The knock was soft, almost hesitant, but insistent enough to pull me away from the flickering blue light of the television. I was halfway through a mediocre Bollywood action flick, the kind you watch on a Friday night when ordering takeout is your only plan. Peering through the peephole, my eyes widened a fraction. It was them. The Sharma sisters, Priya and Neha.
Priya was the elder, with a smile that could melt Himalayan snow and eyes that held a spark of mischievousness. Neha, younger by a couple of years, was quieter, more observant, but possessed a sharp wit that could catch you off guard. They lived two floors above me, and while we’d exchanged pleasantries in the elevator and corridors, we weren't exactly friends. Intrigued and slightly apprehensive, I opened the door.
“Hey Rohan,” Priya greeted me, her smile dazzling, “Hope we aren’t disturbing you?”
“Not at all,” I replied, a tad too quickly perhaps. “Everything okay?”
Neha stepped forward, holding a small, intricately carved wooden box. “Actually, we were wondering if you could help us with something. It’s a bit… unusual.” Her voice was soft, almost melodic, but there was an undercurrent I couldn't quite place.
My curiosity, always a weakness, was piqued. “Unusual? Sure, come in.”
They stepped inside, the scent of their jasmine perfume filling my small apartment. Priya placed the box on my coffee table. It looked old, almost antique, with brass hinges and a faint, musty smell emanating from it.
“We found this in the building’s storage room,” Neha explained, opening the box. Inside, nestled on faded velvet, lay a straight razor. It wasn’t just any razor; it looked like something out of a period film. Gleaming steel, an ebony handle inlaid with silver. It was beautiful and unsettling at the same time.
“Wow,” I breathed, reaching out to touch it. “That’s… antique, isn’t it?”
Priya’s smile faltered slightly. “Yes, we think so. And… we were hoping you could help us with it.” She paused, exchanging a look with Neha. “We… we want to try shaving someone with it.”
My brain stuttered. Shaving someone? With that? And why me? I laughed nervously. “You want to shave…who?”
Neha’s gaze met mine, holding an unnerving seriousness. “You, Rohan.”
The laughter died in my throat. “Me? Why me? And… why with a straight razor? Have you even used one of these before? They're dangerous!”
Priya’s smile returned, but this time it didn't reach her eyes. “Relax, Rohan. It will be fine. We just… we have this strange fascination with straight razors. And we thought, since we know you live alone…” her voice trailed off suggestively.
A cold knot formed in my stomach. This wasn’t a request; it was something else. Something… calculated. I looked from Priya’s unnervingly bright eyes to Neha’s quiet, intense stare. Something in their demeanor had shifted. The friendly neighbors were gone, replaced by… what? Something colder, more predatory.
“I… I don’t think so,” I stammered, backing away slightly. “I’m not really comfortable with that.”
Priya advanced, her voice hardening, losing all its earlier sweetness. “It’s not a request, Rohan. It’s… an opportunity for you to be helpful to your neighbors.” Her eyes glinted. “Or, perhaps you’d prefer we share a few… interesting details about your online dating profile with everyone in the building? Including your parents?”
My blood ran cold. My dating profile. It wasn’t scandalous, but it was… personal. And my parents? They were traditional, judgmental. The thought of them seeing any of it… the minor fibs about my career, the slightly more adventurous picture choices… it was mortifying. My reputation in the building, already fragile as a single, slightly awkward guy, would be shattered. And my parents… they would never understand.
I swallowed hard. “What… what details?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Neha stepped forward, holding the razor. The steel glinted under the apartment’s overhead light. It suddenly looked less like an antique and more like a weapon. “Don’t worry about the details, Rohan,” she said softly, but her voice was laced with steel. “Just sit. It will be over quickly.”
Priya pushed me gently but firmly towards the chair facing the television. My legs felt like lead. I wanted to shout, to fight, to run. But something in their eyes, in their coordinated movements, told me resistance was futile, possibly even dangerous. They were serious. They were going to do this.
I slumped into the chair, my heart hammering against my ribs. Priya produced a towel from somewhere and draped it around my shoulders. Neha, with unnerving calmness, started lathering shaving cream in a small bowl. The scent of sandalwood filled the air, a stark contrast to the fear gripping me.
As Neha started applying the cream to my hair, Priya stood behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, almost comforting, which made it all the more disturbing. “Just relax, Rohan,” she murmured in my ear, her voice deceptively soothing. “It’s just hair. It will grow back.”
But it wasn’t just about the hair. It was about the violation, the helplessness, the sheer bizarre nature of the situation. Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision.
Neha approached, holding the straight razor. The blade was exposed, gleaming, impossibly sharp. My breath hitched. I closed my eyes, bracing myself.
The cold steel touched my scalp. A shiver ran down my spine. The first stroke was hesitant, then more confident. The sound of hair being sliced filled the small room. Snip… snip… snip… Each sound was a nail in the coffin of my dignity.
I felt the hair falling around me, tickling my ears, my neck. My meticulously styled hair, the one thing I actually took pride in, was being systematically removed by these two… strangers. Neighbors, yes, but now they felt utterly alien.
Tears streamed down my face, unchecked, silent sobs wracking my body. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, unable to bear witness to my own humiliation. I could feel the cold air on my scalp as more and more hair was shaved away.
I heard them whispering to each other occasionally, words I couldn’t quite make out. Were they enjoying this? Were they laughing at me? The thought was unbearable.
The shaving went on, and on. It felt like an eternity. Each scrape of the razor against my scalp was a fresh wave of shame and fear. I was completely vulnerable, stripped bare in more ways than one.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the scraping stopped. Neha stepped back, and Priya removed the towel. I kept my eyes closed, afraid to see, afraid to face the reality of what they had done.
“Okay, all done,” Priya said, her voice sounding almost… normal. “See? Not so bad, right?”
I finally opened my eyes, blinking through the tears. I didn’t dare look in the mirror.
Neha placed a hand on my shoulder, her touch surprisingly gentle. “Remember what we said, Rohan,” she said softly, her voice laced with a clear warning. “Keep quiet. Don’t tell anyone about this. And we’ll keep your little secrets safe.”
They turned and walked towards the door, leaving the wooden box and the towel on the coffee table. Before Priya stepped out, she paused at the doorway, turned back, and gave me a chillingly sweet smile. “Goodnight, Rohan. Sleep well… or don’t.”
Then they were gone.
Silence descended on my apartment, heavy and suffocating. I finally dared to look in the mirror. My reflection stared back at me – a bald, tear-streaked face, eyes wide with shock and humiliation. Shaved hair lay scattered everywhere – on the floor, on the chair, on the coffee table. A stark, physical testament to what had just happened.
I sat there for a long time, numb, the tears continuing to flow. Why me? Why this? What had I done to deserve this? The questions swirled in my head, unanswered, adding to the growing sense of unease.
The mystery wasn’t just why they had done this, but who these women really were. The Sharma sisters, my neighbors, had just revealed a dark, unsettling side. And I was left alone, bald, humiliated, and trapped in their bizarre, terrifying game. My reputation, my peace of mind, my very sense of self… all shaved away, just like my hair. And the silence they demanded felt less like an agreement and more like a life sentence in their shadow. The Friday night movie on the television flickered on, a mocking reminder of the normal evening that had been so brutally, irrevocably stolen from me.
