By the time the last strands fell, she felt lighter than ever before.
Meera sat on the worn wooden stool, surrounded by a soft murmur of chants and the faint scent of sandalwood. Her lavender shawl clung gently to her shoulders, as the temple barber carefully ran the razor across her scalp. The warm breeze from the open temple corridor carried the sounds of bells and barefoot footsteps.
She had waited two years for this moment.
Two years of prayers whispered into the night.
Two years of hope wrapped around every breath.
And one powerful vow — her mokku to Lord Venkateswara.
When her mother fell gravely ill, Meera, in desperation and devotion, made a promise. “If she heals, I will offer my hair at your feet, Swami. Every strand. No hesitation.”
Her mother survived. Slowly, miraculously. Doctors said it was resilience. Meera knew — it was grace.
Now, as the barber moved to the final strokes, she felt no shame, no worry about how she looked. Only peace. A deep, glowing calm. She smiled softly, ignoring the curious glances of other pilgrims. The markings on her scalp, drawn for ritual precision, only added to her sense of transformation.
Children giggled nearby, and the priest passed by with a nod of silent respect. For in this ancient hill town of Tirumala, every clean-shaven head held a story — of faith, of surrender, of gratitude.
She stood up slowly, touched her bare scalp with reverence, and walked toward the sanctum. Her offering was complete. Her heart full.
Hair would grow back. But this moment?
This was forever.