The Story — Bholi

Her real name was Sulekha, but ever since childhood everyone had called her Bholi — the simpleton. She was the fourth and youngest daughter of Numberdar Ramlal, a prosperous farmer with three sons and four daughters. When she was barely ten months old, she had fallen off her cot and hurt her head; this accident had left some damage that made her a slow learner, different from the other children. As if that were not enough, she was struck by smallpox at the age of two, which left her face permanently covered in deep dark pockmarks. Her eyes alone were left untouched. She had not been able to speak until she was five, and when she finally did begin to talk, she stammered so badly that other children mocked and imitated her — so she grew quieter and quieter, saying as little as possible. Imagery

Ramlal was worried about this daughter. His other children were healthy and well-settled: his sons had gone to the city for education and careers; his eldest daughter Radha was already married; Mangla's match had been arranged; Champa's turn would come next. They were good-looking girls and finding bridegrooms for them had been easy. But Bholi — plain, pockmarked, slow — seemed to have no future at all. She had been neglected at home all her life. New clothes were never made for her; she wore the cast-offs of her sisters. No one thought to mend or wash her clothes, or to oil and comb her hair. Irony

The next morning, Ramlal took Bholi by the hand to walk her to school. She was terrified. She had no idea what a school was. In her mind, she pictured being led away like their old cow Lakshmi, who had been sold and taken from the house. She screamed and pulled her hand away. Her father scolded her and his wife dressed her in Champa's old shrunken frock — the first clean garment Bholi had worn in a long time. Even her hair was oiled and combed. For the first time in her life, someone had taken care of her appearance. And she began, very tentatively, to feel that perhaps this place was better than home. Simile

At school, the children were already in their classrooms. Bholi sat in the corner the headmistress pointed to, looking around with wide, frightened eyes. But she was glad to see so many other girls her own age — perhaps one of them might become a friend. The teacher in her classroom was explaining something, though Bholi could not follow. Then she noticed the pictures on the wall — a brown horse, a black goat, a green parrot, a white cow just like their Lakshmi — and she was absorbed. Then the teacher was suddenly beside her, smiling gently. Imagery

"What is your name, little one?" the teacher asked. Bholi tried to say her name and could manage no more than "Bh-Bho-Bho—" before she dissolved in tears, head bowed, waiting for the laughter she knew would follow. But when the school bell rang and the other girls poured out, the teacher did not leave. Her voice, calling Bholi's name, was like nothing Bholi had ever heard before — soft, warm, unhurried. "Get up," the teacher said — not as a command, but as an invitation. She encouraged Bholi to try her name again, praising every small sound she managed, patting her affectionately. Personification

"In one month you will be able to read this book," the teacher told her, handing her a colourful picture-book. "Then I will give you a bigger book, then a still bigger one. In time you will be more learned than anyone in the village. No one will laugh at you any more. You will speak without the slightest stammer." Bholi looked up, searching the teacher's face for mockery. There was none. As she walked home, she felt as if all the temple bells in the village were ringing at once, and as if the trees outside the school had burst into great red flowers. A new hope had taken root in her heart. Metaphor Imagery

The years passed. The village grew into a small town; the primary school became a high school; a cinema and a cotton ginning mill appeared; even the mail train began to stop at their station. One evening, Ramlal told his wife that Bishamber Nath, a wealthy grocer from another village, had proposed marriage for Bholi. Bholi's mother was overjoyed — the man was well-to-do, owned a shop and a house, had money in the bank, and was not demanding any dowry. There were some concerns — Bishamber was around Ramlal's own age, walked with a limp, and had grown children from his first marriage — but her mother dismissed these. "If we don't accept this proposal, she may remain unmarried all her life." Bholi, lying awake in the courtyard, heard every word. Irony

On the day of the wedding, Bishamber arrived with a large procession — a brass band, friends, relatives, a decorated horse. Ramlal had never imagined his fourth daughter could have such a grand wedding. Bholi was led to the sacred fire in a red silk bridal dress. When the veil was lifted, Bishamber caught one look at her pockmarked face and stopped. He pulled a friend aside and whispered his demand: five thousand rupees, or he would leave. Ramlal tried desperately to negotiate. He laid his turban — his honour — at Bishamber's feet. The guests murmured; the bandsmen played on, unaware. Finally, tears streaming down his face, Ramlal went inside and counted out the money. He placed it at the bridegroom's feet. Irony

Bishamber smiled in triumph. The garland was raised again — but this time, when the veil slipped back, Bholi's eyes were not downcast. They were raised, fixed on him — not with rage or tears, but with cold, clear contempt. Before the garland could reach her neck, her hand shot out like a streak of lightning and swept it into the sacred fire. She rose, cast aside her veil, and spoke — in a voice that was loud, clear, and utterly without stammer. Simile

"Pitaji!" she called. Her father, mother, sisters, brothers, every guest and neighbour — all were stunned to hear Bholi, the stammering simpleton, speak with perfect, unflinching clarity. "Take back your money. I am not going to marry this man." The crowd erupted in scandalised whispers. Ramlal pleaded with her, invoking the family's izzat. Bholi replied that for the sake of their honour, she had been willing to accept this unequal match — but she would not take a mean, greedy, contemptible coward as a husband. Imagery

Bishamber's party left in confusion; the bandsmen, misreading the situation, struck up a closing number. Ramlal stood with his head bowed under the weight of shame. He turned to Bholi and asked what would become of her now — who would ever marry her? And Sulekha — for that is what the story calls her now, for the first time since the opening line — answered in a calm, steady voice: "Do not worry, Pitaji. I will serve you and Mother in your old age. And I will teach in the same school where I learnt so much." In the corner, her teacher, who had watched the entire scene unfold, smiled with the quiet, deep satisfaction of an artist contemplating the completion of a masterpiece. Metaphor