Temple of vows

The Temple of Vows The Shree Vithala Mandir stood majestic against the amber sky, its stone spires piercing the horizon. Meera led the way, her braid swaying with each determined step, while Anjali and Rohan trailed behind, grumbling. The temple buzzed with devotees tying threads to the banyan tree and priests chanting mantras. Meera, 24, had dragged her best friend Anjali and younger brother Rohan here to honor a family vow she’d uncovered in their late grandmother’s diary. She’d promised it was just a prayer, but the Mundan Hall sign loomed ahead, hinting at something more. “Mundan Hall?” Anjali asked, brushing her auburn hair behind her ear. “That’s for headshaving, right? Tell me we’re not doing that.” Rohan smirked, tousling his thick, messy hair. “No one’s touching this. I’d rather shave my eyebrows.” Meera waved them off. “Relax. It’s just a prayer for Grandma’s vow—Rohan’s survival as a baby. We’re lighting lamps, that’s all.” But her confidence wavered as they entered the hall. The Mundan Hall was dim, its air heavy with the scent of oil and incense. Barbers lined the walls, their razors glinting, while piles of shorn hair dotted the floor. A priest approached, his bald head shining. “Have you come for tonsure?” “No,” Meera said, clutching a pouch of coins. “Just a prayer for a vow my grandmother made.” The priest unrolled a scroll, his eyes narrowing. “A life saved demands a sacrifice of pride—tonsure for all bound by blood or love. The deity waits.” The trio protested, but the priest’s words and the attendants’ firm presence left no escape. Meera’s heart sank. “I didn’t know,” she whispered as they were guided to the barbers. Meera’s Shave Meera sat first, her palms sweaty as she settled onto the low stool. Her long braid, a source of pride since childhood, hung heavy down her back. The barber, a wiry man with calloused hands, untied the ribbon at its end. “Please, be gentle,” she murmured, her voice trembling. He nodded, lifting her hair to admire its sheen before grabbing a pair of blunt scissors. Snip, snip, snip—the first cuts echoed in her ears as chunks of her dark locks fell onto the stone floor. She flinched with each sound, watching years of growth pile up like discarded memories. The barber then splashed cold water over her head, the shock making her gasp. He massaged a dollop of soap into her scalp, the lather foaming as his fingers worked through the remaining strands. The razor came next—a straight blade, its edge catching the lamplight. He tilted her head forward, and the first scrape sent a shiver down her spine. The metal glided smoothly, stripping away a wide swath of hair from the nape of her neck upward. Cool air kissed her bare scalp, and she bit her lip as the barber moved to the crown, each pass methodical and unrelenting. Strands clung to her shoulders before sliding off, and soon the buzzing of a clipper joined in, buzzing away any stubble. After a final rinse, he rubbed her head with a cloth, leaving it smooth and gleaming. Meera touched her scalp, her fingers trembling. “Grandma better be watching,” she muttered, forcing a laugh through her shock. Anjali’s Shave Anjali was shoved onto the next stool, her protests ringing out. “This is ridiculous! My hair’s my whole look!” Her auburn locks, painstakingly dyed and styled, bounced as she shook her head defiantly. The barber, unfazed, grabbed a comb and yanked it through her tangles, making her wince. “Hold still,” he grunted, pinning her shoulders with one hand. He started with scissors, hacking off her hair in uneven clumps. The vibrant strands fell in a chaotic heap, and Anjali’s eyes widened. “You’re ruining it!” she snapped, but the barber ignored her, dousing her head with water that dripped into her lap. He smeared soap across her scalp, the sharp scent stinging her nose, and rubbed it in roughly. The razor hummed—an electric one this time—and Anjali tensed as it buzzed against her temple. The barber swept it upward, peeling away her hair in long, deliberate strokes. She felt the vibration in her skull, each pass leaving her more exposed. He tilted her head side to side, the machine chewing through her remaining locks until only a faint stubble remained. Then came the straight razor, its cold edge scraping away the last traces, leaving her scalp prickly and bare. A splash of water rinsed off the suds, and he wiped her head dry. Anjali glared at Meera, her bald head gleaming. “You owe me a salon day—and therapy,” she said, her voice a mix of fury and reluctant amusement. Rohan’s Shave Rohan fought hardest, squirming as an attendant wrestled him onto the stool. “No way! This is my signature look!” His wild, floppy hair flailed as he twisted, but the barber gripped his head firmly. “Stop moving, boy,” he barked, snatching scissors and slicing off a fistful of Rohan’s curls. The dark strands tumbled down, and Rohan groaned, “This is a nightmare.” The barber splashed water over his head, soaking his shirt, and lathered soap into his scalp with rough, circular motions. Rohan squirmed as the suds dripped into his eyes, stinging fiercely. “Ow! Are you trying to blind me too?” he yelped, but the barber pressed on, grabbing a clipper. The buzzing filled his ears as it sheared from his forehead back, clumps of wet hair plopping onto his lap. He felt the weight vanish, the coolness creeping in with every swipe. Next came the straight razor, its edge scraping loudly as it shaved his scalp clean. The barber tilted his head forward, then back, working around his ears with precision. Rohan clenched his fists, the sensation both ticklish and humiliating. A final rinse washed away the last bits, and the barber rubbed his head briskly with a towel. Rohan reached up, his hand meeting smooth skin instead of his familiar mop. “I look like a boiled egg,” he grumbled, shooting Meera a death glare. The priest sprinkled holy water over their bald heads, chanting softly. “The vow is complete,” he declared. Their hair lay mingled on the floor—dark, auburn, curly—a strange testament to their ordeal. Outside, the sunset bathed the temple in gold. Meera rubbed her scalp, still dazed. “We did it for Grandma.” Anjali smirked, adjusting her sunglasses atop her bare head. “Yeah, and now we’re a bald squad. Coffee’s on you.” Rohan kicked a pebble, his hands in his pockets. “I’m telling everyone you joined a cult, Meera. This is revenge material.” Laughter broke the tension as they walked away, their shaved heads catching the light, forever bound by the temple’s unexpected demand.