Navya-10th

It was just after Sankranthi. Navya sat on her bed, arms folded, eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor as her mother packed her clothes into a trolley bag. Her father stood in the doorway and said “You’ll go, and that’s final,” her father said. His voice was low but firm, like a distant drumbeat before a storm. Navya didn’t respond. She just bit her lower lip and stared. Her heart was swelling with confusion, and fear. She had scored badly in her pre-boards. Now, they were sending her to her father’s elder cousin—Bhushan uncle—and his wife, Sarala aunty’s house. Navya asked, tears suddenly slipping down. “Why are you all punishing me like this?” Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You failed. And you think you deserve comfort? We have hope in you—don’t make us regret it.” As Navya entered the House with her bag, she was greeted by Amala, her elder cousin, who had recently become a schoolteacher. She was neat, quiet, her hair tied tightly in a bun. Sarala aunty smiled as she welcomed Navya. But there was something cold beneath that smile. “From now, you’re our girl,” she said. “And our girls don’t waste time. Wake up early, eat properly, study well, sleep on time. Simple.” Navya was unsure whether to feel safe or trapped. Then came Bhushan uncle, tall and strict, his voice heavy like a judge passing verdicts. “Phone stays with us. No mirrors, no fancy dresses, no loud music. You’re here to study, not to roam.” It hit Navya hard. Inside, she was burning. The days began before sunrise. At 4:30 sharp, Sarala would knock on her door. Navya would drag herself out of bed and sit at the study table, yawning, shivering. The mirror was already removed from her room on the first day. Her phone? Locked inside a cupboard. Sarala would oil Navya’s hair each morning, parting it sharply and braiding it tight. “You must learn to keep your head straight first,” she said, “then your marks will follow.” Navya would bite her tongue to avoid arguing. Amala watched silently. At school, teachers noticed the change. “Good, Navya! Much improved this week,” one said. “Keep it up.” For a while, Navya began to believe this was working. She even smiled when she got a test paper with full marks. Her parents called. Her mother and father cried with happiness. One lonely afternoon, when Sarala and Bhushan had gone out and Amala was sleeping, Navya found the chance. She dug out her old phone she had hidden deep in her suitcaseand opened YouTube, started watching hairstyle videos. She smiled and lost in daydreams. Suddenly, the door creaked open. She froze. Bhushan stood at the doorway, his eyes sharp and unreadable. The silence felt heavy. “So this is your focus?” he said coldly. “Books untouched, but hairstyles on your mind?” He called amala and ordered “Amala, take her to the saloon tomorrow morning. Get her a short haircut, let the distraction reduce.” The next morning, Navya followed Amala quietly through the narrow, dusty streets to a small saloon. The shop was simple, Amala told the barber, “Bob cut cheyyandi anna deeniki distractions yekkuva ayyindi.” Navya sat stiffly as the barber untied her thick braid and began combing through it. With a firm grip, he raised the scissors and Piece by piece, her long black hair fell away, the floor slowly filling with strands. Within minutes, her heavy braid was gone. The barber trimmed the ends neatly, shaping it into a sharp bob that barely covered her neck. Navya looked into the mirror—her eyes wide, lips pressed tight. A breeze touched her neck as they stepped out. When Navya returned home with her neat bobcut. Bhushan took one look at navya and asked amala. “What is this, ha? You think this is enough to fix her focus?”with disappointment. He turned to Sarala that evening and said firmly, “You take her tomorrow. Get it done properly this time. No compromise.” Next morning, Sarala took Navya to a strict, old-fashioned saloon. The place smelled of coconut oil and talcum powder. Sarala said, “Anna deeniki ee haircut set avvadu, inka short cheyyandi kavalanti trimmer tho boycut cheseyandi, studies ki distractions undakudadu anthe” Navya sat tensely, clutching the chair arms. The clippers buzzed to life with a loud hum. The barber pushed them up the back of her head in one clean stroke. The cool breeze hit her scalp instantly. Hair began falling like black feathers onto the floor. The sides were trimmed neatly, ears exposed, and the top length was reduced. Within minutes, her bob was transformed into clippered boycut. Sarala nodded once, approving the look. Back at home, Bhushan glanced at her once and said, “Good. Now she’ll focus.” His voice held with satisfaction. Before navya could speakup. “No excuses,” Bhushan interrupted. “From tomorrow, you’ll sit in the pooja room to study. Under Lord Venkateswara’s photo. He will fix your wavering mind.” Navya didn’t cry. She just nodded. From that day the rules became tighter. She was watched constantly. Even the smallest smile was questioned. But she never disobeyed again. She walked like a shadow. Studied like a machine. Ate quietly. Slept without dreaming. The days passed, then weeks, then came the results. Sarala answered the phone. A moment later, her face lit up. “Ninety-one percent!” she said aloud. “She’s second in the entire district!” Bhushan nodded. “Discipline never fails.” Amala smiled and hugged her gently. Navya smiled too. She got what they all wanted. May be an image of 1 person, child and train On the bus back to Vijayawada, Navya sat by the window, the wind brushing against her fresh boycut. Her short hair framed her face sharply, no strand out of place.Her report card was in her bag. Her journal, untouched, lay beside it. She looked out at the passing trees and wondered— Had they helped her become better? Or had they simply broken her to fit? The sun was setting over the green Andhra fields, and Navya sat still, expressionless and whispered to herself: “Maybe this is what growing up feels like.”

NAVYA- 12th

It had been almost a year and half since Navya returned home after her 10th board success. Her relatives praised her, some even jokingly touched her short hair back then for luck. Slowly, her hair started growing again, and so did her stubbornness. She was back to her old ways—spending hours with hair clips, hair care videos, and mirror selfies. She had scored poorly in her 11th standard. No one said much, but everyone noticed. Now, only three months were left for her 12th board exams. Her parents were tense. Her mother sat quietly one evening, looking at her daughter’s thick, mid back length braid as Navya laughed while watching a Korean hair makeover reel. “I think it’s time,” her father said. “Hmm,” her mother replied. “Let Bhushan garu take care of her again. Only he can make her focus.” So once again, Navya was packed off to her Bhushan uncle’s house. Sarala aunty opened the door, her sharp eyes immediately scanning Navya from top to toe. “Come, kanna,” she said with a forced smile. “We’ll fix your focus this time.” Navya’s days started with early coffee and long silences. Rules were stricter now. Amala was married and gone, and Navya was the only girl in the house. Still, she found secret moments to oil her hair herself, comb it nicely, and admire it when no one watched. But her tricks didn’t last. One morning, Sarala caught her applying homemade hibiscus paste and clicking selfies in the veranda mirror. That same evening, Bhushan came home, furious after hearing everything. “No excuses this time,” he said. “It’s not just a haircut. It’s a full tonsure. Bald head. Let her study without this distraction.” Navya gasped. “Please, uncle! I’ll stop! Please don’t…” But it was already decided. Sunday morning came. Sarala made her sit on the floor with a steel bowl of warm coconut oil. Her hands worked silently, rubbing the oil deep into Navya’s scalp, massaging her temples slowly. It felt strangely calming—like the final silence before a storm. Sarala tightly braided her long, shining hair one last time and tied it with a red ribbon. “Wear your shawl, kanna. We’re going out,” she said casually. Navya knew. She didn’t cry. She didn’t fight. Her legs were weak, heart pounding. The roadside barbershop was small and a dusty mirror leaned against the wall. The barber stood ready, wiping a blade. Sarala gave him one look. “Full gundu, nunnaga kathi tho geekey.” Navya sat on the old red chair. Her eyes stared at herself. The braid hung behind her shoulder like a final memory. The barber didn’t speak. He took out his scissors and with a sharp krrrrk sound, began cutting off the thick braid. Piece by piece, her hair fell around her like shadows. Finally, he picked up the blade, lathered her head, and began scraping slowly, carefully—each stroke revealing more smooth skin beneath. When it was done, she looked like someone else. Her head shone in the sunlight, smooth and bare. Sarala placed her hand gently on Navya’s head. “Now you are ready.” Every morning after that, Sarala would apply oil on her bald head and gently rub it, like a ritual. “Mind will be cool, kanna,” she said. “You study sharp now.” Navya no longer had mirrors in her room. No distractions. Just books, study table, and the ticking clock. And she studied. Day and night. She read aloud, wrote nonstop, revised until her fingers ached. Navya’s two-month journey was strict and repetitive . Every morning, Sarala aunty would prepare cool turmeric paste and gently apply it onto Navya’s smooth scalp and Every night , she would prepare warm coconut oil and gently massage it onto Navya’s smooth scalp. Every Sunday, by 7 AM, the old barber would arrive. Sarala aunty would already be waiting with a clean shawl in hee hand, and Navya would silently step out of her room, her eyes down,and small grown stubble from the last week’s shave. May be an image of 2 people The stool sat in the same corner near the tulasi plant. Navya would sit, wrapping the shawl around her slender shoulders. The barber would begin wetting her scalp, rubbing a bit of warm foam, then drawing his straight razor. Each stroke was clean and slow, the only sound was the whisper of blade against skin and the distant cawing of crows. Once the shave would have been done, Sarala would gently wipe her scalp and would apply a light coat of oil. The first few weeks, neighbors and colony aunties stared, whispering things like, “Again bald?” or “Poor girl, strict family…” But Navya stopped caring. Her reflection showed a clean, bold girl with a fire in her eyes. Back home, her days were filled with books, notes, and revision charts. Without the weight of her hair or the distractions of self-admiration, her mind felt lighter, sharper. Sarala ensured she ate on time, slept early, and didn’t touch a phone. Even at night, as the breeze brushed against her bare scalp under the fan, Navya felt a cool determination. Her teachers began noticing her sudden focus. “Navya has changed,” one of them said. Week after week, shave after shave, she transformed—not just in looks, but in willpower. Her bald head wasn’t a punishment anymore; it became her crown of discipline. Finally, the exams were over. A month after that, Navya’s hair had grown into a short boycut, results were declared and navya scored 95% and became the district topper. when news came that the district topper would be interviewed on TV. Bhushan didn’t wait. “Call the barber,” he said firmly. That afternoon, Navya sat quietly on the verandah stool once again. No resistance, no questions—only silence as the barber lathered her head and began shaving it smooth, each stroke clean under the soft afternoon sun. The blade glided over her scalp, leaving no trace of hair—only a gleaming bald head, shining with quiet pride. Sarala aunty carefully applied cool sandal paste over her head, the fragrance soothing, almost sacred. Dressed in a simple red saree, Navya stepped out with her glowing scalp and calm face reflecting her complete transformation.The TV interview was held, Cameras rolled as Navya walked onto the stage, her head completely shaved, smooth and glowing under the bright lights. The audience murmured in surprise, but her calm smile silenced them. The host greeted her warmly, “You’ve become an inspiration, Navya. Tell us your secret.” Navya folded her hands and replied softly, “Discipline… and removing distractions. I gave my full focus, and this,” she touched her bald head gently, “helped more than I expected.” The host smiled curiously, glancing at her shining yellow scalp. “Navya, many are surprised by your look. What made you keep your head shaved even today?” Navya smiled gently. “At first, it was a punishment. But later, it became my strength. No mirror distractions, no hair to worry about… only books and peace.” Another reporter asked, “Didn’t you feel odd going bald as a young girl?” Navya replied calmly, “I did… the first time. But now, it feels natural. This bald head reminds me of how far I’ve come.” The crowd applauded. Her red saree and shining yellow scalp stood out—a symbol of transformation. She didn’t flinch, didn’t hide. She had earned this moment. Days later as Navya sat inside the bus ready to go back to her home town. her bag on her lap. The cool breeze hit her freshly grown stubble. She smiled. She had scored 95 percent. District topper. She looked outside at the green paddy fields flying past and whispered to herself with a smile,“No hair… no problem.”

Pooja

Pooja sat nervously on the sofa, her fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta. Her mother, Namitha, sat beside her, quietly fidgeting with her phone. The house was unusually silent, the kind of silence that made her heart race. They were both waiting for Ananth, Pooja’s father, to come home. Rumors had spread among the relatives — about Pooja and her boyfriend. It was just gossip, but Pooja knew the truth. There was nothing shameful in her heart. Yet, the fear of her family’s reaction gnawed at her. When the clock finally struck seven, the front door opened. Ananth stepped in, his face serious, eyes tired from the long day at work. Namitha stood up immediately. “Ananth, beta, we need to talk about something important,” she said, her voice was firm. “Papa, it’s not what you think. There’s no love story. Nothing wrong happened!” she defended quickly. “No pictures. No messages. Nothing in her phone,” Namitha added, half-convinced now. “Which means she deleted them,” Ananth snapped. “Smart girl. But not smarter than her father. You think we are fools? Meeting boys in parks? Letting them touch your hair?” he asked, stepping forward. “No, Papa. There’s nothing going on. Please trust me,” she pleaded. He sat on the sofa, leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. And then he muttered the unthinkable: “Aaj raat, baal mundwana padega.” The words hit Pooja like a slap. “Kya?” she whispered, almost choking. Namitha gasped too. “Ananth, that’s better idea—” Pooja was dragged by her wrist and made to sit roughly on the chair in the middle of the living room and Namitha stood right behind her. Ananth stormed into the bathroom, and returned carrying the Equipments. Without a word, Ananth plugged in the trimmer and switched it on. The sharp, buzzing sound filled the room. Pooja’s breath hitched. She clutched the edges of the chair, her knuckles turning pale. The first pass of the trimmer came mercilessly down the middle of her scalp. A thick chunk of her mid-back-length hair fell into her lap. When Pooja slowly began to sob, Namitha slapped her hard across the cheek. “Baith ja chup chaap,” Ananth ran the trimmer faster again and again over her head. Hair rained down onto the floor like black waterfalls. May be an image of 3 people and text The sound of the trimmer against her scalp was deafening to her ears. When her head was reduced to rough, uneven stubble, Ananth grabbed the shaving cream and applied it over her scalp. Then he picked up the straight razor. Without hesitation, he pressed the blade against her skin and began shaving away the remaining stubble. Each stroke scraped clean her scalp, leaving behind a raw, gleaming surface. By the time Ananth finished, her scalp was as smooth and bald as a newborn’s. He wiped her head clean with a wet towel, checking every inch. Pooja sat there — a broken figure, stripped of her pride, her identity, and her hair. She slowly raised a trembling hand and felt the alien, slick surface of her scalp. Without a word, both parents turned and walked away. Tleaving her alone in the room, surrounded by piles of her own hair, the buzz of the trimmer still echoing in her mind. The whole day passed like a blur. But that evening, Pooja quietly stepped out in a cap, walked 15 minutes to the park, and found Arjun waiting. He saw her, stood up — and froze when she pulled off the cap. For a moment, neither of them spoke. “They did this to you…” his voice heavy with anger and pain. Pooja’s lips trembled. “Papa… with his own hands, Arjun. Maa held me down. Mujhe lagta tha daantenge , maybe even lock me inside the house… but this? Woh bhi razor se… pura sir mundwa diya…” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly. “I told them… it’s all a lie, koi love story nahi hai… but they didn’t listen.” Arjun help her bald head gently, with care. “Listen to me, Pooja, You’re still mine. Samjhi? ganji, lambe baal, bina baal — I don’t care. I fell in love with you, not your baal. Tujhse pyaar kiya hai maine.” She let out a broken sob, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “Sab khatam ho gaya, Arjun… they’ll marry me off now to some stupid stranger. I’ll lose you, too.” Arjun replied “Ab meri baat sun. We’ll flip this whole game. You’ll act like you’ve changed, that you’re obedient, no love story, no boyfriend. Let them believe they scared you straight. And jab rishta fix karenge na… thab surprise hei tere liye.” Pooja blinked. “What…?” Pura plan set hai.” For the first time since the night before, a faint flicker of hope showed in her eyes. “Are you serious Arjun… sach mein?” May be an image of 2 people and people smiling He grinned, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “Bilkul. And you’re gonna rock that bald look for a few days. Dekhna… log bhi hairaan ho jayenge. Bald or not, tu meri jaan hai.” Pooja gave a smile. They sat there for a moment, holding hands. The plan was risky… but so was their love. And for the first time in two days, Pooja felt like she could breathe. next day while breakfast when Namitha asked gently, “Beta, kya sach mein koi ladka hai?” Pooja nodded slowly, “Nahi maa, sab rumors hain. trust me.” She avoided talking about the past or her feelings. At dinner, she ate quietly, never once looking her father in the eyes. Ananth watched her carefully but said nothing. The next days were filled with silence. Whenever Namitha tried to ask about boys or friends, Pooja would say firmly, “Maa, main ab badal gayi hoon. I’m ready to stay bald, no complaints.” She kept herself busy in the house—helping with chores, studying, and avoiding mirrors. One evening, when her cousin came over and asked, “Pooja, tumne toh apne sir mundwa diye, kya sach mein koi ladka nahi hai?” She smiled and said, “Woh sab galat samajh hai. Main bilkul single hoon.” Her parents slowly started believing her. But inside, Pooja’s heart was heavy. She was only pretending to be broken and accepted. Each night she looked at her reflection, touching her bald scalp softly, whispering to herself, “Yeh sab ek plan hai. I’m not defeated.” She waited for the right moment to prove her truth. One night Pooja stood in front of the bathroom mirror, holding the razor firmly in her hand. Her scalp was covered with short stubble from the week before, but now she was ready to go even further. Slowly and carefully, she moved the razor across her head, feeling the blade glide smoothly over her skin. The soft scratch of the razor against her scalp echoed in the quiet room. With each pass, the rough stubble disappeared, revealing a smooth, shining scalp beneath. When she finished, Pooja ran her hand over her head, feeling the cool, bare skin. A mix of courage and sadness filled her chest, but she knew this was her way to show she was strong and things went as they planned. May be an image of 1 person, slip, hairbrush and sleepwear Next day when Namitha saw her daughter again in smoothly shaved look , her eyes widened in disbelief. She blinked a few times, trying to process what she was seeing. “Pooja… kya kiya tumne?” Namitha was in shock. Ananth, who was sitting nearby, stood up and stared at Pooja’s bald head. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then tightened with a mix of anger and confusion. “How could you do this to yourself again? Tumhe humne saza di thi, par tumne firse apne sir mundwaya ?” Ananth’s voice was stern. Pooja met her father’s eyes calmly, her resolve clear. “Papa, main tumhari saza maan li, par yeh meri choice hai, i will not grow my hair untill you truely belive me.” Though silent, both parents understood this was no ordinary rebellion. A month later, Ananth came home with good news. “Namitha, I’ve found a match. Businessman’s son. Settled in Delhi, well-educated. Wants a simple, homely girl. Doesn’t care about her beauty. Just character.” Pooja listened silently. Her heart raced. The boy and his family came over the next Sunday. And when the boy walked in — it was Arjun. Ananth was impressed. Namitha was charmed. Pooja kept her calm. They talked, laughed, discussed life. The engagement was fixed in three weeks. Not once did anyone suspect. Not once did anyone know — that this silent, smiling, bald girl had not just defended her love… but had won the war without a single lie.

RITIKA

Ritika was fire—bold, brash, and blinding. A 20-year-old college student in Delhi, she lived life like a spotlight followed her. Loud music, branded clothes, late-night parties, and sharp comebacks were her signature. She had no time for old-school values or boring traditions. Her hair—silky straight, dyed in streaks of burgundy and ash brown—was her crown, her pride. She spent hours styling it, capturing selfies with every new look. Her parents, however, were simple, grounded people from Bihar. Years ago, they moved to Delhi for a better future, leaving behind their ancestral home and their traditions. But now, their daughter had grown into someone they barely recognized. Back in their hometown, a centuries-old tradition was followed in the family. Every five years, the family would visit the Mundeshwari Devi Temple, seeking blessings and offering their devotion. But for the past twenty years, they hadn’t gone. Busy lives, excuses, delays. Now, the family priest gave a chilling explanation: “The Goddess is calling. Your daughter’s arrogance, her restlessness—it’s not just attitude. She needs to offer her pride. She must visit the Devi. Only then peace will return.” And what was Ritika’s pride? Her hair. The parents called Ritika home for a short break. She agreed—reluctantly. Within two days, they were on a train to Bihar. Ritika was annoyed from the start: no Wi-Fi, no AC, dusty towns, weird food. When they reached the village, she made no effort to hide her disgust. “What is this place? Where’s Uber? Why do people still live like this?” Her parents remained silent. When they reached Mundeshwari Temple, the morning was quiet, and the hilltop breeze carried the sound of bells and chants. As Ritika stepped out of the car, the air shifted around her—cooler, thinner, tinged with the scent of incense and wet stone. Before her stood the ancient Mundeshwari Devi Temple, nestled on a quiet hilltop in Bihar. Believed to be one of the oldest functional temples in India, its blackened stone walls had withstood centuries of wind, rain, and whispered prayers. The structure was simple yet commanding, carved with faded symbols of Devi and her mount. Devotees walked barefoot on the sacred earth, carrying coconuts and flowers, their eyes filled with faith. Ritika paused for a moment, her heels clicking awkwardly on the stone path, feeling oddly out of place. The temple didn’t roar—it hummed, as if it knew every visitor, every story, and every offering made at its feet. Something about it made her chest tighten. She walked ahead, not knowing this journey would strip more than just her pride. Ritika stepped into the temple, the fragrance was strong and effective, The idol of Goddess Mundeshwari stood tall in the center, her serene face exuding both power and compassion. The golden ornaments glinted in the dim light, casting a divine glow on the devotees who knelt in reverence. Ritika stood there for a moment, mesmerized by the tranquility, feeling a sudden, inexplicable pull. Her parents, still holding onto their prayers, completed their darshan with devotion, while Ritika lingered, her mind preoccupied. The atmosphere felt dense, charged with an energy that made the air heavier with each breath. Afterward, they approached the priest, an elderly man whose gaze seemed to pierce through them. With a calm, steady voice, he spoke. “The Goddess accepts the purest of offerings,” he said, his words carrying weight. “For your family’s wellbeing, a sacrifice must be made, a surrender of the self. A head shave—an offering to the divine, removing ego, cleansing the soul. It is not just tradition, but part of the tantric practices here. It is necessary.” Ritika’s heart raced, her mouth dry. She glanced at her parents, whose eyes were already fixed on the priest with a sense of determination. She could feel the ritual’s gravity, the ancient energy surrounding them. There was no turning back. The path led to a shaded courtyard, the atmosphere grew heavier. The usual sounds of chanting seemed distant, replaced by low, unsettling murmurs. The air felt thick with incense, and something about the place felt strange. They passed through a hidden doorway into a dim, secluded part of the temple. Ritika’s steps slowed as she saw a group of priests standing in a circle, chanting in an unfamiliar language. Strange symbols were drawn on the floor, glowing faintly. Ritika’s skin crawl. She quickly looked away, but her gaze caught a figure in the shadows, wearing a mask and holding a curved dagger. The sight made her heart race with fear. The further they walked, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The priests chanted loudly, and Ritika could hear the low, eerie sound of the possessed individuals’ voices, merging with the chants. It was as if their souls were slowly being pulled out of their bodies, a process Ritika couldn’t quite understand Ritika felt a sense of unease settle in her chest. They finally reached a small lake, but what caught Ritika’s eye was the eerie scene around it. The ground was littered with long, tangled strands of hair, abandoned and forgotten. A bonfire crackled nearby, casting dancing shadows, its heat cutting through the cold air. The smell of burning wood made her stomach churn, and her heart raced. This wasn’t just any temple—it was a place of dark, unsettling rituals. Ritika felt a wave of dread wash over her. She knew, deep down, her head shave was only the beginning of something far more terrifying. The priest gestured toward a barber standing near the water. Ritika’s heart skipped a beat. She had expected this—had known it was coming—but now that it was real. Ritika struggled, as five strong hands gripped her arms, yanking her toward the water. She screamed, thrashing against their hold, but the grip was unyielding, pulling her through the cold lake with force. Her long, thick hair clung to her, dripping wet as they dragged her like a prisoner, her mind racing, her body fighting with everything it had. “No! Stop! I won’t do it!” Ritika’s voice cracked, but no one seemed to care. The ritual was already in motion, and she was nothing more than a part of it. The moment they reached the head shave area by the lake, the men pushed her down into the dirt, forcing her to the ground with such intensity. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed, her hands desperately trying to cover her head. “Please, don’t do this! I’ll never come back again!” Her body shook, but the pressure on her arms kept her pinned. The barber didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a handful of her long hair, yanking it back with a brutal force, and in one swift motion, the razor was against her scalp. The blade scraped across her skin, cutting through her wet strands, and Ritika gasped, the pain and humiliation flooding her. “Stop! Please!” she cried, her voice barely audible over the sound of the razor as it scraped through her hair. But no one listened. The ritual had to be completed. With each stroke, the weight of her hair, her pride, her defiance, disappeared, falling in clumps to the ground around her. Ritika’s body trembled with fury, her eyes wide with terror, but all she could do was lay there as the barber worked, his hands steady, removing every last trace of her former self. Her scalp was exposed now, raw and tingling, and the air around her felt colder, sharper. As the final lock of hair fell to the ground, Ritika’s sobs filled the air, the echoes of her resistance drowned in the ritual’s relentless tide. Her hair was gone, and with it, her freedom. As Ritika, still trembling, was told to collect the remnants of her hair, she hesitated, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She looked at the pile of her long, dark strands, now nothing more than a symbol of her resistance, of everything she had lost in this moment. With a heavy heart, she gathered the clumps of hair and walked slowly toward the bonfire, her bare scalp exposed to the cold night air. With one last defiant glance, she threw the hair into the roaring flames. The fire crackled as it consumed her past, her pride, and her identity. The heat from the flames reached her, and for a brief, painful second, it felt as if it had burned away everything inside her too. As the fire roared louder, Ritika collapsed to her knees, her body finally giving way to the weight of the ritual. Her vision blurred, and before she could process anything, darkness claimed her. The head shave was just the beginning. Still weak, she was made to sit in a circle of ash. A red mark was drawn on her bald head, and priests chanted quietly around her. Her skin tingled, and her scalp burned from the herbal mixture applied to it. She was led waist-deep into the temple lake again and dunked once. No chants, no noise. Just water. Cold. Clean. Her stubble glistened as she stepped out. Wrapped in white cloth, she walked a short stone path through smoke and incense. Her bald head, uncovered, glowed under moonlight as devotees bowed in silence. The fire crackled. Something inside her calmed. Days passed Ritika stood before the Goddess, her heart pounding, her smooth, bald head exposed under the temple’s sacred gaze. The weight of the past few days—of the rituals, the head shave, the strange practices—pressed heavily on her. Her fingers grazed the soft stubble on her scalp, a reminder of her transformation. As she closed her eyes, the hum of prayers around her faded, and she felt a strange sense of surrender. The Goddess’s serene face seemed to understand the turmoil within her, as if guiding her to let go of her arrogance, to shed the pride that had defined her for so long. She was no longer the same girl who had arrived here. With a final prayer, Ritika bowed her head and felt a quiet strength rising within her. She wasn’t ashamed anymore. The baldness wasn’t a symbol of defeat . It was the beginning of something new. As they turned to leave, Ritika felt lighter, the burden of vanity lifting, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead. The future felt different, and for the first time, Ritika felt truly free. Back in Delhi, Ritika was… quiet. She no longer shouted at the help, rolled her eyes at her mother, or skipped college on a whim. Her days began early. She helped with chores. She read. She sat by herself for hours, lost in thought. May be an image of 1 person and temple She thought she could return to her old ways, but something was different. Her friends, the ones who once adored her arrogance and her shiny hair, now kept their distance. Whispers followed her down the halls of college, not just about her bald head, but about the strange aura surrounding her. Her bad habits—late-night partying, ignoring her studies—seemed less appealing. The same people she had once impressed with her attitude now looked at her with pity or curiosity. Ritika didn’t care at first, but as the weeks went on, she found herself standing in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. The stubble on her head had begun to grow back, and for the first time in months, she felt a sense of pride. It wasn’t just about her appearance; it was about something deeper. One evening, she walked past her old group of friends at a café. They stared at her, their eyes full of judgment. Ritika paused for a moment, then turned away, her heart steady, her baldness no longer something to hide, but a symbol of the change she had embraced. Her college life began to shift, too. She attended classes more regularly, focused on her studies, and even started volunteering in charity work. Her rebellious nature, once her core, slowly dissolved. Instead, she found herself searching for deeper meaning, a new purpose. Her friends noticed it. They saw the subtle change in her, but they couldn’t understand it. Neither could she at times, but she was no longer the spoiled, arrogant girl she once was. Each passing day, as the stubble grew into thicker strands, Ritika felt less connected to the past and more aligned with the person she was becoming. The rituals, the head shave, everything now made sense. She had shed more than just her hair; she had shed the person she once was.

Sreenidhi Naidu cultural style

It was a regular afternoon in Class 10-A, The students sat with their minds already drifting toward the upcoming Annual Day. Their class teacher, Ms. Revathi, stepped in with a smile and clapped her hands to get their attention. “Tomorrow is our Annual Day celebration,” she announced warmly “This year’s theme is Celebrate Your Culture. Each of you must come dressed in your traditional outfit that represents your family’s roots. Share your dress plans in the class group by this evening.” A wave of excitement passed through the class. Everyone loved dressing up, and this was their moment to shine. Shreenidhi’s eyes lit up. Sitting with her friends Ananya and Meenal, “I’m going to wear a traditional Andhra half-saree,” she said, her voice bubbling with joy. “Green and maroon, with jasmine flowers in my braid. Just like how girls dress in my father’s village during festivals!” Her friends beamed at the idea, teasing her about how beautiful she’d look. Unnoticed by them, Sanjana sat at the back listened quietly. Jealous of the attention Shreenidhi always received, she made no comment, but her eyes didn’t leave the trio even for a moment. That evening, the Class 10-A WhatsApp group was buzzing with messages as students eagerly shared their planned outfits. Shreenidhi scrolled through the list with a smile, excited to post hers soon—until a sudden message made her heart sink. Sanjana had typed confidently that she would be wearing a traditional Telugu half-saree with jasmine flowers.Describing the exact same idea of Shreenidhi. For a moment, Shreenidhi just stared at the screen, stunned. It felt like her idea had been snatched away before she could even claim it. The joy she had carried all day quietly slipped away. Without saying anything in the group, she messaged Ms. Revathi privately, requesting permission to share her dress plan in person the next morning. She turned off her phone and sat in silence, unsure of what to feel. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor lost. Priya, who had just finished in the kitchen, noticed the stillness and came to her. “Kutty ma, enna aachu? You seem off today,” she said softly, sitting beside her. Shreenidhi hesitated for a moment before resting her head on her mother’s shoulder and whispering, “Amma… Sanjana copied my outfit idea. I don’t feel like dressing up anymore.” Priya’s hand gently stroked her daughter’s back. “Aiyyo paavam… this girl, always causing trouble, So what now, ma? You’re just going to sit like this and do nothing, ah?” Shreenidhi sat up slowly. “Then what should I wear, Amma? Everyone would’ve planned already… If I wear something random, they’ll laugh. If I do the same idea, they’ll think I copied her,” she said, trembling slightly. Priya looked at her for a long moment and smiled warmly “Why not wear something from my side for a change, hmm… We are Tamil people too, no? You know Palani Mala look? Yellow dress, shaved head, bare feet… It’s our way of showing devotion.” Shreenidhi blinked, unsure if she heard that right. “Amma… like mottai for real ?” “Serious-aa illa, I’m just telling. I did it last year at the palani trip right. You’ll look so strong, like a true devotee. They’ll never forget you.” Her voice was calm, full of quiet pride. There was silence between them. Shreenidhi imagined herself bald, walking into class barefoot, all eyes on her. It was terrifying but strangely powerful too. “Amma… what if they laugh? What if they stare too much?” Priya lifted her chin gently. “Let them stare, kutty ma. They’ll see courage, not comedy. This is your tradition. Your blood. Stand proud, kanna,” A small smile returned to Shreenidhi’s face. She still felt nervous, but somehow Amma’s words made her feel safe. Strong. “Okay… maybe I’ll do it,” and her mother wrapped her arms around her with a proud smile. “That’s my brave girl.” That after dinner, Priya quietly began preparing the hall near the pooja room. She spread old newspapers on the floor, placed a chair and brought out a bowl of water and a safety razor. Shreenidhi stood nearby as priya gently parted her long hair to section off a small tuft at the back and dipped her fingers in water and lightly wet her hair from the top. The first stroke came slow and firm—from the crown of her head. A soft scraping sound filled the room as strands of hair began falling gently to the floor. As Priya worked with quiet care, the crown soon turned smooth, the soft fuzz of new scalp exposed. “You okay, ma?” she asked, wiping the blade on the towel. “Mmm,” Shreenidhi nodded,“ It feels… strange. Cold.” Priya smiled. “Adhu thaan beginning feeling, pa. First time bald, no? But just wait. You’ll feel like you’ve left all the burden behind ” Shreenidhi let out a small smile. “Will I look funny, Amma?” she asked. “Funny-aa? You’ll look powerful, that’s what. And anyway, who said bald is not beautiful?” Priya said with pride as she began shaving the sides. The hair fell in smooth tufts around her daughter’s shoulders, the razor sliding cleanly over her scalp. The last strokes were done at the back, careful not to touch the shikha. Soon, the job was complete—Shreenidhi’s head gleamed softly in the dim light, clean and bald except for the tied tuft at the back. She touched it slowly, surprised by how smooth and light it felt. For the first time that day, she smiled fully. The next morning as Shreenidhi stepped out of her bath, her freshly shaved scalp glowing after a gentle oil massage. Priya handed her a soft yellow cotton dress and watched as she got dressed, barefoot and graceful. With steady hands, Priya applied a good layer of turmeric paste to her bald head and placed a tulsi-bead mala around her neck. The jasmine flowers were tied carefully around the small tuft behind, which she braided again with precision. Shreenidhi stood in front of the mirror, She wasn’t scared anymore. With one last look, she held her mother’s hand. “Shall we go, Amma?… “Let’s show them who you are, kutty ma,” Priya replied, as both of them stepped out of the house together. At school, as students began arriving in colorful traditional outfits, murmurs quickly filled the auditorium the moment Shreenidhi walked in. Dressed in a plain yellow cotton dress, barefoot, with a glowing bald head and a neat jasmine-tied shikha behind, she looked completely different—yet deeply rooted in something powerful. All eyes turned, some in surprise, some in silent awe. Whispers passed between students, but no one dared to laugh. Even the teachers paused to admire her presence. Sanjana, standing nearby in her shiny half-saree, stared in disbelief, her expression twisting in envy before she quietly stormed out of the hall. When the award ceremony began, the chief guest stepped forward and called out, “The Best Cultural Representation Award goes to… Shreenidhi Naidu.” The hall broke into soft applause as Shreenidhi stepped onto the stage, calm and composed, her bald head catching the light like a crown. “This is not just confidence,” the guest said, “this is culture lived with heart.” Shreenidhi smiled gently, her fingers brushing slowly over the smooth curve of her freshly shaved head—a gesture full of quiet pride. The soft sheen of her scalp caught the stage lights, glowing with calm strength. Turning toward the audience, she said softly, “Thank you, Amma,” her voice steady and warm. Her eyes searched the crowd until they met her mother’s—beaming with pride, her hands folded with love.

Mansi and Tanya

Mansi is from Delhi. She is in her second year of college. Her family is traditional, and she has one younger sister, Tanya, who is in 15 years old. Both of their studies are average. It was the month of April, and the temperature was rising. Mansi and her sister Tanya had hip-length hair, well-maintained. To improve Tanya’s studies, their teacher suggested, “Let’s get our students’ hair cut.” Tanya concentrates more on her hair than her studies. “What about Mansi?” “I’m thinking the same, let’s give Tanya a haircut first and then decide about Mansi.” One day, their teacher asked Tanya to get ready and took her to the school. Mansi was watching TV at home. After 2 hours, their teacher and Tanya returned, and Tanya’s hair was cut into a short bob above her ears with baby-short fringe close to her forehead. The barber made sure she looked like a kid and completely shaved her back and neck. Mansi was shocked and looked at her teacher. Tanya went to take a bath and returned. Their teacher went to Tanya and said, “Now concentrate only on your studies.” Tanya nodded. Their teacher went out. Mansi went to Tanya and asked, “What happened?” Tanya said, “The teacher took me to the school barber and asked him to reduce the length. Without wasting time, he took me to the chair, opened the clips, and chopped the hip-length hair to neck-length. The teacher saw my hair and said, ‘Above the ears, so she won’t waste her time with hair.’ The barber said, ‘Okay madam,’ and gave me a nice short bob. I was crying.” Then Mansi asked about the fringe. “In between, the teacher went out for 5 minutes. The barber took a comb and scissors, came to the front, and said, ‘Stay still,’ and gave a straight cut to the fringe. It was short. He took a spray bottle and combed my fringe. The teacher came inside and saw me. He was surprised by the fringe and asked the barber. Then the barber said, ‘This will look good on her.’ The teacher said, ‘It’s summer, the fringe may cover her eyes soon.’ The barber took the spray bottle again, sprayed over the fringe, and said, ‘I will reduce the length so that it stays away from the eyes,’ and cut close to the forehead. The teacher smiled and said, ‘Okay.’ Then he took thinning shears and reduced the volume from the top. Mansi rubbed her head and said, “Don’t worry, it will grow soon.” The teacher said, “I will be visiting regularly.” And she cried. Mansi said, “I will talk to the teacher.” Two days went by. It was Monday. They took a bath. Tanya’s hair was wet after the shower; it didn’t take much time for the dryer. She combed and got ready for school. Tanya got ready. Her school uniform was a skirt and shirt. She came downstairs. The teacher asked about Mansi. Tanya said, “She’s getting ready.” Mansi kept her hair open and came downstairs wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans. The teacher told both of them to come early after school and college. In the evening, Tanya came early. Mansi went out with friends and came back late. Tanya was studying. Her teacher asked, “Did anyone ask you about the haircut?” Tanya said, “Yes, sir, everyone was shocked and said it’s cute. But they said it’s too short. Please let me grow my hair, sir.” The teacher came near and said, “Don’t worry, this suits you better than long hair. You will get used to this. You won’t spend more time getting ready like your sister.” He said and went cooking. Mansi came home after roaming out, feeling tired. The teacher told her to refresh. She took a bath and came in with wet hair, water dripping. The floor was wet. The teacher asked her to dry the hair and cleaned the floor. One month went by. Tanya’s bob grew over her ears. The fringe was almost touching her eyebrows. It kind of looked good on her, and she was a little happy. The teacher told Tanya, “Tomorrow I will drop you to school. Get ready an hour before.” Tanya asked why. The teacher came, touched her hair, and said, “You need to get your haircut. It’s grown and started covering your face.” Tanya pleaded, but the teacher said, “It’s just hair, so sleep now.” In the morning, the teacher woke Tanya up, and she got ready fast with the school uniform. The teacher took her to school for the haircut. He pulled out a chair and made Tanya sit on it. Instead of going to the barbershop, this time they decided to cut her hair at school. He took scissors and a spray bottle and completely wet her hair. Tanya’s teacher didn’t say anything to the barber. The barber turned Tanya away from the mirror and faced her teacher. The teacher kept his phone down and looked at his student and the barber. The barber asked, “Short bob? Or long one this time?” The teacher said, “You can give her any, she is in your hands now.” And smiled. “Make sure nothing is covering her face.” The barber held her chin and saw her. The teacher asked, “Are you free this evening?” The barber said, “There can be a few customers.” The teacher said, “It’s okay, I will bring my other student, her hair is very long and thick. We need to clean her too.” The barber said, “Okay madam.” And took the clipper and gave Tanya a nice high bob cut. It was shorter than last time, the back was completely clipped and shaved. Her teacher watched and said nothing. The barber gave her a nice bowl cut and showed it to her teacher. He took the spray bottle, held her chin, and said, “I’m going to cut the fringe short like last time.” Her teacher smiled, and the barber removed her fringe close to her forehead. He blow-dried her hair and got her down. Tanya, with a fresh mushroom cut and school uniform with a short skirt, looked cute. Her teacher thanked the barber and said, “We’ll meet in the evening.” Her teacher dropped Tanya at school and returned home. Mansi came back home in the afternoon, saying her head was paining. Her teacher said, “You never dry your hair immediately; that’s why you are facing a headache now.” He came and touched her hair. Mansi was scared. She said, “If I sleep, it will be okay.” Her teacher said, “No, change your dress and come with me.” Mansi was scared. Mansi and her teacher were walking. The teacher saw her hair, which was longer than hip-length. Mansi asked, “Sir, where are you taking me?” He pulled her into the school barber shop. It was a little crowded as it was afternoon. The barber said, “Madam, I was expecting you in the evening.” She said, “Yes, but she came home with a headache. So I brought her here straight away.” He told them to wait as there were two people before her and three barber chairs filled. A few more customers came in. The teacher said, “I will go out and come back in some time. You take care of her in the meanwhile.” And left. He went to collect a few items from a nearby shop. After 10 minutes, the chairs were getting free. Mansi thought her teacher should return. She was scared. The next person whose turn it was supposed to be. The barber told the person, “Can you please wait for 10 minutes? I will finish this lady; she is having a headache.” Mansi became nervous. The person said, “Okay,” and looked at her. “Don’t worry, child,” they took her hair in hand and said, “It needed to go soon.” She slowly started walking towards the chair, hoping her teacher would return soon. She sat in the chair, the barber pushed the chair higher and tied a cape. Then the barber removed the band from her hair and took the spray bottle. Her heart was beating fast. She was nervous, the barber combed her hair neatly. The person standing next asked, “Did her teacher say what type of haircut?” The barber said, “No.” Then the person said, “Reduce her length, then we will decide,” the barber said, “Nice idea,” and chopped her length. Her hip-length hair was lying on the floor, tears began to flow from her eyes. The person saw that, held her chin, and said, “Stop crying.” She got scared and stopped crying. The barber evened the hair with a long bob cut and blow-dried it. She thought it was over and convinced herself. The person took her chin up and saw her closely. She was scared. They asked, “Is it done?” The barber said, “Yes.” They took a comb and combed her hair for a few minutes. “I guess we need to reduce the length a lot; it’s not good for her health.” Mansi got shocked by this. The barber took the spray bottle and sprayed more than needed. The barber asked, “Do you have anything in mind?” The person replied, “Yes,” and showed him an image in the poster. Mansi thought, “I should have come after this person.” Years had passed since Mansi and Tanya endured their dramatic haircuts in school. Both sisters had grown and moved on to different stages of their lives. Mansi, now 24, was working as a marketing professional in a bustling corporate firm in Delhi. Tanya, 21, was in her final year of college, pursuing a degree in fashion design. Despite their past trauma, both sisters had grown their hair long again, relishing the freedom that came with adulthood. It was a hot June afternoon when the past came knocking on their door. Mansi had returned home early from work, exhausted from a long day of meetings. Tanya was at home, sketching designs for her final project. The doorbell rang, and Mansi went to answer it. Standing there was Mrs. Sharma, their old school teacher, who had retired a few years ago. She was accompanied by a woman Mansi recognized as Mrs. Singh, the wife of the barber who had cut Tanya’s hair years ago. “Hello, Mansi. Hello, Tanya,” Mrs. Sharma greeted them warmly, stepping into the living room uninvited. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pay a visit. I see you both have grown your hair long again.” Mansi and Tanya exchanged nervous glances, the memories of their forced haircuts flashing through their minds. “It’s been a long time, Mrs. Sharma,” Mansi said cautiously. “What brings you here today?” Mrs. Sharma smiled. “Oh, nothing much. Just reminiscing about the old days. Do you remember Mrs. Singh? She has a special talent for haircuts.” Tanya’s heart sank. “We remember, Mrs. Sharma. But that was a long time ago. We’re not schoolgirls anymore.” Mrs. Singh stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling determination. “I’ve become quite the expert over the years. And I’ve learned some new techniques that I’d love to try on you girls.” Mansi and Tanya backed away, but Mrs. Sharma blocked their exit. “It’s just a haircut, girls. You’ve done it before, and you can do it again. Besides, it’s summer, and short hair is much more manageable.” Mansi tried to protest. “Mrs. Sharma, this is unnecessary. We’re adults now. We can decide how we want to wear our hair.” But Mrs. Sharma was insistent. “Nonsense. A fresh start is always good, and you’ll thank us later.” Before they could react, Mrs. Singh had already set up her tools on the dining table. She motioned for Mansi to sit down first. Reluctantly, Mansi took a seat, her eyes pleading with Tanya for help. But Tanya was frozen in place, her mind racing. Mrs. Singh started by combing Mansi’s long, silky hair. “Such beautiful hair, Mansi. It’s a shame it’s so impractical for the summer heat.” With a swift motion, Mrs. Singh picked up her scissors and began cutting. Mansi watched in horror as her long locks fell to the floor. Mrs. Singh worked quickly, cutting Mansi’s hair into a short, sleek bob that barely reached her ears. She then took out clippers and shaved the nape of her neck, giving Mansi a sharp, edgy look. “There, much better,” Mrs. Singh said, admiring her work. “You’ll feel much cooler now.” Tanya, still in shock, was next. Mrs. Sharma guided her to the chair and held her shoulders firmly. “Your turn, Tanya. It’s for your own good.” Tanya’s eyes filled with tears as Mrs. Singh approached her with the scissors. “Please, no. I don’t want this.” Mrs. Singh ignored her pleas and began cutting. Tanya’s long, thick hair was soon reduced to a short pixie cut. Mrs. Singh took extra care to trim the fringe above her eyebrows and shave the sides close to her scalp. When she was done, Tanya barely recognized herself in the mirror. Her once flowing hair was now gone, replaced by a stark, boyish cut. “There, you both look wonderful,” Mrs. Sharma said, clapping her hands. “This will help you focus on what’s important.” As Mrs. Sharma and Mrs. Singh left, Mansi and Tanya sat in silence, processing what had just happened. They looked at each other, their short haircuts a stark reminder of their past. But this time, they were determined to make sure it never happened again. Mansi hugged Tanya, whispering, “We’ll grow it back, just like before. And next time, we won’t let anyone take away our choices.”