It is their turn. The barber signals to Smita. Devoutly, she steps forward as asked. She kneels, closes her eyes and begins to recite a prayer, in a low whisper. What she asks Vishnu, there in the midst of the vast hall, is her secret. It is a moment that belongs to her alone. She has thought about it for days; she has thought about it for years.

The barber manipulates his razor to quickly change the blade – the director of the temple is very strict, one blade per pilgrim, that’s the rule. In his family, they have been barbers from father to son for generations. Every day, he performs the same gestures, repeats them over and over so that he even dreams about them at night. He imagines oceans of hair, in which sometimes he drowns.

He asks Smita to braid her hair, it makes the shaving easier, and the strands are easier to collect from the floor. Then he sprinkles her head with water and begins to shave. Lalita stares anxiously at her mother, but Smita smiles. Vishnu is with them, he is here, so close by. He is blessing her.

Smita closes her eyes. There are thousands of people all around her, in the same pose, praying for a better life, offering the only thing that has been given to them in this world, their hair, the ornament, the gift they have received from heaven and which they now return, with joined hands, kneeling on the floor of the kalyanakatta.

When Smita opens her eyes, her scalp is smooth as an egg. She stands up and feels suddenly, amazingly, light. It’s a new, almost intoxicating sensation. A shiver runs through her body. She stares at the hair that was once hers, lying in a small, jet-black heap at her feet like a remnant of herself, already a memory. Now her body and soul are pure. She feels at peace. Blessed. Protected.

Lalita steps forward for her turn. She is trembling slightly. Smita takes her by the hand. The barber changes his blade, and gazes admiringly at the braid reaching down the little girl’s back, almost to her waist. Her hair is magnificent, thick, silky. Gazing into her daughter’s eyes, Smita chants with her the prayer they have recited so many times before the little altar in their hut, in Badlapur. She thinks of their condition in life, she tells herself that they are poor now, but that perhaps, one day, Lalita will own a car. The thought makes her smile and gives her strength. Her daughter’s life will be better than hers, thanks to the offering they are making here and now.