The road to Tirumala curved endlessly through the hills, wrapped in mist and early-morning chants. Pilgrims climbed barefoot, some whispering prayers, some laughing with family, some silent — each carrying something invisible.
Ananya Birla watched them from the car window.
For years her world had been studios, boardrooms, airports, and flashing lights. Applause came easily. Silence didn’t. And yet, lately, silence was exactly what she had been searching for.
Her grandmother’s words kept returning:
“Some promises aren’t spoken to people. They’re spoken to yourself — and you keep them before God so you don’t break them.”
She touched her long hair unconsciously. It had been styled for campaigns, shoots, red carpets — part of the image everyone recognized. But today she wasn’t here as a performer or entrepreneur.
Just a person who needed a beginning.
Inside the Kalyanakatta, the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and water. The rhythmic sound of razors and flowing taps filled the hall — steady, calm, almost meditative.
The barber spread a cloth across her shoulders.
“First time?” he asked gently.
She nodded.
There was no dramatic speech. No announcement. No cameras — she had left her phone outside deliberately.
Only a quiet decision.
“Ready?” he said.
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
The first lock fell into her lap.
It startled her — not sadness, not shock — just a sudden lightness, as if a weight she didn’t know she carried had shifted. Around her, people continued their own prayers, their own offerings. No one stared. Here, everyone was equal.
With each stroke of the razor, the mirror revealed less of the public persona and more of a simple, unguarded face.
Memories surfaced: expectations, pressure, success, fear of failure, always performing strength.
Water flowed over her head.
For the first time in years, she felt… unobserved.
When the barber finished, he handed her the small mirror.
A bare scalp. No styling. No disguise.
Just her.
She smiled — softly, not the practiced smile for cameras, but a private one.
Outside, the temple bells rang.
Walking toward the sanctum, cool breeze touching her shaved head, she felt strangely grounded. Not smaller without the image — clearer without it.
She folded her hands before the deity.
No requests.
No negotiations.
Just gratitude.
Later, descending the hill, she didn’t rush to cover her head. The sunlight warmed her skin, and she laughed quietly to herself.
She had come to give something up.
Instead, she left with space —
the kind that lets you hear your own thoughts again.
And for the first time in a long while,
Ananya felt completely, peacefully… unbranded.