The dawn air smelled of sandalwood, smoke, and wet earth.
Wajeed stood barefoot on the cool temple stones, fingers trembling at the edge of his hairline. Around him, the courtyard murmured with prayer — bells chiming, coconuts cracking, the soft chant of “Vel… Vel…” rising like breath from a single chest.
He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his mind.
Still, when the barber dipped the razor into water, his throat tightened.
“Ready?” the old man asked gently.
Wajeed nodded.
The first stroke was cold.
Hair fell in soft, uneven clumps onto his shoulders, then to the ground — years of vanity, worry, pride. Each pass of the blade felt like something loosening inside him. The noise of the world faded.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
His mother stood a few steps away, palms pressed together, eyes shining. This vow had been hers first — made on a hospital night when machines beeped too loudly and doctors spoke too softly.
“If my son walks out healthy,” she had whispered to the deity, “we will offer his hair, our pride, our fear.”
And he had walked out.
Alive.
Now the offering had come due.
When the razor finished, cool wind touched his bare scalp for the first time. He felt lighter — strangely exposed, like the sky could see straight into him.
A priest pressed sacred ash across his forehead. The white line was steady, calm.
“Ego gone,” the priest said softly. “Now only devotion.”
Wajeed helped lift the silver paal kudam, the milk pot wrapped in yellow cloth and tied with fresh jasmine. It felt heavier than it looked. He balanced it on his head, hands steadying its base.
Around him, others did the same — men, women, children — all shaved, all dressed in saffron, all equal.
No rich.
No poor.
No titles.
Only vows.
The procession began.
Drums thundered.
Feet moved together.
The road burned under the sun, but he didn’t complain. Sweat rolled down his temples. His shoulders ached. The pot dug into his skull.
Good, he thought.
Let it hurt.
Let it mean something.
With every step, he remembered: the hospital bed, his mother’s shaking hands, the promise.
By the time the temple tower came into view, painted bright against the sky, tears blurred his sight.
Not from pain.
From gratitude.
At the altar, he knelt and lowered the milk pot. It touched the stone with a quiet thud.
Finished.
Complete.
He touched his smooth head again and smiled.
He hadn’t lost anything today.
He had only put something down.
And for the first time in years, he felt weightless.