The temple courtyard was still damp from the morning wash when Meera stepped across the stone threshold

 The temple courtyard was still damp from the morning wash when Meera stepped across the stone threshold. The air carried a soft blend of sandalwood, jasmine, and the faint metallic ring of bells. Somewhere inside, a priest was chanting — slow, steady syllables that seemed to settle the nervous flutter in her chest.

She adjusted the edge of her cream-and-gold saree and touched the small red kumkum mark on her forehead. Months ago, during her mother’s illness, she had made a quiet promise here: If she recovers, I will offer my hair. Now her mother was laughing again at home, arguing over tea strength, alive in all the ordinary ways that felt miraculous.

The barber sat cross-legged near a low stone platform. His tools were simple — a bowl of water, a cloth, and a shining razor resting in the morning light. Around them, other families waited: some chatting softly, some watching silently, some wiping tears they didn’t bother hiding.

Meera knelt.

For a moment, she hesitated — not from doubt, but from memory. Her long hair had followed her through childhood festivals, school photographs, wedding rituals, and countless mornings braided by her mother’s careful fingers. It was more than hair; it was time itself, woven and growing year after year.

The barber poured cool water over her head. The first touch of the razor against her scalp made her inhale sharply. A soft scraping sound followed — steady, rhythmic. Locks slid over her shoulder and fell into her lap. Black strands gathered against the pale stone floor like fallen petals.

People always imagine such moments as dramatic, she thought. But what she felt instead was quiet — like exhaling after holding breath too long.

Another pass. The breeze touched skin that had never met air before. It felt strangely light, almost like a burden she didn’t know she carried was lifting with each stroke.

When it was done, the barber wiped her head gently and handed her a small mirror.

She stared.

The woman looking back seemed both unfamiliar and deeply herself. Without the frame of hair, her eyes appeared larger, calmer. The red kumkum mark glowed brighter against her bare scalp. For the first time in days, she smiled without effort.

Her mother, who had insisted on coming despite protests, reached forward and placed her palm over Meera’s head — warm, lingering, grateful.

“Now,” her mother whispered, “you’ve given thanks with your whole heart.”

The temple bells rang louder as noon approached. Meera rose, feeling the sun warm her bare scalp. It wasn’t loss she felt walking out of the temple courtyard.

It was release.