An important question is being asked amid a fervent campaign to make women the symbolic face of India라이브 바카라 response to the brutal killing of twenty-six tourists in Pahalgam, Kashmir, on April 22: does armed conflict create sindoor or widows?
In one stroke, a popular symbol of matrimony is recast as an emblem of blood and vengeance. At first, a nation wounded—its public bristling with anger—is told to await a ‘befitting response’. Women stand by, as the tired tropes play out: outsiders coming in, killing ‘our’ men, and wiping off sindoor from ‘our’ women라이브 바카라 foreheads, while the government promises to restore that honour with equal bloodshed in return.
Jubilation follows: women step into the streets, smearing sindoor as India strikes nine terrorist hideouts in Pakistan in the still of the night. India라이브 바카라 military campaign, Operation Sindoor, takes wing. Sindoor transforms into a jet-fighter runway, featuring in memes that students pass around in classrooms, and that Indians and Pakistanis taunt each other with on social media...So, who라이브 바카라 more powerful now—isn’t it us? And who should de-escalate first? It won’t be us!
“Traditionally, around the world, nationalism has always had emotional and gendered narratives. But what we’re seeing now is that the symbolism of Operation Sindoor isn’t just centred on women, but also on muscular nationalism,” says Anuradha M. Chenoy, a Gender and International Relations expert and former professor at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), New Delhi.
Feminine rage in India often manifests as the raudra roop of divine femininity—Durga, Kali, Yellamma—goddesses who didn’t rely on help from men. But now, rage splits: one part hapless, the other empowered. The first spurred on by politics, the latter by the military.
As Operation Sindoor unfolded, it began to take on characteristics of an ordinary brand, not shaping national pride but becoming a cultural-economic symbol.
The imagery of Operation Sindoor, launched on May 6-7, has captivated the national imagination. “There라이브 바카라 a cultural milieu in which sindoor is deeply rooted, and naming a military operation after it was bound to strike a chord,” says Ajay Gudavarthy, Associate Professor at the Centre for Political Studies, JNU. “It라이브 바카라 also evocative of how the terrorist attack in Pahalgam is seen to have dishonoured women—Hindu women, in particular. The choice of name suggests that this lost honour was being restored with blood.”
So, it라이브 바카라 not just a nation wounded, but also dishonoured. What began as a symbol of national grief, transforms into one of vengeance.
But as Operation Sindoor unfolded, something unexpected happened—it began to take on characteristics of an ordinary brand, not shaping national pride but becoming a cultural-economic symbol. A battle unfolded in the trademarks registry, where enthusiastic executives of a powerful conglomerate (which has now withdrawn from the race) and citizens queued up to claim ‘Operation Sindoor’.
A carefully crafted gendered symbol, steeped in nationalism and cultural identity, became something marketing and branding experts could recognise. And not all they saw they liked. Were women, the widows of Pahalgam, and the blood that had been shed there, forgotten so quickly? Was this the start of unwelcome commercialisation, soon to be followed by commoditisation?
“A brand, at its core, is an idea, a belief system. So, if sindoor represents the sanctity of a relationship, then it follows that the words Operation Sindoor will bear emotional engagement for many, many people—the majority of Indians. However, as a trademark, ‘Operation Sindoor’ will simply not work,” says Kiran Khalap, Managing Director and co-founder of Chlorophyll, a brand consulting firm. “The reason,” he says, “is that just a name does not make a brand.”
What he means is that Operation Sindoor, as a military campaign, is rooted in a specific, highly evocative moment—the attack at Pahalgam, the women grieving over their losses, a nation stunned into empathetic but enraged silence, and then, anticipation and anxiety over what was to follow—attacks on targets across the India-Pakistan border. “Those are raw memories following a tragedy,” says Khalap, “and while a military operation can signal closure—or some have called it vengeance, as is their choice—for the victims and survivors, no movie, slogan, album, or product with the same name can carry that kind of weight.”
The rush of private individuals to claim the name of the military operation is classic “moment marketing”, explains Harish Bijoor, a brand and business strategy specialist. That라이브 바카라 when marketers run with a ‘hot’ idea, hoping to cash in on the symbolism—in this case, the idea of bikhra hua sindoor (scattered vermillion), implying a catastrophic loss of men라이브 바카라 lives, and women라이브 바카라 honour. “When a highly evocative symbol emerges, one that carries deep meaning, and you want to capitalise on it, we call it vultural marketing. And it라이브 바카라 crucial not to let anyone privatise such national markers of events that symbolise lost lives, and so much more,” says Bijoor.
Other developments in Operation Sindoor also raise the question: do women still exist in the frame of this tragedy? Certainly, at first, a version of woman was put on display when a name for the operation was picked—the sindoor-wearing one, but not just those who had lost their husbands to the terrorists’ bullets—all Hindu women were expected to relate. It was reminiscent of an Indore family court ruling in a 2024 divorce case that it is the religious duty of a [Hindu] wife to wear sindoor, for it shows that she is married. Without much ado thereafter, her custody was handed over to her husband.
The question then becomes: how does using the nomenclature Operation Sindoor serve the interests of the Indian State? Reviving the deceased is, of course, impossible, so the focus shifts to reinforcing the sanctity of marriage through the symbol of sindoor. “The aim was to carry out a military operation, but the image of womanhood was co-opted to justify it,” explains Neera Chandhoke, a former professor of political science at Delhi University. “This wasn’t an image of marriage based on mutual consent, but one echoing the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh라이브 바카라 vision of women as homemakers, which leaves little room for discussing the darker realities of marriage. Forget domestic violence; this vision barely allows for women who choose not to carry the burden—or privilege—of sindoor.
“I sense a paternalistic mindset behind the choice of name for a purely military operation,” adds Chandhoke. “And, frankly, I don’t believe revenge can be noble. So why should the State use sindoor as a symbol for attack?”
To be fair, the use of woman as an emblem or badge isn’t new or exceptional. Ananya Sharma, who teaches International Relations at Ashoka University, Sonipat, points out that Israel does something similar—promote the ‘cool’ idea of a woman soldier, skilled in the use of lethal weapons, and unafraid to use them. “There라이브 바카라 militarisation in that image of womanhood, and empowerment in that sense, but also effacement, for there라이브 바카라 an element of spectatorship for men,” she says.
Between official narratives and stirred-up public sentiment, symbols can challenge roles and hierarchies—but also obscure the roots of disunity.
In India, there라이브 바카라 a similar dual narrative at play—the nation-state is projected as a hyper-masculine protector of women, while, in fact, the woman only becomes vulnerable during conflict. And while India does invoke Bharat Mata, and other nations rally around feminine symbols—Russia라이브 바카라 Motherland; the United States’ Statue of Liberty—not all these symbolisms are quite the same.
Had the operation been called Operation Durga or Operation Kali, would it have raised fewer concerns? Perhaps. After all, these Hindu goddesses are often portrayed as equals to men—as symbols of strength rather than submission. “There라이브 바카라 a suggestion of equality in the Godesses Durga or Kali, who are armed and powerful, which sindoor does not have. As the name of a military operation, it signifies grief, vulnerability, and the State offering women protection—a more subordinate femininity that sees women in contrast to men, who are the protectors,” Professor Chenoy says.
Operation Sindoor continued unabated since its launch—shells and drones streaking through the night skies above the borderlands, while villages and cities below waited in uneasy darkness for ‘tensions’ to ease. If womanhood dominated the imagery in the initial phases of this operation, that no longer seemed true. By the morning of May 9, it was the men who had taken over.
“I think the term Operation Sindoor is a weaponisation—of women, of religion, and of women라이브 바카라 cultural symbols,” says Lalita Ramdas, a prominent peace activist. “It began as an emotive framing of what happened in Pahalgam—the fact that twenty-five Hindu women were widowed—and so the deeply symbolic sindoor was used to rally public sentiment. That allowed the government to bypass difficult questions: how could Pahalgam happen, and how it must gather evidence linking our neighbour to the attack, and then act accordingly.”
The name is also unusual because military operations are typically given masculine names—like Operation Bandar—conducted after the 2019 Pulwama terrorist strike. Operation Sindoor strikes a hard contrast against that nomenclature, with its emotive imagery linked to nation as mother and home.
“Wars can either reinforce or relax cultural definitions,” points out Professor Chenoy. “At the moment, both these things are happening. The name itself reinforces a traditional, patriarchal image of womanhood. Yet, alongside this, there is a parallel discourse, of relaxing traditional gendered ideas.” She is referring to the armed forces choosing two women as spokespersons—Colonel Sofiya Qureshi and Wing Commander Vyomika Singh—to address the media after the operation. “That signals that women in our country have the capacity to be equal,” she says.
Another powerful example is Himanshi Narwal, the wife of a Naval officer killed in the Pahalgam terrorist attack, who urged the public to grieve with dignity and avoid targeting Muslims and Kashmiris. For this, she was viciously trolled. Still, her courage mattered, and the National Commission for Women defended her, stating that no woman should be harassed for her views or personal life.
This parallel narrative—women asserting agency and calling for inclusive nationalism—shows a more progressive side of the country. “But when symbols like sindoor are used to stir emotion, they reinforce a narrow vision: the Hindu woman as victim, lacking in agency,” says Professor Chenoy.
In that sense, it라이브 바카라 a conflict between different representations of womanhood. Women like Narwal become hyper-visible—precisely because they are women. A man saying what she did likely wouldn’t have stood out. A mixed faith but all-male panel of military spokespersons also wouldn’t have carried the same symbolic weight.
This visibility can project an image of progress to the world—Look, India is different!—but the ground reality tells another story. Kashmiris and Muslims still faced harassment after the Pahalgam attack. “The Ministry of External Affairs said after the operation that the Pahalgam attack sought to divide us—because the terrorist attack was communal as well—but that we stand together. That is a good message, and so it must be repeated whenever Kashmiri students or Muslim vendors are harassed. True nationalism isn’t about using gendered symbols or portraying women as passive victims; it라이브 바카라 about rejecting divides—of caste, class, gender, religion—and building unity—not just for women, but for everyone,” says Professor Chenoy.
Between official narratives and stirred-up public sentiment, symbols can challenge roles and hierarchies—but also obscure the roots of disunity. The real question is: whose grief are we honouring, and whose agency are we erasing?
Pragya Singh is senior assistant editor, 바카라. she is based in Delhi
This article is part of 바카라라이브 바카라 May 22, 2025 issue, ‘Is This War?’, covering the tense four-day standoff that brought India and Pakistan to the brink of war. It appeared in print as What's In A Name.
