Silk Smitha The Bar Dancer

 

Silk Smitha was a well-known name in her small semi-rural village because she worked as a bar dancer in a bar on the outskirts of town. People gossiped about her, some with jealousy, some with dirty intentions, and some with pity. She lived in a small tiled house with her aged amma and appa. Her father was bedridden after a paralytic stroke, and her mother’s weak eyes barely let her see properly. Life wasn’t easy for Smitha. Every evening she would walk to the bar serve sometimes and dance to keep the customers entertained and earn enough to buy rice and medicines. Debts had piled up. The house they stayed in wasn’t theirs;

 it belonged to a heartless landlord named Durai. He was a cruel man, famous for harassing poor families in the area. He had a son, Mani, known for his strange obsession with women’s long hair. The family kept a distance from them as much as possible, knowing well how dangerous they could be.One humid night, as the ceiling fan barely moved the heavy air inside their house, a loud bang on the door startled Smitha and her mother. Durai, drunk and red-eyed, barged in with Mani following behind. Smitha’s amma trembled and hid behind a curtain while Smitha blocked her way protectively. 

Durai accused them of not paying rent for four months and claimed that by morning they would be thrown out. Smitha folded her hands and begged, “Please Durai anna… give me one week. I’ll arrange somehow.” Durai smirked, his eyes filled with cruelty. Durai slapped Smitha across the face, and she cried out, falling to the floor. Her mother rushed to her. “Ayyo… enna pa ithu… don’t touch her, Durai ayya!” But Durai shoved the old woman aside with a cruel push, sending her crashing against the mud wall. Smitha’s eyes brimmed with tears. Mani, already worked up, snapped. “Enough of your begging, di!”

 In a sudden burst of rage, he grabbed her saree pallu and yanked it violently. “Ayyayo!” Smitha screamed as she stumbled, losing balance and crashing to the floor with a thud, clutching her chest in fear, the pallu slipping aside. Her mother shrieked, “Enna pa pannreenga! Please leave her!”Smitha scrambled on her hands and knees, terrified, trying to cover herself, eyes wide with panic. She crawled behind her mother, holding onto her like a shield. “There’s one way you can stay here,” he said, looking at Mani. Mani grinned and stepped forward. “I like your hair, di. Long and shiny. I’ve never shaved a woman’s head before.

 If you sit quietly and let me do it, I’ll leave this house and not disturb you for a year.” Smitha’s heart dropped. Her long hair was her only pride, something she carefully oiled and combed every day. She looked at her amma’s frightened face, then at her father lying motionless on the cot. No one from the nearby houses would come to help at this hour. She clenched her jaw and whispered, “Seri… I’ll do it.” Durai laughed loudly, pleased with her defeat. Mani rushed out and came back with a small shaving kit and an old stool. Smitha sat down, tears already gathering in her eyes. Her amma sat in a corner, weeping silently. 

Mani removed the razor and began, the sound of the clippers breaking the thick silence of the house. As the machine touched her scalp, Smitha closed her eyes. Thick locks of her hair fell on the floor, one after the other. The sensation of the cool breeze touching the freshly shaved skin made her shiver. Mani cruelly made slow, long strokes, enjoying every moment of it. Smitha sat still, holding back her tears for her family’s sake. After a while, mani ran his hand over her smooth, bald scalp, checking for any remaining stubble. Not satisfied, he applied a little shaving foam and used a straight razor to clean shave her head completely. 

The sharp blade scraped against her scalp, leaving it gleaming and smooth, with no trace of hair left. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. Mani couldn’t resist. He ran his rough hand over Smitha’s smooth scalp, feeling the softness of her freshly shaved skin. “Super… semma smooth,” he murmured. Durai, who had been leaning against the wall watching the whole scene like a king enjoying a cruel sport, spat on the floor and laughed. Smitha sat still, her lips trembling, her eyes lowered to the floor. But just then, Durai’s expression changed. A dangerous look crossed his face.

 He took a step closer to Smitha and began to remove his lungi, his intentions clear in his leering eyes. Mani followed, still excited after the shave. Smitha’s heart pounded in her chest. She quickly dropped to the floor, grabbed Durai’s feet and wept. “Please Durai anna… I did what you asked. I gave my hair. I’ve nothing else left… Please… appa amma iruka veetla… don’t do anything more… I’ll fall at your feet daily if you say, but leave us tonight.” Her voice cracked as she sobbed, holding his feet tightly, her smooth bald head rubbing against his ankle. Mani stood behind Durai, eager, his eyes shifting between his father and Smitha.

 For a moment, there was silence. Even the distant chirping of crickets seemed to fade. Durai looked down at her — half amused, half irritated. “Poda… get up. Enough drama,” he spat. “I got what I wanted. Now I don’t want your cursed face near my house for one year. Don’t come begging for rent or money, or I’ll burn this hut down next time.” They left the house with mocking laughter, and the silence returned. Smitha quietly got up and looked at herself in the small cracked mirror. A shiny bald head, no trace of her lovely hair. Her amma held her hand and cried. Smitha didn’t say a word. 

The next morning, with her head still stinging from the shave, Smitha wrapped a scarf and went to the bar. But things were different. The customers stared at her bald head with curiosity and excitement. The bar owner, Muthu, realized the attention she was getting and removed her scarf before she went on stage. Under the grand decorated tube lights, her smooth scalp shone as she danced. The air buzzed with whispers. “She came bald, da… no hair at all!” “Smitha? Our bar dancer?” “Dei, see for yourself…” The bar manager, now clapped in delight at the cash pouring in. Word spread quickly.

 More people started visiting the bar to watch the bold, bald dancer. Smitha earned more tips than she ever had. Slowly, she started saving money and cleared her debts. She sent her amma and appa to stay with a distant uncle in the city for better care. A few months later, a small television channel from Chennai noticed her and offered a job as a model for their late-night programs. Smitha, without hesitation, left the village behind. Her past of humiliation, the pain of that night, everything stayed in that small house. In Chennai, she built a new life. Her shaved head became a style statement in certain circles, and people started knowing her as a bold woman who rose above her past.