It was just past dawn in Tirumala. The golden mist clung gently to the tiled roofs of Madhava Nilayam, a modest tonsure hall nestled behind a curve of the temple path. The morning aarti bells rang in the distance, soft and faraway, as Meenakshi sat still on the worn granite platform, draped in a modest churidhar, her palms resting gently on her lap. Her mangalsutra, a thread of polished black beads strung with gold, gleamed faintly against her chest, catching the breath of sunlight that slipped through the columns. Her hair, long and dark, was neatly oiled and parted down the center—tied into two thick sections with black rubber bands. The strands were damp with sacred water, brushed back and ready. She had been preparing for this moment for years—not just in ritual, but in spirit. She had made a vow once. In silence. On her knees. In pain. If her prayer was heard, she would come here. Alone. No audience, no ceremony. Only surrender.
A bowl of warm water steamed between them. The barber dipped a cloth, pressed it against Meenakshi’s scalp, and smoothed the parted hair. The rubber bands were tightened once more. And then—without pause—the blade was drawn. The straight razor, honed to a silent gleam, touched Meenakshi’s crown and made its first pass directly through the middle. A line of scalp revealed itself, pale, wet, honest. A single lock dropped softly to the marble floor. Then another. The strokes were clean and practiced, and Meenakshi never flinched. Her eyes were closed. Her breath slow. The sound of the blade gliding across her head became a kind of music—sharp, deliberate, ancient.
