A Village Without Women

When silence replaces laughter and guilt overshadows fate, a village learns that some curses are man-made.

In a small village where whispers of curses and shadows of guilt linger, women have vanished—one by one—leaving behind silence, decay, and unanswered questions. A Village Without Women unravels a haunting tale of regret, complicity, and the chilling consequences of unchecked traditions. As secrets buried in dusty streets resurface, one man must confront the truth: the village was never cursed—it was complicit.

—Image copyright © Nevalor Books.

The scent of cardamom tea lingered in the humid air at chanh jo hotel, a small dhaba crouched at the dusty edge of a local village. Beneath its rickety straw roof, six young men gathered around a cracked wooden table, the dim light of a kerosene lamp flickering across their faces.

Ali stirred his tea with a chipped spoon, his voice slicing through the stillness of the night.

“What kind of life is this?” he muttered. “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 nodded. Tariq, cross-legged on a charpoy, let out a bitter laugh. “I sold half my land for my sister’s dowry. What has she ever done to earn that? Women are just burdens on our necks.”

Their conversation meandered from land disputes to grumbles about family honor and dowries. Shadows danced on the mud walls as the night deepened. Slowly, one by one, the men dispersed, leaving behind an unspoken heaviness in the air.

The next morning, the village awoke to a harrowing silence. Six women were found dead in their homes. Some were said to have taken their own lives; others bore marks of violence hidden under hurriedly arranged burial shrouds.

Near the mosque, an old man murmured, “It must be a curse. Perhaps we have angered the jinn.”

Women gathered at the communal well, whispering tales of vanished daughters and unborn girls buried in secret. Fatima, the grocer's wife, clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “There is something here,” she said, her voice trembling. “Something that hates us.”

The funerals came and went, but the deaths continued. A young girl was found floating in the canal, her bangles glinting in the sun. A mother of three was discovered lifeless in a wheat field, her rawa twisted around her neck. The village grew quieter with each passing day, its women fading away like shadows at dusk.

Fields lay barren, markets fell silent, and chanh jo hotel—once alive with idle chatter—grew somber. The men still gathered there, sipping tea in silence, staring at their reflections in cheeny cups with small cracks and broken edges.

“How long will this go on?” Tariq asked one evening.

Ali stared at his tea. “Who knows? It feels like fate is cleansing us.”

But the truth lingered in the spaces between their words.

Years passed, and the village became a hollow shell. The last woman to go was Amma Zohra, the old caretaker of the shrine. Her lifeless body was found near the mosque steps, prayer beads still clenched in her hand.

One sweltering afternoon, a traveler arrived on camelback. He stopped at chanh jo hotel, where Ali now sat alone behind the counter. The traveler sipped his tea and glanced around.

“Why is this village so empty?” he asked. “Where are the women?”

Ali’s face tightened. He shrugged. “They left us. Or maybe fate took them.”

The traveler said nothing more and left, his silhouette dissolving into the heatwaves.

That night, Ali walked home under a crescent moon. The cemetery loomed ahead, its uneven rows of graves illuminated faintly by starlight. He stopped near his sister's grave, his throat dry, his hands trembling.

Memories clawed their way to the surface: the suffocated cries, the secret plans whispered at chanh jo hotel, the blood-stained hands of his friends.

The village wasn’t cursed. It was guilty.

And now, it was empty. Empty of the souls called women.

Ali knelt beside his sister’s grave, pressing his forehead into the cracked earth.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

But forgiveness does not bloom in soil watered with blood. The past is stubborn, and the sins of silence and complicity grow roots deeper than any tree.

The wind carried faint whispers as Ali rose and walked back to the empty dhaba. He sat in the corner where once, anger and entitlement had festered over cups of tea. Now, only silence remained.

Beyond the village boundaries, the world moved on. But how many other villages were repeating the same tale in hushed tones and shadowed corners? How many more graves would be dug under the pretense of honor?

The story of Ali’s village isn’t unique. It’s a mirror reflecting countless communities where women are sacrificed at the altar of greed, power, and inherited prejudice.

As dawn broke over the horizon, its light crept into the cracks of the village walls. But no warmth followed. Some lessons arrive too late, and some debts are too heavy to repay.

Yet somewhere, in another village, someone might be watching, someone might be listening—and perhaps, they will choose differently.