to come at night, when the moon appears as if to say that some beauty reveals itself only in the right moment, under the right light, only when there has been waiting, only when there has been longing.The ghunghat, in that sense, becomes more than fabric. It becomes a language.

But then comes the uncomfortable truth.

In real life, hijabs and ghunghats rarely stand for poetry. More often, they stand for restriction.

They become symbols of permission. Of control. Of a quiet reminder that a woman’s body and her life are not entirely hers, but belong to religion, family, society, or some undefined idea of “honour.” What could have been a choice turns into an instruction. What could have been an expression becomes a boundary drawn by someone else.

And even as visible hijabs and ghunghats slowly disappear, what replaces them worries me more.

The unworn hijab.

The invisible ghunghat.

Modern clothes layered over old, unquestioned control. A woman is “allowed” to wear jeans and shirts, but not to decide freely. Not where she goes. Not how she lives. Not what she chooses for herself. Her freedom remains conditional.

She is taught to follow first and explore later. She is taught to carry the weight of her parents’ respect in society before her own happiness. In every decision, she is asked to choose something over herself.

And slowly, choosing herself starts to feel like a betrayal. Selflessness is demanded, not chosen.

The fabric may be gone, but the mindset stays, stitched tightly beneath the surface.

I remember the backlash when photos of Shah Rukh Khan with his daughter Suhana went viral. She was wearing a bikini. He was standing beside her. What followed had little to do with clothing. It turned into noise about culture, religion, morality, and outrage dressed up as concern. Suddenly, the debate wasn’t about a young woman’s choice, but about who gets to decide what is acceptable, and who gets to sit in judgment.

What struck me wasn’t the anger, but the contrast. How rare it is to see men like him. Not men who allow women to do things, but men who make it safe for women to choose. There’s a difference. A quiet but crucial one. If she wants to wear a hijab, let it be because she wants to. If she wants to wear a bikini, let that be her choice too. The question is never the cloth. The question is whether it comes from freedom or from fear that has learned how to sound like consent.

What replaces freedom most often isn’t force. It’s conditioning. Being taught early what not to want. Which questions are dangerous? Which desires should stay quiet? Which dreams require permission before they’re even spoken? Over time, the cage becomes invisible. No one has to say no anymore, because she learns to say it to herself first.

That’s when hijabs and ghunghats stop being fabric. They become reminders. Not always of faith or beauty, but of limits placed gently, repeatedly, until resistance feels like guilt. Control starts passing itself off as care. Obedience gets renamed as virtue. And slowly, choice begins to feel like disobedience.

To those girls,

with the hope that someday, they won’t have to think before they breathe.

-Vimarsh Shah

Feb 2026, Ahmedabad.