Sagarika Unbearable humiliation

 Sagarika was in her final year of 2nd PUC, a bright and confident girl with waist-length, jet-black hair that was her pride and identity. She lived in a traditional household in Bengaluru with her loving but strict Amma and a deeply conservative Ajji. At home, she was quiet and obedient, but outside, especially at college, she was known for her style and charm. Unknown to her family, Sagarika had secretly participated in her college’s inter-state beauty contest. She spent her savings on styling tools, high-end hair serums, and creams. Carefully hiding the products in her bedroom drawer, she made sure no one suspected a thing. 

She uploaded pictures anonymously under a pseudonym, but her striking features and glorious hair made her stand out. Her friends encouraged her, and she enjoyed the attention, the spotlight—a life she could never even dream of under her Ajji’s  roof. It was her secret world, But secrets never stay buried forever. One weekend, a distant relative happened to come across her contest photos online and sent them to Ajji, unaware of the damage it would cause. Ajji was shocked and furious. “Nam mane hudugi yenu cinema heroine aagta idale?” she exclaimed, slamming her phone on the table. 

The images of Sagarika, dressed confidently with open hair and makeup, felt like a slap to everything the family stood for. Her mother, too, was disturbed but remained silent, still unsure of how to react. The final blow came when a few hair strands were found on the prayer mat—hair fall from the chemical products Sagarika had been using. Her Ajji took it as a divine sign. “Her pride is her downfall,” she told her daughter-in-law. Together, they decided: a trap.  On Friday morning, they told her they were visiting a temple outside the city for a health ritual. Suspicious but unable to argue, Sagarika joined them. 

She wore a simple kurti, her hair braided, still unaware of the storm that awaited. At the Temple Sagarika offered prayers, bowing with closed eyes, thankful for a break from college stress. Then came the walk to the side of the temple. She turned to ask her mother something, but before she could speak, a hand gently guided her towards the stool under the shed. “Just a small pooje,” her mother said softly. Sagarika froze. The sound of scissors clicking and the wet cloth in the barber’s hand sent a chill through her. “Amma… what’s happening?” she asked, eyes wide. Her Ajji’s voice was sharp and cold.

“Leave a long tuft (juttu)of hair at the back. She’s still unmarried. She cant be shaved totally.”The barber nodded silently, parting her thick, dripping hair. The first snip came like a slap — loud, final. Sagarika’s chest tightening as long strands fell in wet clumps around her. Her once-admired hair now lay like discarded threads of dignity. He began dragging the razor, slicing through her long hair with slow, scraping precision. The blade glided mercilessly, clearing everything except the long tuft left swaying at the crown. Sagarika winced, tears silently streaking her cheeks as the crowd stared.

 Her bald head gleamed under the sun, smooth and exposed. That single, juttu hung behind her — not a symbol of tradition, but a mark of humiliation. Ajji inspected the bald head with approval. “Let this be her lesson.” Sagarika stood slowly, her shaved scalp burning in the heat, the whispers and stares pressing in. Then Sagarika was led to the temple lake, barefoot and shivering. Her grandmother ordered her to step in and bathe, scrubbing her down as if washing away her sins. The cold water stung her freshly shaved scalp, making her flinch with every splash. Once out, ajji applied a thick layer of turmeric paste on her bald head,

 rubbing it in slowly, deliberately, as people watched. The paste was slightly sticky. but Sagarika remained silent, lips trembling. A long vibhuti line was drawn across her smooth forehead, followed by a bold red tilak at the center. “Now she looks purified,” ajji  declared, satisfied. Draped in a fresh saree, Sagarika walked back to the temple, head gleaming and painted — her shame on full display, cloaked in the guise of devotion. At the temple, as the priest handed sacred flowers to the three women, Sagarika stood with her head bowed, trying to stay invisible. Ajji took the long jasmine strand and, tied it tightly to Sagarika’s long juttu.

 The fragrant flowers dangled awkwardly, drawing curious glances from devotees nearby. Sagarika’s face flushed in embarrassment, the soft weight of the flowers only deepening her humiliation. As soon as She stepped into the house, she quietly walked past the living room without a word. In her room, she sat silently in front of the mirror, fingers trembling as they reached up to touch her smooth scalp. The scent of turmeric and flowers clung to her skin, her chest ached with the silent, suffocating pain only she could feel. That afternoon, relatives began visiting after seeing the photos online, each one praising her “devotion”. 

Sagarika forced a smile, sitting politely. Ajji proudly retold the temple story again and again, while amma brought sweets for everyone. When the guests left, she quietly slipped away to the bathroom, scrubbing her scalp with cold water, hoping to wash away the shame that refused to leave. Next morning Sagarika’s hopes of hiding her bald head vanished the moment Ajji laid down the new rule—no scarves, no dupattas, and no hiding. “Let everyone see.” she declared coldly, handing Sagarika a her own neatly folded saree. Despite her protests, Sagarika was forced to wear the heavy cotton saree, 

her head glistening under a thick layer of coconut oil which the ajji generously massaged in that morning. The long juttu was oiled, combed flat, and tied tightly—like a mark of punishment on display. As she walked to college, students gawked from every direction. The saree made her look out of place among casually dressed classmates, but it was her shining bald head that drew the most attention. No one dared to laugh aloud, but the smirks, awkward glances, and stolen photos said it all. She wasn’t just embarrassed—she was exposed. Even at home, she’s not allowed to wear nighties or casual clothes — 

only stiff cotton sarees and blouse combinations, chosen by her grandmother. Saturday night, the air felt heavy in the house. Her grandmother’s voice broke the silence. “Tomorrow onwards , your weekly head shave will happen, ready agi iru ,” Sagarika’s heart raced. “Please, ajji… not again. I can’t take it. I’ve been through so much already.” Her grandmother’s eyes hardened. “This is for your discipline. You will follow the tradition.” “No, I don’t want to!” Sagarika pleaded, standing up. “I can’t keep losing my hair every week.”. Everyone moves from the hall leaving sagarika alone ignoring her argument. 

Next day Sagarika was forcefully brought to the garden where she was made to sit on ground. her heart hammering in her chest as Ajji stood beside her, eyes cold and unwavering. The barber approached, eyeing her scalp, and then the long tuft at the back of her head. Ajji’s voice was firm as she ordered, “Don’t touch the juttu. Shave everything else.” The barber nodded and began working on the stubbled areas, each stroke of the razor against her bare scalp sending a chill down Sagarika’s spine. Her scalp was scraped clean, the sharp coldness of the blade intensifying the humiliation. 

She could feel the smoothness spreading across her head, a stark contrast to the remaining tuft which stood awkwardly, untouched. Her grandmother’s eyes never left her, watching with satisfaction as the barber continued his work, making sure the tuft remained untouched. Sagarika sat there, her heart sinking with each pass of the razor. Every Sunday after the shave, ajji would personally bathe her, then drape a saree over her granddaughter, and would apply a thick mixture of turmeric and oil to Sagarika’s smooth, bald scalp, making sure to massage it in. Then, a fresh flower garland would be carefully tied to the long tuft at the back,

 and a  big, bindi would be placed on her forehead, further adding to her humiliation. Ajji would then lead her through the busy Sunday bazar, making sure the entire neighborhood could see the transformation, Sagarika walking in shame with the weight of the flowers and the stares following her every step. Ajji also arranged a traditional dance practices at the local temple. Sagarika was instructed to dance in front of audience, her bare scalp glistening under the temple lights, her long tuft swaying with every movement. The thudding of her heart echoed in her chest as she danced, knowing that the crowd’s focus was on her appearance,

 not her talent. Even when sagarika thought it couldn’t get worse, her Ajji insisted she join public bhajan sessions. Sitting in front of a group of elders and devotees, Sagarika had to sing and pray, her bald head and long tuft exposed for all to see. At home, Sagarika was constantly reminded of her “mistake” through various forms of punishment. The house, once a place of comfort, now felt like a prison. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to hold on to the girl she used to be, it felt like her identity was slipping away—replaced by the bald-headed, sari-clad figure she was forced to be.