MOOKUTHI AMMAN - part 1 : obsession

Ramasamy, known as Ramu in his family, was a struggler in every sense. He had a small YouTube channel where he uploaded local news clips, street interviews, and sometimes silly comedy pieces, but the views never crossed a few hundred. He would walk around with a old mike and broken tripod, hoping people would take him seriously as a “reporter.” Most of the time, the villagers laughed at his efforts, calling him “loosu paiyan ”. Ramu would take it with a half-smile, half-tear, because deep down he wanted to become famous and respected. He carried this comedy-tragedy air everywhere—always struggling, always dreaming, but never giving up his passion to be a reporter.

Long before Ramu was born, his ancestors were caretakers of the old Mookuthi Amman kovil, a temple that once shone with glory. People from far villages used to come for blessings, and the family had pride in serving the goddess. But as years passed, city temples grew, flashy advertisements took over, and the kovil became forgotten. In the narration of the villagers, it was always said, “Once upon a time, this kovil fed the whole town… now even the rats don’t come.” The contrast was almost satirical—an ancient goddess sitting in silence while modern banners of other temples covered the roads. This neglected temple was tied to Ramu’s fate, though he himself hardly realized it.

At home, Ramu’s amma, Thangamma, was the soul of innocence. Her blind faith often made her the butt of jokes, but she carried on with a smile. Indhu kutty, the elder sister, was more traditional in looks, always saying “oru ponnu decent-a irukkanum”, yet she carried a sharp pride and ego that made her quarrel often with Ramu. She wanted to become a Air hostess, her dreams were big but was unaffordable due to their bad financial condition. Smruthi kutty, the youngest was a lively, modern-minded ponnu who loved trendy clothes, selfies, and often pulling Ramu into her playful drama. Together, these 3 women shaped Ramu’s chaotic world, each one testing his patience in their own way.

Every night, once the street dogs stopped barking and his amma’s snoring filled the hall, Ramu would get back to his secret life. Phone brightness down, earphones in, he would type the same words—“head shave girl, gundu ponnu, mundan scenes...” The first sound of scissors slicing a long braid made his skin tingle, the first glimpse of falling hair made him sweat. He would whisper to himself, “Aiyo da, this is better than LCU climax.” Lust carried him fast, he would masturbate every night, and when it was over, “Dei Ramu, useless paiyan… stop da,” he would mutter, half-laughing at his own weakness. But like a comedy repeat scene, that night also he did it again, same search, same game.

The truth was, the whole world was part of this drama. Both men and women clicked, watched, drooled, and demanded more. and mostly women got the shave part—some shaved in kovils for tradition, some smiled boldly at barbers for YouTube fame, some even flaunted their bald heads on Instagram reels. Ramu would grin, “Ayyo, these girls are braver than our cinema heroines,” before losing himself in the shine of their scalps. For every tearful tonsure, there was a proud one; for every crying ponnu, another sat cool like a queen, rubbing her bald head. The line between devotion, fashion, and business was blurred, and Ramu was caught in the middle, both laughing at the madness and masturbating.

Sometimes his imagination ran wilder. He would imagine his sister Smruthi kutty, usually busy with TikTok, suddenly sitting on a wooden stool while a barber wets her hair, scissors ready and shaving her head. sometimes Indhu kutty, traditional and proud, kneeling in kovil with her thick braid cut off and shaved in kovil. Even innocent Thangamma, when she slept someone shaving off her head. In those moments, his heart raced—half thrilled, half guilty. Laughing softly, “Aiyo, what am I even thinking?” But even then, his hands betrayed him. By morning, the guilt would fade, replaced by that same weak promise: “Tonight no videos, I swear.” And yet, he would do the same.

By the time Ramu reached his 29th year, the marriage count had become a running joke inside the family. 18 failures already, and this was 19th girl brought a fresh wave of hope. Relatives polished the story as usual—“Appa is in Saudi earning, hotel under renovation and all...” Ramu, tired of this mask, took the bride aside after formal talks. He confessed, “My father ran away, not in Saudi. Our hotel is closed and yes, we are struggling.” The girl admired his honesty, even smiled at his courage, but with calm practicality told him that today she may clap for his truth, tomorrow she might regret tying her life to it. Ramu nodded without drama, simply walked out accepting his 19th failure.

Such failures always pulled Ramu’s mind back to the day their family cracked. Once, they were respected hoteliers, their small chain running smooth. Then came the Bhagavathi baba who whispered salvation, brainwashed his father and within months Appa left them, following like a blind calf. The man who should have protected the family abandoned them without a second thought. And behind that wound lay another bitter truth—ten long years between Ramu and Smruthi kutty. Villagers said Appa, even in his later age, still played with lust, still fathered children as if its was a game. To Ramu, Appa was not a villain of fire, but a weak, foolish man who ruined his house chasing a false god.

The family carried on, At a cousin’s gathering, Thangamma consulted her trusted astrologer. For years, every plan to visit Tirupati had failed—buses missed, tickets cancelled, sickness at the last minute. The old man thought for a while and spoke “Your family deity is blocking the path amma. Until you stay one night at that kovil, Tirupati doors will not open and your mottai vow will not be fulfilled —Lord will not accept unless his own child is first honored.” The words struck Amma like lightning. To her, the marriage failures, endless bad luck, all because of that family deity. Ramu stood silent not knowing that this very faith was about to pull him into a destiny larger than his failures.

Next week the family started to their Mookuthi Amman kovil. The temple, once glowing with lamps and flowers, now looked worn out—dusty floors, cracked walls, silence hanging heavy. Thangamma  carried all pooja items carefully and placed them before the sanctum. Ramu leaned on a pillar irritated. But as evening fell, he noticed the untouched offerings, the diya still waiting to be lit. His heart softened so he slowly, he poured water on the idol, applied kumkum and chandanam, and lit the diya. Looking into the stone eyes of the goddess, his voice cracked, “Amman… why am I like this? Life is slipping away. Marriage failures, shame, guilt—

I don’t know how long I can carry all this burden.” By night, the family spread chaapa on the floor, pulling thin rugs and pillows, and drifted into deep sleep. But the temple air changed—wind blew through the sanctum, rustling the lamps. From the five ponds outside, water seemed to rise with the breeze and sprinkle over the idol. Ramu stirred awake to the sound of the bell ringing on its own. He rubbed his eyes, confused, while others slept soundly. He stepped near the sanctum. Suddenly, a blaze of light burst. A woman draped in a red saree and green blouse, long dark brown hair brushing her knees, crown shining, jewels sparkling, trishul in hand. 

Her eyes glowed with an otherworldly charm—majestic, commanding, yet calm. Ramu froze. The lady smiled faintly. “Ramasamy, naan Mookuthi Amman,” she said, Ramu’s jaw dropped, then narrowed in suspicion. “Aiyo, this is some dream or…reality?” He folded his hands. “If you’re really Amman, make it rain then.” Instantly, the spot around his feet turned wet with drops falling from nowhere. He gulped, still stubborn. He thought of a silly movie song, and at once she scolded, “Hey don’t sing cinema paatu inside kovil.” A glowing hologram of the very song filled the air, playing right before his eyes. Ramu blinked hard. “Eh… robo movie trick ah? i have seen these is shankar movie” 

Amman’s face turned stern, slightly tired of his doubts.  “Enough. Ask me any wish, and I shall fulfill it.”  His heart jumped, excitement rushing through him. Without thinking much, he blurted, “I… I want to see Samantha’s head shave.” Amman’s lips curved in a gentle smile. “Thathasthu,” she said softly. In the blink of an eye, he found himself standing in a bright ashram. Samantha walked gracefully toward him, hair long and tied neatly, white top and keggings giving a simple devotional vibe. She asked directions to meet Sadhguru, and Ramu, too stunned to think, pointed randomly. As she walked past, he followed quietly. She explained her divorce struggles, 

vowed to take deeksha, and Sadhguru outlined the rules—including the mandatory head shaving. To Ramu’s shock, he was asked to help her. At the tonsure place, Samantha sat on the chair. The female barber wet her hair, removed the clips. Tears dropped, but her face stayed firm—she wanted to complete the deeksha. The barber picked up the razor, wet Samantha’s hair, and began shaving slowly. Ramu’s chest tightened; he felt an immediate, undeniable thrill, excitement crawling up his spine. Every lock falling onto the floor made him shiver with guilty pleasure. When the shave ended, Samantha approached him for the towel he had been holding. 

Heart pounding, he froze as she took it herself and gently wiped her bald head. She smiled in gratitude and walked away, leaving him stunned. Moments later, Amman appeared again, her soft voice asking, “Do you believe me now?” Ramu shook his head. “Then show me Rashmika Mandanna’s head shave. I want to be the barber this time.” Amman’s smile was playful, teasing, and with a gentle motion, the magic transported him to a prison. There, Rashmika sat waiting—arrested for CSK match-fixing. The jailer, strict and imposing, forced her onto the chair. Ramu, mesmerized, wet her hair, but when she resisted, threatening to file cases, the jailer snatched the razor and shaved her head herself.

 Rashmika’s cries filled the small jail hall as the razor moved over her hair again. Each lock falling made Ramu’s chest tighten, a mix of shock and undeniable excitement surging through him. He couldn’t hide it— Seeing her bald head being shaved left him full happy, When the shave was finally complete, she was led away to another cell, Amman appeared once more, eyes calm, “Do you believe now, Ramasamy?” His mind churned with regret. “I… I wanted to do it myself…” he muttered. Amman’s replies with logic “No, you only asked for them to become bald, not to shave them yourself.” The weight of realization hit him like lightning.

In a heartbeat, all magic dissolved, the world reset to normal. Ramasamy sank to the floor, heavy with regret, shame, and longing, realizing the obsession he nurtured—could never be lived. Ramu scratched his head, hesitant but words spilling out. “Amman… from school days itself I used to get some strange feeling when I saw a mottai scene. That sound of blade on head… hairs falling… it made me restless. I would sit alone, imagine my classmates, my own ponnu cousins… all with shining bald heads.” He gave a broken laugh, ashamed. “Night time… I can’t stop. Only when I think of mottai I feel relief. Otherwise my mind burns.” Amman leaned back with a small smile,

“Dei… you’re seriously telling me this ah?” Her tone was teasing, like a friend hearing a confession. Ramu’s eyes watered. “I thought I was cursed… but when I saw Samantha do mottai, I went mad. Then Rashmika too… Amma,  that time I wanted to hold the razor myself, make every hair fall. That control, that surrender… it excites me. But after it’s over… guilt, shame, headache. Still next day same cycle.” He slapped his forehead. Amman chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “Yenna paiyan, you sound like broken tape recorder. First high, then crying… repeat, repeat.” Her words were casual, almost friendly banter, but her eyes urged him to continue. 

Suddenly the air cracked, the idol’s eyes glowing. Amman’s voice thundered, but still with that sarcastic bite. “Dei Ramasamy, you think you came here out of devotion? Yenna paiyan… you don’t even know why you’re standing here!” A flash burned before his eyes—his amma kneeling, whispering prayers: “Give me permission, Amman… I’ll take my children to Tirupati, fulfill the mottai vow, then my boy will get married soon.” Ramu’s face went blank. “What…? Amma prayed… only for my marriage?” Amman’s tone cut sharper. “Yes! Not for truth, not for faith… only business deal. Temple visit like ration shop token. You too stand here blind. 

Both of you testing my patience!” Ramu’s lips trembled, shame and pain mixing. “I… I didn’t know…” Amman’s voice softened, yet it carried the weight of thunder. “Ramasamy… this temple should shine like Tirupati. Devotees must come from every corner of the world, chanting my name, filling these walls with bhakti. People should praise Mookuthi Amman, not just in this town, but everywhere.” Ramu blinked, stunned. “Amman… but… why me? Why not someone else?” She smiled faintly, eyes locking with his. “Because, paiyan, you are the chosen one.” His throat tightened. “And… if I say no?” Her playful smile vanished, replaced with sharpness. 

She raised the trishul lightly. “Then your head—hundred pieces, just like that.” Ramasamy froze, sweat breaking down his neck. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, palms joined, voice trembling. “Yes, Amman… I’ll do it. I accept.” A calm breeze swept through the temple, her eyes softening again. “Good.... Nalla paiyan... From now, you are not alone... i will always be with you and guide you.” With that a New Journey was set to begin for Ramasamy along with Mookuthi amman visible only to him and guide him.