The temple bells of Tirumala echoed across the hills as the first rays of dawn touched the golden gopuram. Pilgrims had already begun queuing, their chants of “Govinda Govinda” rising like waves. Among them walked Meera, her white churidhar flowing around her ankles, her long silky hair still damp from the ritual bath.
She had carried this hair like a crown for years. Friends had envied its length, the way it caught the sun, the fragrance of jasmine she wove into it every morning. Yet, today, it would be offered—not as a loss, but as a prayer.
The Kalyanakatta hall was alive with devotion. Rows of women sat with calm acceptance, men with quiet determination, children clutching their parents’ hands. The rhythmic snip of scissors, the soft scrape of razors, the rising fragrance of sandalwood oil—all of it merged into a strange serenity.
When Meera’s turn came, she sat cross-legged on the stone floor. A woman barber draped a cloth around her shoulders and whispered, “Govinda…” as the first lock slid away. Meera closed her eyes. With every pass of the razor, she felt the weight of years fall—her pride, her sorrows, her vanity—each strand was an offering.
By the time the final stroke smoothed her scalp, Meera felt lighter than she had ever known. She touched her bare head, cool under her palm, and a smile broke across her lips. No mirror was needed; she felt transformed.
Walking out, the morning sun kissed her freshly shaven head. A priest pressed the warm laddu into her hand, and she whispered a silent prayer. In that moment, she was not just a pilgrim but a flame—pure, unburdened, devoted.