It’s the most distinctive feature on Pankaj Patel’s face. When the 53-year-old walks through Golden Gate Park on the weekends with his wife, strangers of all races and ethnicities often take brief glances at it before quickly adverting their eyes so as not to seem rude. On occasion, those unfamiliar with it sometimes approach him hoping to inquire about its origin and cultural significance -- though most seldom ever get around to actually posing the question. Despite their curiosity, in the end they are still San Franciscans and don’t want to accidentally ask questions that will make them appear ignorant or intolerant. But to Patel, such questions about the symbols on his forehead are always welcomed. After all, the way he sees it is that he's just one out of the nearly 1.5 million Hindus in America who bear the “tilak,” a distinctive red and orange marking representing his devotion to Vishnu, Bhagwan Swaminarayan and the other gods of Hinduism.

Its name might not sound familiar, but most people who see a tilak will almost always recognize it as being a universal physical characteristic worn by those who subscribe to the Hindu faith. A large crimson circle in the middle of a thin orange U-shaped line applied to the center of a person’s forehead. To a lot of people in the U.S. the look is unmistakably Hindu. But try asking these same people if they know why the over one billion followers of the religion worldwide wear the unique symbol and their responses will probably be blank stares. The importance of the tilak in Hinduism is great and depending on what branch of the religion the person wearing it is from, the meaning behind it can be as varied and rich as the marking’s history itself, which dates back nearly 4000 years.

Traditionally, tilaks are only worn by men and is usually made of a paste derived from the bark of sandalwood trees, which are typically found in India and other southern Pacific islands. But it can also be made from red or orange ash, clay and even spices, such as turmeric. Men who wish to show their love for their God wear the tilak everyday and only wash it off at night when they go to sleep. In Hinduism, even though a man may be technically married to a woman, in the eyes of their religion their only true spouse is God himself.

“In a sense the tilak represents that we take God as our ‘husband,’” Patel, a coordinator and hari bhakta, or devotee of God, at San Francisco’s Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, says. He stands upright, clasping his hands together before bowing down slowly until his body is flat to the ground. In front of him is an altar housing six statues of Hindu gods. He then gets back up and repeats the process six more times. The first five are to show his piety and the last two are to repent for any wrongdoings he committed since his last prayer. “In Hinduism, women can only be married to their husbands and their husbands can only be devoted to God,” he says, walking away from the altar.

Though tilaks are reserved for men, women also have their own version of the symbol as well. It is called the tilakam, sometimes also referred to as bindi, pottu, bottu or teep, depending on the sect of Hinduism.

Unlike the tilak, tilakams consists of only a large dot and traditionally come in two colors, red or black. Red tilakams can only be worn by married women and denote their status as a wife. The black version represents that a woman is single and is usually worn for decorative purposes.

Though normally the same materials used the create the tilak are also used for the tilakam, in recent years new fashion trends in India and aboard have brought about new kinds of tilakams made out of such things as beaded stickers to adhesive rubies and diamonds.

There is still much debate about origins of both the tilak and tilakam. But most religious scholars think that the earliest reference to the markings appear in the Rigveda, an ancient holy Hindu text that was believed to have been composed sometime between 1700-1100 BCE. The book states that the goddess Usha, wife to the sun god Surya, painted a bright red dot on her forehead to represent the rising sun and to also act as a reminder of her eternal affection towards her husband. Upon seeing the symbol, Surya was so moved that he wanted all of his followers to display it, too.

Many other stories about the tilak’s origin exist as well. By comparison, Suresh Chhipwadia, prayer coordinator at the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, states that within their Bochasanwasi Shri Akshar Purushottam Sanstha sector of Hinduism it’s believed that the modern tilak was first conceived a little over 200 years ago when a Hindu Maharaj, or holy lord, drew the tilak onto the head of Bhagwan Swaminarayan to signify that his follower’s level of worship was greater than anyone else’s. It’s said that afterward, other Hindus began to copy the mark and before long everyone had it.

"The story of the tilak will differ greatly from person to person," 60-year-old Swami Padananda of the Sivananada Yoga Center in San Francisco says. "But what matters is the tilak itself, it's our sacred third eye and we wear it to see God's benevolence."

Though it’s estimated that Hindus make up approximately 14 percent of the world’s population -- making Hinduism the third largest religion worldwide behind Christianity and Islam according to the U.S. State Department’s International Religious Freedom Report -- only a half percent of them are currently living in America. Their minimal presence in the country is just one of the reasons why most people here are unfamiliar with Hinduism’s customs and why something so commonly seen around the rest of the world, like the tilak, holds so much mystery within our borders.

“There’s a lot of confusion about what Hinduism is to many Americans,” Patel says as he exits the prayer room, closing the door behind him. To his right, a group of women quietly enter, adverting their eyes from Patel as they approach the altar. Hinduism’s doctrines state that males and females can’t pray together, doing is said to contaminate the holy ground of a temple.

Outside in the hall, Patel pats down his white pants and kurta, a long loose fitting shirt that falls just above his knees, trying to straighten out the wrinkles formed during his earlier prayer session. He gazes at his fingertips for a moment before picking off a bit of dirt imbedded into his dark olive-colored skin.

“When people see our tilaks they often look puzzled, but are scared to ask us about them,” he says, as a smile forms across his face. “But what most people don’t understand is that we’re always happy to educate them about our religion. We don’t mind if you stare, just don’t be afraid to ask.”