Aishwarya Srivastava

It was never just a dot.

For me, it was Mummy standing near the door while I rushed out for my exams. I would already be nervous, already late, already revising answers in my head. And just when I thought I was ready to leave, she would stop me.

“Ruko,” she’d say, opening that small red dibbi.

Sometimes I would sigh. Sometimes I would say, “Mummy, mujhe late ho raha hai.” But I would still bend my head. Her thumb, warm and familiar, pressing the laal tika onto my forehead.

“Sab achha hoga.”

And for some reason, I believed her. The fear didn’t disappear, but it felt lighter.

It was also Nani every morning, after her bath, her hair still slightly wet, standing in front of the mandir.

She would light the diya first. Then, very patiently, she would put a bright red tika on every god’s forehead. Ganpati. Shiv ji. Ram ji. One by one. The same care each time. It almost felt like she was greeting them. Like this small touch completed the prayer.

The same red. The one on the gods. The one on me.

Growing up, I never questioned it. It was just part of life. On festivals it was brighter. On normal school days it was smaller. By afternoon it would smudge a little, mixing with sweat and dust, but it always began the same way. With someone else’s hand resting gently on my forehead.

In temples, the pandit would press it firmly and say, “Bhagwan tumhara bhala kare.”

At home, Mummy never said big words. Just, “Dhyaan se jaana.”

That was enough.

The laal tika never felt grand or dramatic. It felt close. Like protection that doesn’t make noise. Like faith that doesn’t need explanations. Like love that shows up quietly and daily.

I have seen it on framed pictures of Ram ji hanging slightly crooked in our living room. I have seen it shine on Shiv ji during Mahashivratri. I have seen it sit proudly on Ganpati Bappa right before I whispered, “Bas pass kara dena.”

And somewhere between Nani’s calm morning rituals and Mummy’s rushed exam-day blessings, that small red dot became something more. It became a memory. It became a touch. It became reassurance. It became that small pause before stepping into the world, when someone silently chooses to protect you.

It is strange how something so small can carry so much. Generations. Habits. Silent prayers passed down without speeches or explanations.

The laal between the brows is not just tradition. It is the space where faith meets family.

And even today, when Mummy presses it gently on my forehead, I do not just feel blessed.

I feel seen.
I feel held.
I feel home.