MOOKUTHI AMMAN - part 2 : guilt

The memory of that night refused to leave Ramasamy’s mind. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mookuthi Amman standing tall, commanding him to make her temple shine like Tirupati. In his heart, disbelief and devotion wrestled. “Why me?” he muttered again and again, but he also felt strangely blessed. Days passed with his mind in fear and awe, unable to share the secret with anyone. The only thing he knew was this—he had truly seen Mookuthi Amman, and the world would never believe him. One evening, when he was sitting outside his house, the air grew still. A golden glow appeared, and suddenly Mookuthi Amman stood before him in full divine form.

Ramasamy froze, heart racing. “Amma… meendum?” he whispered. She smiled gently. “Only you can see me. Don’t fear ramu.” Her form shifted—crown vanished, her long hair twisted into a neat bun with jasmine, heavy jewels softened into simple ornaments, yet her radiance remained. Ramasamy was surprised “Ayyo, what is this miracle!” She chuckled softly. “This is how I will stay in your home. Come, take me inside.” As she stepped into their house, a sudden breeze swirled through the windows. Flowers from the small garden floated and fell near her feet. Just then, a candy cart passed outside, its bell ringing in rhythm, like a divine arrival. Ramasamy’s mother Thangamma came rushing. 

“Who is this ramu… such a glow?” she whispered, stunned. Amman only smiled, and within moments everyone were able to see Amman. Thangamma hurried with a garland, Indhuja brought a saree and pooja plate, and Smruthi carried a basket of fruits and sweets. The sisters’ eyes widened in devotion. Ramasamy looked at them, then at Amman, pressing his palms to his forehead. “Aiyo God, what is happening in my own house…” After a tense silence, Thangamma reached out, touching Amman’s feet with trembling hands. “I did wrong… please forgive me.” The goddess’s face softened; she let out a sigh. “Enough. Don’t cry magal. Mistakes happen.” Slowly, the mood eased.

Later that evening, Thangamma sat in the courtyard with Smruthi, gently braiding her thick hair into plaits. “Smruthi kutty, remember our Tirupati vow… it is for our future ma.” The little girl frowned, tugging at her braid. “But Amma, what will my friends say if I go mottai? They will laugh…” At that moment, a soft voice joined their conversation. “Why fear Smruthi?” It was Mookuthi Amman, standing quietly in the courtyard. Thangamma quickly folded her hands. Amman knelt down, brushing the little girl’s head gently. “This mottai is not punishment kanna. It is a deeksha—a gift you offer to the god.” Smruthi bit her lip with thoughts swirling between payam and nammikam, her small hands clutching her braid.

That night, after a special dinner, the house grew quiet. Indhuja was in the kitchen, washing utensils. The clinking of steel plates echoed in the silence when suddenly she felt a breeze brush her cheek. She turned as there stood Mookuthi Amman. Indhuja froze, nervous. “Amman… you here? Why what happened?” she stammered. Amman’s smile was soft, almost teasing. “Dei, kutty… you’re hiding so many dreams inside, no?” Slowly, Indhuja opened up—her wish to become an airhostess, her fear that the mottai vow would crush her dreams. “How can i walk bald into interviews?” she asked as Amman patient replied “Hair will grow back… but devotion, courage, these make you shine brighter kutty” 

She explained that many brave women offered their hair to God and still rose stronger; she promised the family’s support and practical help for interviews if Indhuja accepted the mottai as a true offering. Those words were stuck in her mind. One fine morning. Amman came in Ramu’s dream and softly shook him awake. He blinked, still half asleep, “Ramasamy, get up. Take a bath. Go to the Ganesha temple by the bus stand now,” He jolted awake—and she was there, sitting in his room. “Now only… go,” she ordered, ignoring his fumbling questions. He just obeyed, took a sacred bath, and walked in the morning chill to the temple. The lamps glowed, chants filled the air. 

Near the sanctum, he saw Madhu. twenty-five, simple saree, divine beauty, eyes calm, he whispered to himself, “Yappa… she looks so cute, really.” Madhu was from the same city, an orphan who lived in a small PG, supported quietly by her uncle after her parents died young. She came to the temple for peace. A garland on the right side of the Ganesha idol loosened and a red flower fell. The pujari, seeing them so close, mistook it for blessing a couple and sprinkled a few petals, wishing “a Happy Married life.” Embarrassed, they both laughed awkwardly; a few simple words — “Hi, I’m Ramu,” “I’m Madhu” — turned into a slow, easy talk about home and faith. 

By the time Ramu left the temple he walked lighter, head full of new, quiet hope. Ramu had been thinking about madhu daily. Small moments had made him happy: visiting the temple, standing in line for prasadam, flowers falling near him, even help at the PG market—everything seemed guided by her. Love for Madhu was quietly growing in his heart. One day, he told thangamma, “Amma, I like a ponnu… I have invited her for saapad today.” Thangam looked at Mookuthi Amman who gave a tiny nod. “Okay, pa… let her come,” she said with a thoughtful smile. Madhu came to their house, carrying a small bag of prasadam from the Ganesha temple. Ramu felt a warm, calm energy around her.

Mookuthi Amman sat quietly in the hall, visible only to the family. During lunch, they all talked casually—sharing stories, laughing softly, and smiling shyly at each other. After the meal, Thangam took Madhu to the terrace privately. “Now tell me ma… Ramu likes you, but can you take care of him? Can you manage the family madhu ?” Madhu smiled sincerely, “Amma, I will. I may not have parents, but I learned to face life. I will always stand with him and your family sathima cholre.” Thangam relaxed as she listened. Madhu added, “I am a devotee of Tirupati Venkateshwara. I vowed to get my mottai if I get my job… maybe next month, I hope I can go and fulfill it.” 

Thangam smiled and shared her own Tirupati mottai vow. Mookuthi Amman appeared subtly nearby, her presence like a soft blessing. Thangam hugged Madhu warmly, “You are like my own daughter now.” Madhu’s eyes shone with happiness. With Mookuthi Amman’s blessing, the family set out towards Tirupati. By evening they stopped for tea and coffee at a small stall, sharing quiet excitement. It was then Madhu smiled softly and said, “Ramu… I too have a vow here. I will also do mottai along with amma and sisters.” Ramu almost dropped his tumbler, eyes wide with surprise. “What… you too wa?” he asked. Thangam calmly nodded,  “Yes, ramu, She told me that day only. 

Today we all will get mottai together.” With excitement they walked towards the Kalyanakatta hall, each step echoing with faith. Inside, the family split into separate queues with their tokens. Thangam sat before a barber, folded her hands, and prayed silently to Mookuthi Amman and god Venkateshwara. The barber poured water, parted her thick hair into two partition, and with steady strokes of the straight razor, began shaving her head clean. As tufts fell, Thangam’s heart prayed for her daughters—that their mottai should be smooth, without fear and tears. Slowly, her thala became mottai, fresh and shining. She touched it gently, whispering, “Amman, vow complete… finally.”

A look of relief crossed her face as though a great weight had lifted. On the other corner, Madhu sat before another barber. Her long hair was wetted and partitions were made, the razor moved steadily across her head. She closed her eyes, whispering prayers for her new life, her future with Ramu, and smiled faintly imagining herself as his wife in new mottai avatar. Each stroke felt like washing away her past burdens. When the last hair dropped, she touched her smooth scalp, a glow of happiness in her eyes. Rising, she searched the crowded hall, finally spotting Thangam. Thangam walked over, hugged Madhu and mover her hands on her bald head, “En mottai marumagal… you look so beautiful.”

Madhu blushed, her heart full. The family vow had become one shared bond of love and devotion. On the lower floor, Indhuja sat stiff in front of the barber. He splashed water over her thick hair, pulling it roughly into two pony tails. The razor gleamed as he pressed it to her scalp, scraping fast, hard as if he was in a hury. Indhuja winced—her dream of becoming an airhostess flashed before her eyes. “How will I face interviews like this? How will i even look as a mottai girl?” The blade nicked her skin, few small cuts stinging, but the barber didn’t slow down. She shut her eyes tight. And then, inside her mind, Amman’s voice floated, Slowly, fear melted into a strange calm. 

As the last strands slid down her shoulders, Indhuja touched her fresh bald scalp, tears mixed with a small smile she went fast to where thangam was. On the other corner Smruthi saw the hall filled with women already bald, some praying, some wiping tears. The barber greeted her sweetly, almost too soft. “Yenna ma thala mottai wa?” She nodded quickly. He tilted his head, “Shall I leave one small little mudi behind… like those poojaris keep? it will look nice on you.” Smruthi frowned, “No… full mottai , please bro.” He chuckled and tied her hair into two small plaits. As he scraped, he asked again and again—“First time ah? You like this mottai feeling? Came alone or with family?” 

Smruthi answered in short words, voice shaky. Then she fell silent, tears sliding down, lips pressed tight. The razor moved smoothly, clearing her crown. She wanted to run, but sat frozen till it was done. The barber poured water, scraped the last patch clean. Smruthi’s head shone wet under the light. She got up quickly, wiping her tears. She ran her hand over her smooth scalp once, then hurried out, pushing through the crowd of mottai women. Soon she spotted Indhuja, who was already waiting. Together they walked upstairs, where Thangam and Madhu were waiting. They didn’t share the discomfort, the pain, or the barber’s strange words—only the devotion that tied them together. 

Ramasamy was waiting at the ground floor, looking after their bags. The moment he felt a soft hug from behind, he smiled knowingly. “Madhu… naan therinjitten ma,” he said, gently moving his hand over her smooth bald head. “you have romba dairiyam ma.” Madhu held him tighter, eyes brimming. Their mother and sisters joined, one by one, and it became a happy moment. Soon they went to the washrooms, freshened up, and draped bright white silk sarees. Thangam took a small bowl of sandanam , applying slowly on everyone’s shining mottai. Madhu pulled Ramasamy’s hand. “Neenga podunga, ramu…” she said softly. With love, he smeared that on her mottai thala. 

The family walked together towards the temple and had a grand darshan of Venkateshwara Swamy. Bells rang, the fragrance of camphor filled the air, and their bald heads glistened under the temple lights. After the puja, they collected their phones from the locker and moved towards the annadhanam hall. As they walked, Ramasamy’s phone buzzed again and again. Out of habit, he opened the notifications. His eyes froze. New “collections” of women mottai videos were uploaded in the secret group. He scrolled casually, but then his blood ran cold — there was Madhu, sitting under the barber’s hands, hair falling. Another swipe, and it was his mother. Then his sisters.

Every moment was filmed and sold. A chill swept his spine. Indhuja, walking beside him, sensed somehting off. “Enna achu, ramu anna?” she asked softly. Madhu too looked at him with worry. Ramasamy swallowed, forcing a fake smile. “Just… interview rejection message,” he muttered. At the same time, a few of his online friends forwarded him those very videos, unaware they were his own family. His chest grew heavy with guilt. No one in the group knew real names, real faces of each others. Anyone could be a fetisher in disguise. He walked on silently with them, the warmth of their divine darshan still in the air, but inside, his heart burned with a secret weight. 

After the early morning breakfast, the family made their way down the hill road towards Govindaraja Swamy temple. The air was cool, the smell of sandalwood on their mottai was mesmerizing. Yet, while everyone seemed peaceful, Ramasamy’s heart was restless. Madhu walked close to him, her fresh mottai thala shining softly in the sun, but he kept avoiding her eyes. Every time she tried to touch him, or put his hands on her bald head—thinking it would relax him—he pulled away, forcing a faint smile. Thangam and her daughters walked ahead, speaking casually about the darshan, but Ramasamy quietly slipped away, sitting on an old stone bench at the temple park. 

His chest felt heavy, as if every secret he had carried for years was now crushing him. Suddenly, Mookuthi Amman appeared before him*, in the same soft, womanly form she had taken before. No divine thunder, no light—just her calm, homely presence. His eyes welled up. “Amma…” he whispered, trembling, “I cannot bear this guilt anymore.” His voice cracked as he confessed, words pouring like a flood. “From the beginning… from my school days… I carried this mottai aasai, this head shave fetish… I thought it was just my weakness, my secret. But now… my own amma, my sisters, my Madhu… their videos, sold like filth in that society I joined. 

Amma, what kind of man am I? I am cursed.” He buried his face in his palms, shaking. Mookuthi Amman placed her hand gently on his head, “Ramasamy… this is not curse. This is karma. You chose, you walked this path. And only you can walk out of it.” Madhu, who had been searching for him, finally saw him on the bench—speaking into thin air. She froze, confusion filling her. She walked closer, her bare feet crunching the gravel. “Ramasamy… whom are you talking to?” she whispered. At that moment, Amman turned her eyes to him and gave a small nod. Ramasamy took a deep breath, his chest trembling. He looked at Madhu, eyes red with shame.

“Madhu… it is time you know everything. About me. About Amman. About… my fetish, this weakness that ruined me.” His words fell heavy, but also freeing, like a chain breaking. Madhu’s eyes widened, tears welling. For a moment her vision blurred, but then slowly she saw—Mookuthi Amman’s figure became clearer, sitting beside Ramasamy. Realization struck her heart; she fell at Amman’s feet without a word. Her palms trembled against the dust, tears streaming. “Amma…” she whispered, unable to lift her head. Amman blessed her silently, then turned to Ramasamy. “This guilt will not leave you in one day, Ramu. You must fight it, you must win it. 

If I remove it with my powers, what lesson will you learn... what efforts will you put? This is your test and i believe you will win it.” Ramasamy folded his hands, sobbing, “Amma, I will change… I promise. Just give me sakthi.” Amman smiled faintly. “Sakthi is already in you.... you just have to awaken it.” Madhu sat beside him and kept running her hand over her fresh mottai, “Ramu… ippadi naan azhagiyaa irukkena? Or strange-a?” she asked softly. Ramasamy smiled, pulling her hand down gently. “Strange illa ma… you look new and your true beauty is seen.” She let out a small breath, then frowned. “But for job interview mottai la ponna… i am just scared” 

At that moment, Mookuthi Amman’ spoke up, “Madhu, the world sees only outer beauty… but God and the right people, see inner beauty.” Madhu gave a faint smile and leaned her mottai thala gently on his shoulder. Ramasamy closed his eyes, feeling her quiet acceptance, and for the first time in days, he felt relief. The park, the temple bells, the quiet rustle of the trees—all wrapped around them in a strange peace. It was not an end, yet it was a beginning—a quiet hope that their journey had only just begun, and that the path ahead, though uncertain, would be guided by devotion, trust, and the lessons of their hearts.