The Curse of an Empty Nest - By Doris Pushpam

Written By: Doris Pushpam

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Doris Pushpam presents a deeply evocative short story titled "The Curse of an Empty Nest," featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. In this compelling narrative, Doris explores the themes of identity, societal expectations, and the haunting echoes of past experiences. Her story captures the nuances of cultural pressures and personal struggles, offering readers a poignant insight into the complexities of life and the burdens carried by individuals.

About the Work

"The Curse of an Empty Nest" weaves a narrative rich with cultural imagery and emotional depth. Doris Pushpam's literary style is both engaging and introspective, as she captures the protagonist's journey through societal expectations and personal turmoil. The story is imbued with vivid imagery and symbolism, exploring the weight of tradition and the silent struggles faced by women. The narrative's mood is both somber and reflective, leaving a lasting impression on its readers.

The Curse of an Empty Nest

Original Submission by Doris Pushpam

THE CURSE OF AN EMPTY NEST

I used to wake up each morning to our roosters crowing. It was never at sunrise though. They somehow only crowed in the late morning when they were hungry. They didn’t make for reliable alarm clocks.

The chickens lived in a makeshift coop my father fashioned out of metal wires and decaying wood. It wasn’t the sturdiest fixture, but it worked for us. Each morning before I was old enough for school, I would stumble out the door, barely awake, to the coop with a bucket of chicken feed. It was a heavy bucket filled with leftovers, worms, and barley grains. I would be surrounded by the chickens in an instant. The roosters would rush out first, followed by the hens, clucking and pecking at each other to reach me first. As they would crowd around me, I spun around with the bucket, throwing its contents in the air. The chickens would begin pecking long before the food hit the ground. They were not very bright.

I was also in charge of collecting their eggs. I could always tell when there were eggs ready to collect. The hens would screech all day and when the screeching died down, there would be nests full of eggs. I looked forward to those days. The atmosphere in the dingy coop changed from morbidly depressing to somewhat pleasant. The hens would welcome me with excited clucking, which was a lot like their usual clucking, only quicker and even more incoherent. I would have a treat ready for all of them. It was usually sunflower seeds. As I reach out to collect eggs with one hand, I offer them seeds with the other. They didn’t seem to notice as I collected the eggs. They merely continued, snacking on seeds and clucking away. It was during that period that my fingers were pecked at the least. That’s how I knew that they were happy.

After I collected the eggs, I would arrange them in a cardboard box filled with hay and carry the box to my mother. She would examine each one and tell me what a good job I had done. I liked hearing that. It was a nice change from being ignored by her. She would crack one of the eggs into a wok spitting with oil and as the egg began to cook, she would throw a handful of rice into it. She seasoned it with many spices. I still can’t name them all. It was rare treat that she only gave me when there were at least three dozen eggs. She also saved a couple of eggs to make my father a bhurji[1], his favorite breakfast. He usually had it with a paratha[2]. He used to feed some to me when my mother wasn’t nearby. It was delicious. The rest of the eggs were sold at the market. They would disappear as soon as my mother set them out.

I spent most of my day talking to the chickens. I like to think that they understood me, but they probably thought I was clucking in a language they didn’t understand. I didn’t mind that they didn’t answer me. All that mattered was that they listened. It was more than I had from anyone else in my life when I was young.

Looking after the chickens was no Herculean task but it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy because we didn’t have a gate to keep the chickens from wandering into the street. It was an open neighborhood, so no one had one. Some nights when I would hear screeching chickens, I would wake up hopeful that it was an egg. It wasn’t always an egg. Sometimes it was roadkill. A chicken or two would wander out of the coop and into the street. They screeched as they got crushed under the wheels of lorries that drove past. I would cry for days, mourning the loss of my friends. My parents would tell me that they would replace the dead chicken, and they did but it wasn’t the same.

Another thing that made looking after the chickens difficult was when one of them didn’t lay eggs for a while. The first time I told my father, he told me to give the hen a few more days. When she still didn’t lay eggs after a month, he went into the coop and broke her neck. After that I tried to hide the lack of eggs from some hens from him, but my mother would notice the inconsistent number of eggs and tell him. He would go into the coop and come out with a carcass. As much as I cried each time he did that, he continued to do it. He tried to explain to me that a hen that laid no eggs was of no use. I told him that maybe she could help some other way. He told me that her only use was to lay eggs. If she couldn’t do that, then she was just taking up space. The funny thing was he let the old roosters die a natural death though they were of no use. Somehow, it felt like the other chickens felt the same. They didn’t mope or cluck like they usually did when their egg-laying comrades passed on. No one mourned the barren dead chicken but me.

That last memory crosses my mind every once in a while, more so today as I sit in a clinic with my legs spread, waiting for someone to tell me that I am not the problem. Fear had prompted me to rush to the clinic as just that morning news of an old classmate’s death had reached me. They say she was beaten to death by her husband as she couldn’t produce a child. He wasn’t going to be put on trial for murder as everyone thought it was justified. No one mourned her, not even her family. I had rushed to the clinic to get checked as it was my husband who told me what had happened. It sounded like a threat coming from him.

It has only been a few months since I sat on a dais and he tied a thali [3] around my neck but ever since our wedding day, the question from all our relatives had been, ‘When are you having a baby?’ My husband was desperate to answer the question with news of my pregnancy. Each night since the day we entered our new home, I was forced onto our bed and held down as he did as he pleased. As he held me down I closed my eyes and tried to stay as still as I could though I wanted to kick him off me. When he was done, he would ask me to move aside so he could sleep. It hurt to move but I didn’t want him to touch me so I would roll to the side and give him space. I lay on my side of the bed holding back tears as I wait for the pain, the intense burning, to disappear. It usually did but the soreness remained. I asked him once if we could hold off for one night so I could recover from the soreness but he ignored me as he pinned me down. It was as if sandpaper was being scraped against an open wound and I think I bled a little. I told my mother about what was happening, but she told me that that was normal. She said it would stop when I gave him a child. I asked her how to do that, but she didn’t have an answer. She told me to just lay there as he knows what to do.

Each month when I continued to menstruate, he grew more despondent. I didn’t think anything could possibly be wrong as it would only be a matter of time before I would get pregnant. It wasn’t until I heard of women who couldn’t produce eggs that I began to fear that I may be one of them. I was afraid that the longer I didn’t get pregnant, the more likely he would break my neck. Hearing about my old classmate only increased my trepidation.

Now, sitting on a leather cushioned tall table I can only wait. When the doctor comes out holding a file, I try to read her face to see if she would give me good news. She gives nothing away. She takes a seat at her desk and tells me to join her. I do and she opens her file. She tells me that there is scarring on the outer tissue of my privates.

‘Is that something I should be worried about,’ I ask and she repeats the question back to me. I shake my head. Surely the scarring must be normal. My mother had said that feeling sore was only expected. She discusses other things that probably matter to someone else but though I tried to care, I couldn’t focus on any of it. I only came for one answer, and she saves that for last.

‘Can I have a baby,’ I ask and she smiles.

‘There is nothing stopping you from that. Everything looks good. It is only a matter of time.’

I head home more relieved than happy to know that I have eggs. They just haven’t been laid.

More time goes by and by then the neighbours had begun to ask. It’s not right for a woman to not have children, they tell me. I tell them that sooner or later it will happen. It doesn’t stop them from giving me pitying looks. My mother and mother-in-law had begun to visit too, bringing herbs to make concoctions for fertilization. No matter how many times I remind them of what the doctor had said, they tell me that there has to be something wrong with me.

My husband’s despondence had shifted to bouts of rage. Each night he practically threw me aside when he was done. There was no more talking, only yelling. I had to start wearing saree blouses with longer sleeves to hide the blue-black swelling that had begun to form on my arms where he would grab me. I don’t think any of the villagers would have cared even if they saw it. They had begun gossiping about me so the sight of bruises would only add fuel to fire. I can almost picture what they would say. They would say it was justified as I couldn’t carry out my only role as a wife. They would call me a barren chicken and say that my time was running out. I feared that it is. I fear that my husband’s bouts of rage would end with my broken neck.

I rush back to the clinic again to tell the doctor that she was wrong. I tell her to do the test again. Though she tells me that I am fine, I beg her for any medicine to help me get pregnant. She tells me that she has nothing to help as there is nothing to fix.

‘You are not the problem,’ she tells me but I tell her that I must be since there is no baby in me. She tells me that it is not my fault. I find it hard to see how that could be. She hands me a pamphlet and tells me to read it. As I head home with the knowledge that nothing is wrong with me, I peruse through the trifold pamphlet and suddenly I understand what the doctor was telling me. I am not the problem. He is.

Though I had come to the realization, I didn’t know what to do about it. I know that the moment I bring it up he will become hostile. Well, more hostile than he already is. He had already begun to call me an embarrassment and a curse. He tells me that women like me were punished with an empty womb for things that we had done in the past. He calls me a cheap whore and tells me to repent. He wasn’t the only one to call me names. The gossiping had reached new heights. My mother arrived only to tell me that the villagers had told her that I was cursed. She had come with more herbs to help remove the curse.

When I tell her what the doctor had said and showed her the pamphlet, I didn’t expect the slap that she gave me.

‘This is all your fault. How can you blame your husband? He looks after you and you cannot even give him a child. He should kill you for even thinking like this.’

I remember the carcass my father threw out after he broke the neck of yet another hen. He did it at my mother’s prompting. I’m not surprised that she thinks I deserve the same fate. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is the one who pulls the trigger.

As the gossiping worsens, so does my husband’s temper. He now insists on starting earlier in bed so we can try more. Each time he grabs me I am tempted to tell him that he is the problem. His hold on me stops me from saying anything. I don’t want to feel that around my neck. I know he will snap it easily then throw me off the bed and go to sleep. I keep telling myself that broken roosters don’t get broken necks, only barren hens do and it is easier to stay silent.

Silence is the only solution I have for now. It is a band aid over a festering wound. I can tell that my days are numbered. I feel it each time I bleed for the month. One day his patience will run out. One day he will walk into our room and break my neck, and no one will mourn the barren dead chicken. I now look forward to that day.

________________

[1] Indian scrambled eggs with spices

[2] Unleavened flatbread

[3] A gold chain worn by Indian brides to signify marriage

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates diverse voices from around the world. This prestigious competition provides a platform for writers and poets to share their unique perspectives and stories. Participants engage in a vibrant literary dialogue, exploring a multitude of themes and styles. The competition aims to foster creativity and cultural exchange, enriching the global literary landscape.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Doris Pushpam for her profound contribution, "The Curse of an Empty Nest," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story resonates deeply, shedding light on significant cultural and personal themes. Thank you, Doris, for sharing your voice and enriching our understanding through your storytelling. We look forward to witnessing more of your insightful narratives in the future.

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.