Mother Goddess - By Avika Jha

Written By: Avika Jha

Category: Short Story

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Avika Jha presents "Mother Goddess," a compelling short story submitted to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar. In this narrative, Avika explores the intricate tapestry of family, tradition, and rebellion within a traditional Indian haveli. The story navigates the complex relationship between the characters and their cultural environment, highlighting the tension between age-old customs and modern perspectives.

About the Work

"Mother Goddess" is a vivid exploration of tradition, authority, and resistance. Avika Jha weaves a narrative that is both poignant and thought-provoking, examining the juxtaposition of societal norms against individual desires. The story's mood is reflective and tense, with imagery that paints a stark contrast between the ritualistic beauty of the haveli and the underlying darkness of its rigid customs. Through the characters' interactions, Avika questions the cost of maintaining tradition at the expense of personal freedom and humanity.

Mother Goddess

Original Submission by Avika Jha

“The birds born in a cage often think that flying is an illness.”

“Nandini? Nandini!”

Grandmother’s voice travelled through the haveli like a verdict already decided.

From somewhere above, the faint music of anklets descended in haste. It was not merely a sound but a presence, a young life rushing to obey an old command. “Yes, Dadi?” Nandini’s voice answered, soft yet luminous, like a flame cupped carefully against the wind. Seventeen, I thought. A voice still ripening, not yet hardened by the world that awaited it.

I had not seen her since my arrival. They said she studied abroad, in a distant boarding school where seasons changed without rituals and mornings began without bells. She rarely returned to Bardhaman, and rarer still to this haveli. I had always suspected the reason wore the face of Grandmother.

“You have not lit the diya today?” Grandmother’s tone was measured, but it carried the weight of law.

“I didn’t know-”

“You do not need to know. You need to remember.” The interruption was swift, almost ritualistic in itself. “Your aunt is impure for a few days. Until then, you will light the diya. The Devi must not be left unattended.”

Silence followed, the kind that bends rather than breaks. Then the anklets moved again. The old wooden door of the pooja room groaned open, as though it too resisted habit yet complied. A match was struck. A bell rang. Light declared itself against darkness, as it always had, as it always would.

And yet, I wondered, what of the darkness that was not in rooms?

That afternoon, voices rose where they were not meant to. Aparna, my mother-in-law, spoke in a hushed fury that seemed more dangerous than open anger.

“I don’t understand your rules,” Nandini said, her restraint trembling. “How can faith demand such cruelty? How can it be so blind?”

“Your mind is being poisoned,” Aparna replied, her voice tightening like a knot. “These Western ideas… they hollow you out. Do not make a scene. Your grandmother will hear.”

The anklets retreated again, softer this time, like a thought withdrawing into itself.

Curiosity became my only rebellion. I dragged a stool to the window, its legs scraping against the stone floor with a sound that felt too loud for my small act of defiance. Standing on my toes, I looked out.

There she was.

Nandini sat by the courtyard, her long black hair cascading like a quiet river. A maid stood behind her, lifting curls of dhoop smoke through the strands, as if sanctifying each thread. In her hands rested a book, the works of Aurobindo Ghose. I did not know the words, but I sensed their gravity. She looked both fragile and unyielding, like a thought that refuses to be silenced.

A knock startled me back into my small, dim room.

A servant entered, placing before me a plate of stale rotis and unfamiliar saag. I accepted it without question. Hunger does not argue with dignity when dignity has already been taken.

I was fortunate, they said. Women like me were not always fed from the same kitchen.

Fortunate.

The word tasted strange.

By evening, the haveli sank into its usual quiet. I prepared to sleep, eager to escape into a world that did not measure worth in purity or sin. Then came another knock.

“Are you awake?”

Her voice.

“I am,” I replied.

The door opened, and Nandini stepped in, carrying with her a defiance that felt almost playful. “Hi,” she said, smiling, “I’m Nandini.”

“Grandmother will be angry if she finds you here,” I warned.

“She is asleep,” Nandini shrugged, dismissing authority as though it were a minor inconvenience. “And I am bored. You are the closest thing I have to a companion here. Will you be my friend?”

The word lingered in the air, unfamiliar, almost forbidden.

“Friend?” I laughed softly. “You cannot be friends with me. You are not even allowed to touch me.”

“I don’t believe in that,” she said simply.

Then she stepped closer and poked my arm.

We both paused, as if waiting for the universe to protest.

Nothing happened.

“See?” she said, smiling wider. “Nothing.”

For a moment, something shifted inside me. Not the world, not the haveli, not the rules. Just something small and stubborn.

Hope, perhaps.

She sat beside me. “What do you do all day?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “I exist.”

She studied me then, not with pity, but with curiosity. “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“And your name?”

“Uma.”

Her expression softened. “Uma… another name of the Devi.”

I frowned. “Devi?”

She pointed toward the pooja room across the courtyard. “Yes. The goddess they worship every day.”

I followed her gaze. The irony stood there, silent and unwavering.

“What age were you married?” she asked.

“Ten.”

Her eyes flickered, not with shock, but with something heavier. Understanding, perhaps. Or anger carefully folded into silence.

“Do you want to go outside?” she asked suddenly.

The question struck like lightning.

“Can I?” I whispered, my excitement tangled with fear. “Grandmother said I cannot.”

“Of course you can,” she said, taking my hand.

That simple act felt larger than any ritual performed in the haveli.

And then-

“NANDINI!”

The voice shattered everything.

Grandmother stormed in, her presence devouring the room. She yanked Nandini away, as though separating contamination from purity.

“You dare let the daughter of a Thakur touch you?” she thundered at me. “Have you forgotten your place?”

My throat closed. Words dissolved before they could form.

“First you bring death to my grandson,” she continued, her voice now sharpened by accusation, “and now you wish to curse my granddaughter?”

I shook my head, stepping back, shrinking into myself as though disappearance were possible.

“I will teach you a lesson.”

The crowd gathered, as it always does when cruelty seeks witnesses.

What followed was not punishment. It was a ritual of another kind. Pain administered not for correction, but for preservation of order.

When it ended, the room was quiet again.

Too quiet.

I lay on the floor, my white saree blooming red. The iron rod rested nearby, indifferent to what it had done.

“I told you,” the gatekeeper muttered beyond the door, “we should have made her perform Sati. She is a burden.”

The door locked.

Night fell.

Somewhere beyond my walls, laughter rose. Women adorned themselves in gold and silk, preparing for Durga Puja. The goddess would be celebrated. Strength, purity, power-all worshipped in her name.

“Nandini,” Grandmother’s voice echoed once more, steady as ever, “have you lit the diya? The Devi must not be left unattended in the dark.”

And I lay there, wondering-

what becomes of a world that worships the goddess in stone,

while extinguishing her in flesh?

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in literature. Participants from around the globe share their poetic and narrative talents, contributing to a vibrant tapestry of contemporary creative expression. This competition serves as a nexus for writers to showcase their craft, engage with a broad audience, and explore themes that resonate universally.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Avika Jha for her participation in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with her short story, "Mother Goddess." Through this poignant narrative, Avika invites readers to reflect deeply on the complexities of tradition and identity. We look forward to more of her insightful contributions to the literary world.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.