The buzzing sound of the razor filled the quiet temple hall. With each pass over her scalp, Meera felt a weight lift—not just strands of hair, but memories, doubts, and burdens she had carried for years. As the final locks fell to the ground, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer.
This wasn't just about faith. It was about reclaiming herself.
Three months earlier, Meera had stood at the edge of everything she knew—her marriage had crumbled, her corporate career had left her drained, and the mirror had started to feel like a stranger. She wanted more than healing. She wanted rebirth.
She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell about the sacred hills of Tiruvannamalai, where devotees would shed their hair in complete surrender, believing that the divine would reshape what remained. Skeptical once, Meera now found comfort in those old stories. They felt like maps.
After the tonsure, she had looked into the mirror the priest held up. A bare scalp. A red tilak. And eyes that sparkled—not from pride, but from the unexpected sense of freedom. Her smile was quiet, but it thundered inside her.
Now, sitting in the back seat of the cab that would take her back to the city, she looked out the window—not with sadness, but with clarity. She wasn’t returning as the same woman who had left. She had shed more than her hair. She had shed fear.