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.