Operation Sindoor: Weaponising Patriarchy in Nationalist Rhetoric

The name “Operation Sindoor” follows a clear symbolic logic. The terrorists targeted unarmed Hindu men. In response, the state evoked the vermilion worn by married Hindu women—particularly those from dominant castes—as a metaphor for national honour. For every Indian life lost, the cry went, a speck of sindoor in retaliation. The symbolism resonated nationwide, yet its implications ran deeper. Women who questioned this framing or advocated peace were punished, accused of sedition, and branded anti-national.

Uttar Pradesh Police filed FIRs against the folk singer Neha Singh Rathore and the activist-academic Dr Madri Kakoti (known online as Dr Medusa). Rathore was booked for posts asking who benefits from the Pahalgam attack and whether prior intelligence was ignored. Kakoti, a professor at Lucknow University, was charged over a video warning of escalating hate rhetoric and calling for justice and protection for Kashmiris.

The pattern was clear in the online vilification of Himanshi Narwal, widow of Lieutenant Vinay Narwal, who died in the attack. When she appealed for peace, saying, “We don’t want any hatred for anybody… we want peace and only peace”, trolls launched a campaign of character assassination. Her grief was no longer acceptable once she diverged from the state’s war narrative.

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Such trolling is not new. Women who offer dissenting political or cultural views are often targeted. “Feminists” are mocked as man-haters; dissenters are labelled enemies of the state. Yet both Rathore and Himanshi are Hindu women—the very constituency the state claims to protect. As Prime Minister Narendra Modi declared, “They tried to erase our sindoor. We turned them to dust.” But one must ask: Is the state committed only to those women who echo its ideology?

The message is unambiguous: peace-advocating women, Hindu or otherwise, will not be tolerated.

A populist, patriarchal framework

This controlling impulse has precedent. After the abrogation of Article 370, several lawmakers made openly sexist comments about Kashmiri women. The urge to police women’s bodies and voices fits within a broader pattern of gendered violence, amplified by the populist, patriarchal framework of the ruling regime.

The Kashmir crisis—deepened by worsening India-Pakistan relations—has become not just a site of geopolitical friction but also a terrain for suppressing Muslim identity and consolidating authoritarian control. The “sindoor” of Operation Sindoor is not just a cultural marker; it becomes a symbol of Brahmanical patriarchy, aligning itself with the ideological goals of a Hindu Rashtra.

Clearly, this patriarchy is rooted in the Manusmriti, whose casteist-patriarchal worldview (Manuvaad) continues to shape dominant norms. In this schema, dominant-caste women are deified or domesticated as dutiful daughters, chaste wives, self-sacrificing mothers, or desexualised widows. When Himanshi appeared on video wearing lipstick after her husband’s death, trolls attacked her for violating this code.

If the Hindu family is a microcosm of the nation, then the nation’s women are expected to submit to the patriarch’s control—in this case, Prime Minister Modi, self-styled protector of Bharat Mata and every woman’s sindoor.

Operation Sindoor evokes nostalgia for Bharat Mata—a mother to be protected and, therefore, surveilled. But this raises urgent questions: What exactly is this “honour” being defended? Why must women’s honour become a pretext for militarisation?

As the feminist activist Kamla Bhasin once said: “When I’m raped, people say I lost my honour. How did I lose my honour? My honour is not in my vagina. I’d like to ask: why did you place your community’s honour in a woman’s vagina?”

A desire for domination

Throughout history, women have been traded in marriage to gain kingdoms or broker peace, treated as war trophies. Much like sovereign control over land, transferring honour onto women’s bodies reflects a desire for domination.

This continues in modern India. Honour killings persist, upheld by caste councils, compliant police, and dominant caste elites. Marriage remains an institution for caste and gender control. Minority men in interfaith or intercaste relationships are criminalised under “love jihad” laws, while women are reduced to vessels of community honour.

In the 2025-26 Union Budget, the Ministry of Defence received Rs.6.81 lakh crore—a 9.5 per cent increase. Healthcare was allocated Rs.99,858 crore, education Rs.78,572 crore, and the gender budget Rs.4.49 lakh crore. While these social sector increases are notable, they remain modest when compared with military spending. Schools remain underfunded; millions still lack access to quality healthcare.

Scholars have long argued that such imbalances hurt sectors that benefit women and children the most. Militarism does not just mean war—it cultivates a world view steeped in force, hierarchy, and patriarchy. These values deepen gender inequities in both public and private spheres.

For women, especially those with marginalised identities, this translates into less access to formal labour, education, healthcare, and basic dignity. Rising militarism will only sharpen these exclusions.

Colonel Sofia Qureshi’s briefing the nation on Operation Sindoor was a landmark moment: a Muslim woman leading a historic strike. But this inclusivity rings hollow when Muslim women elsewhere face mounting hate. Post-Pahalgam, Islamophobic rhetoric surged. Social media accounts aligned with the Hindu Right incited sexual violence against Kashmiri Muslim women.

The same India where 11 men convicted of raping Bilkis Bano were released. Where a court upheld restrictions on hijab in colleges. Where wrestler-activists like Sakshi Malik were vilified for demanding justice against Brij Bhushan Singh, accused under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act.

In 2024, Modi called Muslims “infiltrators” and claimed they have “more children”. After Pahalgam, the Association for Protection of Civil Rights documented 184 hate crimes against Muslims in just over two weeks.

In this climate, the sindoor becomes an exclusionary symbol, excluding Muslim women, divorced women, single women, or any woman who refuses to conform. It upholds a model of womanhood that suits a vigilante-patriarchal state, one in which the Prime Minister positions himself as both protector and patriarch.

What of Hindu women who do not wear sindoor? Or those who support Palestine in defiance of India’s pro-Israel stance? Will the state protect them?

This war cry in the name of married Hindu women legitimises paternalistic control, reducing them to passive symbols of a militarised nation state. Their consent is not sought—it is assumed. In a state where the government refuses to criminalise marital rape, lest it “destabilise marriage”, the message is clear.

The saffron line

Operation Sindoor marks a turning point not only in the rise of Hindutva nationalism but also in how women’s empowerment is redefined through a hyper-masculine state lens.

In electoral politics, women’s votes are increasingly important. Whether it is the BJP States or Mamata Banerjee’s West Bengal, the engine runs on direct transfers and welfare schemes. The state now demands loyalty from these “empowered” women, urging them to take up arms against a manufactured enemy: Muslims at home, Pakistan abroad, and the Kashmiri Muslim identity caught between.

After the Pahalgam attack, BJP MP Ram Chander Jangra said the women spared “did not have the spirit of warriors”. Although he later apologised, the remark reflects a larger ethos: in today’s India, only two types of women are valorised.

One: the combatant, like Wing Commander Vyomika Singh or Colonel Qureshi, who also signals the “ideal” patriotic Muslim. Two: the militant ideologue, like those encouraged by K.R. Indira’s deleted call to “hack fiercely” or exemplified by Sadhvi Rithambara, who was awarded the Padma Bhushan this year despite a record of inciting communal hatred.

The surveillance state now reinforces extreme archetypes: women must either pass the loyalty test or become warriors in spirit. The rest—secular, dissenting, feminist—are traitors. Liberal feminists celebrating Operation Sindoor must ask: are we gendered pawns in a masculine theatre of war? If so, are we not complicit in the very violence we claim to resist?

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The secular woman is now framed as a threat—her refusal to align with nationalist fervour seen as betrayal. This shrinking space renders feminism hollow and apolitical. Should feminism not speak for Kashmiri women when they are reduced to tokens of state redemption, or for Kashmiris living under military occupation and surveillance? To remain silent is to enable.

Is Indian liberal feminism exposing its fault lines—opposing fascism with one hand while celebrating cultural wars that sustain it with the other? When the state crushes voices defending Dalit women, criminalises protest against genocide, or defines justice by caste and faith, we must ask: are we truly free?

It is said that “educate a woman, and you educate a family”. Perhaps it is also true that to radicalise a woman is to radicalise a generation.

Sanhati Banerjee is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.