Aurum
The sun in Bombay blazed down with an intensity that seemed to melt the asphalt beneath their feet. Abigail, Charlotte, and Madison, three eighteen-year-old American girls from wealthy, upper-class families, had arrived in India as part of their grand adventure: a gap year before college, funded by their parents’ fortunes. Abigail, with her golden blonde hair cascading in perfect waves down to her waist, was the natural leader of the trio; Charlotte, also blonde, with straight, glossy locks that shone like a mirror, was the pragmatic one; and Madison, with her long, dark brown mane framing intense green eyes, brought a streak of rebellion to the group. They had already traveled through Europe and Southeast Asia, but now, on their third stop, they craved more than just snapshots in front of landmarks. They wanted the raw, the real, the uncharted.
Their hotel, a luxurious establishment in the heart of Colaba, offered every comfort their families’ money could buy: air conditioning, room service, views of the Arabian Sea. But the three despised it. “This is for rich old people,” Madison had said on their first night, flipping through a brochure of organized Taj Mahal tours. “We came to live, not to pose.” Yet, as they descended to the lobby that morning, the concierge—a weathered man with a gravelly voice—stopped them with a warning that sounded almost like a plea: “Ladies, please, don’t stray from the tourist areas. Bombay is beautiful, but beyond here, there are dangers you don’t understand. People with nothing to lose.” The three exchanged glances and smirked conspiratorially. Danger was exactly what they were chasing.
Ignoring his advice, they ventured past the bustling avenues filled with rickshaws and souvenir shops. With light backpacks, expensive yet casual clothes, and phones recording every corner, they plunged into a maze of alleyways west of the city. The air smelled of spices, sweat, and gasoline. Houses crowded together, their peeling walls and dangling electrical wires resembling a chaotic web. Children stared from doorways, and men with hardened faces tracked their movements—looks the girls, in their excitement, didn’t know how to read. “This is real,” Abigail said, snapping a photo of an old man smoking on a stoop. None of them noticed how the street slowly emptied around them.
The attack came fast. A dusty white van, unmarked and screeching to a halt, stopped meters away. Four men spilled out, their faces shrouded in dark scarves. Before the girls could scream, rough hands seized them. Abigail tried to break free, but a punch to her stomach stole her breath. Charlotte kicked and clawed, only for a rag soaked in a sharp, chemical stench to smother her face, her body going limp. Madison, the last to fall, saw her friends vanish into the van before a burlap sack covered her head. Everything went black.
They awoke blindfolded, the van’s rattling shaking them against its metal floor. The heat was suffocating, sweat plastering their clothes to their skin. They tried to speak, but gags reduced their words to muffled whimpers. After what felt like hours, the vehicle stopped. They were dragged out, the rough ground scraping their legs, and shoved into a room that reeked of dampness and rotting wood. The blindfolds were ripped off, revealing a bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, casting light on three men standing before them. One, the tallest, held a knife; another, with a scar slashing across his cheek, clutched a plastic bag; the third, younger, eyed them with a mix of nervousness and contempt.
“Take everything off,” the scarred man ordered in harsh, broken English. The girls froze, disbelief locking their limbs. He repeated it, slamming a stick against the floor. Trembling, Abigail obeyed first, fumbling with her blouse buttons. Charlotte and Madison followed, their faces flushed with shame and fear. Soon, their designer clothes—branded tees, fitted jeans, trendy sneakers—lay in a heap alongside their backpacks, phones, and cash. Naked, they tried to cover themselves with their arms, but the men showed no interest in their bodies. Their hands were bound with coarse rope, their mouths taped shut. Then the tall man spoke for the first time: “You still owe us something. Your hair.”
The three locked eyes, panic swelling in their chests. Their hair—pampered with expensive products, envied by all—was part of who they were. The young man dragged a small stool forward and pointed at Abigail. “You first.” They shoved her toward it, forcing her to sit. Her legs shook so violently they barely held her. The scarred man brought a bucket of murky water and a razor that glinted faintly under the dim light. The younger one gathered Abigail’s blonde hair into a high ponytail, his rough hands yanking out stray strands. She moaned behind the tape, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The tall man stepped forward, dumping the water over her head. The cold liquid soaked her face, dripping down her neck and bare chest. The razor rose, and for a moment, Abigail thought he’d slit her throat. Instead, the blade pressed against the base of her ponytail, just above her nape. With a slow, deliberate motion, he began to cut. The sound was grotesque—a dry, crunching snap, like breaking twigs, as the blade sawed through her golden strands. Abigail felt the weight of her hair vanish in an instant, a choked scream escaping her throat. But they weren’t done. The young man tossed the severed ponytail to the floor and gripped her head tightly, while the tall man brought the razor to her forehead.
The blade scraped against her skin, tearing the hair from its roots. Abigail writhed, but the hands pinned her down. The razor was sharp, but not enough for a clean cut; each pass was a painful tug, a searing rip that burned her scalp. Blood mingled with the water, tracing red lines down her face. Loose strands fell like feathers to the ground, and the man worked with cruel precision, ensuring every inch was shaved bare. When he finished, they shoved her aside, her raw, reddened scalp gleaming under the light. Charlotte and Madison sobbed silently, knowing their turns were next.
Charlotte went second. Her straight blonde hair was gathered with the same roughness, sliced off in one piece, then shaved with the same razor. Madison, last in line, tried to resist, but a blow to her back forced her onto the stool. Her thick, dark brown mane was hacked away with even greater violence, the man muttering in a language they didn’t understand as the blade left shallow cuts on her skin. When it was over, all three were unrecognizable: bald, humiliated, their eyes swollen with tears.
The men tossed them old dresses—gray, tattered rags that stank of mildew—and loaded them back into the van. The ride was short this time. The doors opened, and they were pushed into an empty square in the dead of night. The van roared away, leaving them alone under a flickering streetlamp. The silence was deafening. Abigail touched her head, feeling the bare, rough skin. Charlotte hugged herself, shivering. Madison, in a threadbare whisper, asked, “What do we do now?”
The next few hours blurred together. They stumbled through the streets, barefoot and lost, until a street vendor found them at dawn. With clumsy gestures and Hindi words, he led them to a police station. There, amid tears and disjointed statements, they contacted the U.S. embassy. Their frantic families sent a private jet to pull them out of India. The flight home was silent, each girl trapped in her own trauma.
Months later, back in their Connecticut mansions, they tried to piece their lives together. Abigail became obsessed with security, installing cameras in every corner of her room. Charlotte let her hair grow but cut it whenever it reached her shoulders, unable to bear its weight. Madison, the most scarred, shaved her head again and again, turning the loss into an act of control. They never spoke of Bombay, but the echo of that night haunted them—in every mirror, in every shadow.
The gap year was over. But the adventure, in its twisted way, had changed them forever.
