At dawn, the village temple bells rang softly through the misty air. The old banyan tree swayed as sparrows hopped between its branches.

 At dawn, the village temple bells rang softly through the misty air. The old banyan tree swayed as sparrows hopped between its branches. One by one, families gathered in the courtyard, their footsteps quiet against the stone floor still cool from the night.

She sat on the low wooden stool near the well, wrapped in a simple green kurta, hands resting calmly in her lap. Today was special.

The temple barber worked carefully, each stroke of the razor slow and respectful. Strands of hair fell like dry leaves onto the earth below. With every pass, she felt lighter — not just on her head, but in her heart too.

Her grandmother had told her stories of this ritual since childhood — a symbol of gratitude, of letting go, of starting fresh. Some shaved their heads after prayers answered, others after grief, and some simply to offer humility before the divine.

When it was done, the cool morning breeze touched her bare scalp for the first time. It felt strange… and freeing.

The priest placed a small red tilak on her forehead.

“New beginnings,” he said softly.

She smiled, eyes lowered, feeling both vulnerable and strong. Around her, the temple chants rose, mixing with the scent of incense and wet earth. Children laughed nearby. Life continued.

But for her, something had quietly shifted.

As she walked home along the dusty path, sunlight warming her skin, she realized she had left more than hair behind at the temple.

She had left her worries too.