Hey there, it’s good to be with you again. I’ve got a story to share tonight, one that’s been sitting with me for a while. It’s about a young man named Bholu, from a small village tucked away somewhere quiet, where life moves slow and everyone knows everyone. I’m not telling this to teach you anything, just to sit with you through it, like we’re sharing a cup of tea on a cool evening. Let’s walk through Bholu’s life together, feel what he felt, and see where it takes us.
Bholu was a simple soul, innocent in a way that’s rare these days. His name even meant “naive” in his language, and he lived up to it. He didn’t filter his thoughts, didn’t overthink his words. Whatever popped into his head, he’d say it—whether it was to his family, his friends, or the folks in the village. He mirrored how people treated him, good or bad, without much judgment. His heart was open, just like his parents’. They were kind people, farmers with enough land to live comfortably, always ready to help. But that kindness? It often got taken for granted. Villagers would come to them with sob stories, borrow money or grain, and then drag their feet when it was time to return it. Bholu’s parents, though, never pushed. They’d just nod, smile, and let it be, even as their savings dwindled, tied up in debts they’d never see repaid.
I think about that sometimes—how kindness can be a double-edged sword. You know, I’ve had moments in my own life where I’ve given too much, trusted too easily, and then felt that quiet sting when it wasn’t returned. Have you ever been there? It’s not something you can easily shake off, but Bholu and his family, they just kept going, kept giving.
Now, Bholu grew up, got married with all the fanfare of a village wedding. His wife, though—she was different. Sharp, quick-tempered, a bit demanding. She liked things her way, spent money freely, and wasn’t shy about speaking her mind to anyone in the house. But Bholu? He adored her. He’d do anything to make her happy, shared every thought, every worry with her. For a few years, life rolled on like that—imperfect, but steady.
Then, one day, everything shifted. Bholu’s father fell ill. At first, they thought it was something small, something the village doctor could fix. But when they took him to the city, the news hit like a stone: cancer. Early stages, the doctor said, but it would take time, money, a lot of both, to even have a chance. Bholu’s mother left him and his father at the hospital and went back to the village to scrape together what she could. She knocked on doors, asked those same people who’d borrowed from them over the years to pay up. Some did, but most? They made excuses, turned away. So, she borrowed from a moneylender at a steep interest, and later, they started selling off bits of their land just to keep the treatment going.
I can almost feel that weight, can’t you? Watching everything you’ve built slip away, piece by piece, for someone you love, and still not knowing if it’ll be enough. They sold fields, sold jewelry, until almost nothing was left. And Bholu’s father—he fought hard, but his body couldn’t keep up. One day, when Bholu came back from the market with supplies, he walked in to see his mother cradling his father’s head, sobbing. He was gone.
After that, the world seemed to shrink for Bholu and his mother. Poverty crept in, a heavy, uninvited guest. The few fields they had left, Bholu couldn’t manage on his own—he’d never had to before. His father had always handled things. And his wife, who’d once spent without a care, now grew frustrated. The house became a place of arguments, sharp words over small things. Bholu and his mother, they just took it quietly, too worn down to fight back. Bholu, still so open, would spill everything to his wife—his fears, his failures, even the silly mistakes of his past. But she’d throw it back at him, taunt him, sometimes even in front of others.
He thought maybe if he shared his struggles with friends, with neighbors, they’d understand, help him somehow. But instead, they’d listen with fake concern, then mock him behind his back. “What a fool,” they’d say. “His father was a fool, and so is he. Why help someone like that?” It cut deep, but Bholu didn’t know how to stop it. He just kept talking, kept hoping for kindness that never came.
Then, another blow—his mother passed away suddenly one night, a pain in her chest that took her before anyone could do anything. Bholu was shattered. He’d sit at home, lost in sadness, while his wife’s taunts grew sharper. She’d even badmouth him to the neighbors, call his family useless, cowardly. When Bholu heard about it, anger flared, and he’d retaliate, airing her faults to anyone who’d listen. Soon, the neighbors were laughing at both of them, gossiping, fueling more fights. One day, in the heat of it all, his wife left for her parents’ home, swearing she’d never return. And Bholu? He was alone, truly alone, drowning in regret, blaming fate, sometimes even thinking of giving up entirely.
But then, something unexpected happened. A wise man, a Mahatma, came to the village. Word spread, and Bholu, desperate for any kind of light, went to him. He fell at the Mahatma’s feet, tears streaming, and poured out his whole story—every loss, every mistake, every pain. The Mahatma listened, really listened, then lifted Bholu up and looked at him with quiet understanding.
“Bholu,” he said, his voice steady, “the root of your suffering isn’t just the world around you. It’s in how open you’ve been, how much you’ve shared of yourself and your family with others. But today, I want to give you something—seven things you should hold close, never speak of, to protect yourself.”
Bholu sat there, hanging on every word, as the Mahatma spoke. First, he said, don’t share your sorrows or struggles. Most people won’t help; they’ll just see you as weak, mock you when you’re not looking. Second, keep your past mistakes and future plans to yourself. The past can’t be undone, but speaking of it dims how people see you, and plans—they’re fragile. People’s envy or false praise can steal your drive, or worse, they’ll try to pull you down. Third, the matters of your home, the fights, the tensions—keep them within your walls. They’re no one else’s business, or they’ll use it against you. Fourth, your weaknesses and strengths—hide them. Enemies will exploit a weakness, find ways to break a strength. Fifth, your income, your wealth, whether little or much—don’t speak of it. It either brings mockery or endless requests. Sixth, any humiliation you’ve faced—don’t relive it by telling others. They’ll only use it to hurt you later. And last, your friends and enemies—don’t name them. That knowledge can be twisted, used to turn allies away or arm those who wish you harm.
As the Mahatma fell silent, Bholu felt tears again, but this time, they were different. They were tears of realization. He saw it so clearly—how his openness, his trust, had left him vulnerable, made him a target for ridicule, even from those closest to him. Right there, in that moment, he made a quiet promise to himself. No more. He’d guard his heart, his words, his life. He’d learn to stand steady, to be responsible, to stop letting the world take pieces of him.
I don’t know what became of Bholu after that day, but I like to think he found some peace, some strength in that promise. And sitting here with you, I wonder—what do we carry too openly sometimes? What do we give away that we should hold close? I’m not sure I have the answer, but I’m glad we can sit with the question together, just for a little while. Thanks for being here with me. Until next time, take care.