The Chicken in the Kitchen

**The Chicken That Wouldn’t Lay**

On the edge of a sleepy village nestled between green hills and golden fields, lived an old farmer named Bhanu. Bhanu was known far and wide for his plump vegetables, ripe fruits, and most importantly, his chickens that laid the best eggs in the region. His mornings were a melody of clucking hens and the soft thump of eggs being laid into straw nests.

Except for one.

Her name was Gulabo, a proud, plump hen with feathers as white as fresh cream and a comb that flickered red like fire. She strutted about the coop like she owned it, yet she hadn’t laid a single egg in the past two weeks.

Bhanu was furious.

“Lazy chicken!” he yelled one morning, arms crossed, glaring into the coop. “You eat more than the others, flap around like you’re the queen, and still no eggs? What do you think I feed you for?”

Gulabo turned her head slowly, gave him a disinterested glance, and fluffed her feathers.

The other hens clucked nervously. They knew that Bhanu had a temper. He’d once chased a rooster out of the yard just for crowing too early. And now, every morning, he stood by Gulabo’s corner of the coop, staring at her expectantly, tapping his foot, and muttering under his breath.

But Gulabo remained eggless.

Soon, the village began to whisper. “Bhanu’s best hen has gone dry,” they’d say. “Maybe she’s cursed.” One bold boy even asked Bhanu if he’d considered making chicken curry.

That night, Bhanu sat by his fireplace, staring at Gulabo, who had been brought into the house “for observation.” He’d built her a little straw bed near the stove and fed her corn by hand. Not out of kindness—no, this was war. If she wouldn’t lay by will, he’d make her too comfortable to resist.

“You hear me?” he mumbled. “I’ll fatten you up so much, you’ll have no choice but to lay.”

Gulabo blinked slowly, then turned around and fell asleep.

The next morning, nothing.

Bhanu snapped. He stormed out, yelling to the hills, “This is not a charity! I run a farm, not a resort!” The wind rustled through the trees as if trying to calm him, but it was no use.

He called the village vet, who examined Gulabo and declared her perfectly healthy.

“Maybe she’s just... waiting?” the vet said, shrugging. “Some hens are like that. Stubborn.”

“Waiting for what? A golden nest?” Bhanu shouted.

The days dragged on, and Bhanu's anger turned to frustration, then to confusion, and finally to sorrow. He no longer yelled. He simply sighed and refilled her water bowl.

One evening, he sat beside Gulabo and muttered, “You know, I bought you because you reminded me of a hen I had when I was a boy. She laid her first egg on my birthday. Maybe I was hoping for some luck.”

Gulabo tilted her head, as if listening.

Bhanu chuckled bitterly. “But maybe I just expected too much.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, he didn’t check the coop before bed. He just turned off the lamp and slept.

The next morning, something strange happened. He walked into the kitchen, yawning, and almost tripped over a small white egg sitting on the floor next to Gulabo.

He stared.

Gulabo stared back.

Then she let out a proud *bawk*, fluffed her feathers, and strutted around the room like she had just invented eggs.

Bhanu was speechless. He knelt down, picked up the egg gently, and looked at it as if it were made of diamonds. Then he laughed—a deep, belly-shaking laugh that echoed through the house and startled the other chickens awake.

“You stubborn little queen,” he whispered. “You were just waiting for the right moment, weren’t you?”

Gulabo clucked once, as if in agreement, then hopped up to her perch and went back to sleep.

From that day on, she laid an egg every morning. Bhanu stopped shouting. He even built her a new little nesting box in the kitchen, separate from the others.

People in the village heard of it and came to see the “kitchen hen.” Some said she was magical. Others said Bhanu had gone soft. But Bhanu didn’t care. He had his eggs, his farm, and his feathery little queen.

And Gulabo?

She ruled the roost.

-thank You ❤️