A heart touching story of a village empty of the souls called women
By Raphic Burdo
The scent of cardamom tea lingered in the air at Chanh Jo Hotel, a small tea shop nestled in the heart of a dusty village. Beneath its creaking wooden roof, six young men gathered around a table, their faces shadowed by the glow of a dim oil lamp.
Ali stirred his tea absentmindedly, his voice cutting through the hum of crickets outside. “What kind of life is this? My father’s land isn’t enough for me. And when he’s gone, I’ll still have to divide it with my sister.”
The others grumbled in agreement. Tariq, sitting cross-legged on a woven cot, shook his head. “I sold part of my land just to pay for my sister’s dowry. Tell me, what has she ever done to earn that? Women do nothing but take from us.”
Their conversation drifted from property disputes to frustrations about family obligations. Slowly, the night deepened, and the men went home, leaving behind an air of discontent that clung to the village like a curse.
The following morning, the villagers awoke to a grim discovery. Six women were found dead in their homes. Some were said to have taken their own lives; others seemed to have fallen victim to some unseen force.
The village erupted in whispers. “A curse has fallen upon us,” muttered an old man near the mosque. “Perhaps we have angered the jinn.”
Women spoke in hushed tones at the water well, recalling eerie tales of daughters who vanished in the dead of night or rumours of mothers whose unborn girls never saw the light of day. “There’s something in this village,” Fatima, the shopkeeper’s wife, said, her voice trembling. “Something that hates us.”
The funerals came and went, but the deaths continued. A young girl’s body was found floating in the irrigation canal. A mother of three was discovered lifeless in the fields, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. One by one, the women disappeared—some into shallow graves, others into the void of silence.
As time passed, the village grew eerily quiet. The once-bustling market fell into disrepair. The fields, once brimming with wheat and cotton, began to wither. Even Chanh jo Hotel, where the men gathered, seemed to lose its lively chatter.
“How long will this go on?” Tariq asked one evening, his voice breaking the heavy stillness.
Ali shrugged, staring into his tea. “Who knows? It feels like fate is purging us.”
The others murmured in agreement, their faces expressionless.
Months turned into years, and soon, the village was devoid of women. The last to go was Amma Zohra, the elderly caretaker of the shrine. Her lifeless body was found one morning near the mosque, her prayer beads still clutched in her hand.
The traveler arrived on a sweltering afternoon, his camel trudging through the empty streets. He stopped at Chanh jo Hotel, where Ali now ran the place in solitude. The traveler sipped his tea and asked, “Why is this village so empty? Where are the women?”
Ali’s face darkened. He hesitated, then shrugged. “They left us. Or perhaps they were taken by fate.”
The traveler frowned but said nothing. He left soon after, his shadow long against the cracked earth.
That night, Ali locked up the café and walked home under the dim light of the crescent moon. Passing the cemetery, he paused, staring at the graves. A strange unease gripped him, and memories he had long buried began to resurface—the quiet suffocation of his sister, the whispered plans shared at the tea shop, and the blood-stained hands of his friends.
A chill ran down his spine as he realized the truth he had tried to forget: it wasn’t fate that had taken the women. It was them.
The village wasn’t cursed. It was guilty.
And now, it was empty. Empty of the souls called women.
Read – Poem: Ode to the Indus
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Raphic Burdo is a poet and writer, hailing from a remote village of Sindh province of Pakistan
