Under the morning sun, amidst the quiet murmurs of the temple courtyard, Meera sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor. Her vibrant blue sari, adorned with orange blossoms, fluttered slightly in the breeze. The scent of sandalwood and incense lingered in the air as pilgrims moved past her, some pausing to glance at the scene unfolding.
Meera had made a vow.
Years ago, when her husband fell gravely ill, she had stood before the idol of Lord Venkateswara and whispered a promise: "If you spare him, I will offer my most cherished possession." Her hair, long and black like a flowing river, had always been her pride. People often complimented its thickness and sheen, and for years she had nurtured it with love. But in the quiet moments of desperation, she had offered it freely in exchange for life.
Her husband recovered miraculously.
Time passed, and the chaos of life returned. Children needed feeding, bills needed paying, and the sacred vow slowly faded into the background—until one night, Meera dreamed of the temple. The deity stood silent, not in anger, but in gentle reminder. She awoke with a quiet conviction in her heart.
So now, here she was—on her knees, head bowed—not in shame, but in peace. The barber worked swiftly, his hands practiced, respectful. With each pass of the blade, a strand of her past fell to the ground. She kept her eyes closed, surrendering fully. People watched, but Meera didn’t feel their eyes. Her mind was elsewhere—back in that moment of fear and prayer, and now, in its quiet fulfillment.
When the last lock fell and the razor made its final sweep, Meera opened her eyes. She touched her bare scalp, feeling a strange new lightness—not just of head, but of spirit.
She smiled.
Because in that moment, she wasn't just a woman who had lost her hair—she was a woman who had kept her word.