Spoiler: The real Divija Bhasin debate isn’t about red powder or gold chains. It’s about choice, agency, and how we decide what marriage looks like in 2025.
One reel. That’s all it took. Therapist and content creator Divija Bhasin didn’t set out to break the internet. She wasn’t shaking her ring finger at patriarchy or leading a protest outside a mandir. She was just casual, candid, talking to her audience, about why she doesn’t wear sindoor or mangalsutra after marriage. And then boom. Screenshots flying, reels reacting, uncles typing furiously in caps lock: “IS THIS WHAT OUR CULTURE HAS COME TO?”
Let’s pause there because this is exactly why social media feels like a circus: one person makes a personal choice, and suddenly, it’s everyone else’s national emergency. Some people praised her: “Finally! Someone saying what we’ve all been too scared to admit.” Others clutched their pearls: “But what about our traditions? Our roots? Our forefathers will hate us!”
Here’s the kicker: the sindoor itself isn’t the villain or the hero. The mangalsutra isn’t cursed or sainted. They’re just symbols. The storm comes from who gets to choose, and who doesn’t.
Divija’s reel went viral because it tapped into the real Gen Z itch: we’re done being told what to wear, who to be, how to “prove” love. If marriage is a partnership, why does it come with costume requirements only for one gender?
Who is Divija Bhasin, and why did her choices hit nerve-endings?
If you don’t know her yet, Divija isn’t some faceless “internet influencer” with dance transitions and hauls. She’s a therapist. A professional listener. Someone trained to decode the mental load behind the little rituals we take for granted. Which means, when she says she doesn’t wear sindoor, it isn’t just a style preference, it’s a statement about agency, identity, and mental health.
Her “controversial” choices read like a checklist:
- She doesn’t wear sindoor.
- She doesn’t wear a mangalsutra.
- She uses Ms, not Mrs.
- She didn’t take her husband’s surname.
- She and her partner rent their own house.
- They split finances.
- They hired a cook.
Sounds like normal adulting, right? To some corners of the internet, though, this was sacrilege. Suddenly, she wasn’t just a woman making choices, she was “breaking culture.”
But pause again. Since when did choosing to rent instead of living with in-laws become a threat to society? Since when did not wearing red powder equal rejecting love? The answer is simple: because women’s choices are always policed harder than men’s. Divija didn’t invent this scrutiny, she just got caught in its glare because she dared to say it out loud.
And here’s the delicious irony: her critics made her point for her. They proved just how fragile culture feels when one woman chooses differently.
Symbols or shackles?
Let’s be clear: sindoor and mangalsutra are not just “pretty accessories.” They’re drenched in centuries of cultural meaning. They’re also drenched in centuries of patriarchy.
For many women, sindoor is sacred. It’s devotion. It’s an honour to wear. For others, it’s the literal red line of expectation society draws across your forehead.
The mangalsutra too carries weight, sometimes pride, sometimes pressure. Gold and black beads, worn tight around your neck, reminding the world, and yourself, that you belong to someone. Romantic to some, suffocating to others.
That’s why this debate matters: because symbols are not neutral. They’re layered. They can be protection or prison, depending on whether you chose them or they were shoved at you with “this is how it’s always been.”
The problem is not sindoor. The problem is not mangalsutra. The problem is the must. The expectation. The assumption that without these, your marriage is less valid.
Culture is beautiful when chosen. Oppressive when imposed. And Gen Z, chaotic, meme-addicted, iced-coffee-sipping Gen Z, is daring to ask: what if tradition doesn’t have to be uniform? What if it can be remix culture, not museum display?
What is the Ms vs Mrs drama?
Here’s a fun fact: men get one title. Mr. Married? Mr. Single? Mr. Divorced? Mr. Widow? Still Mr. Meanwhile, women are stamped like products: Miss, Ms, Mrs. Marital status becomes part of your identity whether you want it or not.
Divija’s choice to go by Ms is, again, not about rejecting marriage. It’s about refusing to let society pin her value to her husband. Legally, she’s not breaking any rule. Bureaucracy might occasionally raise eyebrows, but she’s within her rights.
Think about it: why do we treat women like they need to announce marital status in their very names? Men don’t. The playing field isn’t even. And for a generation raised on “equality is bae”, that’s a red flag.
Surnames and identity politics.
Now let’s talk about surnames. Taking your husband’s surname has been the “norm” for centuries. But is it law? Nope. Is it necessary? Nope. Is it identity theft disguised as tradition? Sometimes, yes.
Some women proudly take their partner’s surname because it feels like togetherness. Others fiercely keep their own. Some hyphenate. Some invent completely new family names because branding, babe. All are valid if they’re chosen.
Your name is your first story. Nobody else should edit it without your consent. And Gen Z, with our obsession with authenticity and self-branding, is not about to hand that story over to anyone else.
Money Talks: Why financial independence fuels agency?
Here’s something the articles all highlighted: Divija is financially independent. She and her husband both work, split expenses, and hired a cook. That’s not just lifestyle, it’s leverage.
Because let’s be honest: autonomy follows economics. A woman who earns can set boundaries, choose her rituals, design her marriage. A woman who doesn’t? She gets drowned out by “this is how it’s always been.”
Money doesn’t solve patriarchy, but it gives you the mic. And that mic is power. That’s why financial independence isn’t just personal, it’s political.
The internet’s split-screen reaction, WOW!
Supporters flooded comments: “Queen! Preach! This is the future.”
Critics fumed: “You’re destroying tradition!”
Neutral onlookers: “Wait, who even is Divija?”
What this really reveals is fear. For some, rejecting symbols feels like rejecting culture. For others, it feels like liberation. The internet loves to argue because it mistakes difference for danger. But here’s the tea: both sides prove the same point. Symbols mean different things to different people. And that’s okay.
Is she sharing or superimposing?
Here’s where I’ll be a little messy bestie and say what everyone’s thinking but not saying: Divija’s first part of the video? Normal. Relatable. Chill. She was just explaining her version of marriage, what works for her, her partner, their finances, their lifestyle. It read like a “get ready with me” but for adulthood. Nobody can argue with that because it was framed as her story, not the story.
But then came the second part of video and then the one in which she replied to a comment. Suddenly, the tone shifted. What started as a personal diary entry now sounded like a manifesto stamped onto every Indian woman’s forehead. And that’s where some people, including me, felt a little ick.
Why am I telling you all this? Because marriage doesn’t have to be this horrible, negative experience where the woman has to change everything while the man just gets to live with his family, have a career and do whatever he wants. Marriage can be equal.
Divija Bhasin
Because if the heart of this debate is choice, then that has to cut both ways. If some women want sindoor, mangalsutra, and even surname changes, that’s equally valid. Wearing those symbols doesn’t make you a brainwashed patriarchal puppet any more than skipping them makes you a woke warrior. Sometimes a red powder is just a red powder, sometimes it’s devotion, sometimes it’s habit. Let women assign their own meaning without anyone hijacking the narrative.
As mentioned, in another video she replied to a comment enquiring about women who genuinely want to wear sindoor or mangalsutra after marriage, to which she responded:
I say yes, a lot of women choose to wear Sindoor and Mangalsutra. But what I really want to say is that… Is it even a choice if I say that I don’t want to wear it, and men start insulting me?
It’s a classic internet problem: personal truths morph into universal decrees. Hence, the “superimposition” still remains unclear. But liberation can’t be one-size-fits-all. The fight isn’t against sindoor, it’s against compulsion. The win isn’t “nobody wears this anymore,” it’s “everyone gets to decide if they want to.”
So yes, Divija cracked open an important conversation. But the loudest message shouldn’t be “don’t wear sindoor.” It should be: wear it, skip it, remix it, just make sure it’s your decision, not society’s homework assignment.
Choice is the only tradition worth keeping.
Let’s wrap this up. Sindoor isn’t evil. Mangalsutra isn’t evil. Titles and surnames aren’t evil. What’s evil is when they’re compulsory. When they’re weapons to measure women’s worth.
If a woman wants sindoor because it makes her feel sacred, beautiful, cherished, that’s love. If another says no because it feels like a burden, that’s love too. The only thread that ties them together? Choice.
Tradition without choice is theatre. Tradition with choice is culture. And marriage without choice? That’s not marriage. That’s performance.
So, Divija didn’t reject culture. She redefined it. She reminded us that the most radical ritual is not sindoor, not mangalsutra, not Mrs. It’s agency. So, if someone asks, “But how will people know you’re married if you don’t wear sindoor?”, smile and say: “Because I chose my partner. Isn’t that enough?”
For more campus chronicles, latest news, and caffeine-fuelled rants about culture, slide into Her Campus at MUJ. And if you’re wondering who wrote this article, hi, it’s me, Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ.