They donated blood for money
and so did he
to feed his wife and three kids
and to while away his own gnawing hunger.
 
Two blood banks
he patronised
and the touts were good
the nurse too
fifty per cent for him
and the rest for them in different echelons.
 
But ah!
one morning
the blood was only a faint red
almost water
and he fainted
and…
and he died.
 
The touts, the intermediaries, the nurses
shared his fifty per cent too
and they remarked:
“He was a fine soul.”
“May God rest his soul in peace.”
“He took too long to die, however.”
“A bad example for others.”

Narenderpal Singh really opines it in a profitable way, and we are lucky enough to have poems of this sort twitching us for an expression. It is really a great poem clawing at our charity and philanthropy. The story is almost like A Cup of Tea and The Last Leaf. Those who serve are the humblest people. Those who donate do it not the propaganda of. But we too recognize them not. We too know not the value of pure milk. The Indian milkman’s pond paani-mixed adulterated milk is okay for our current-day liver.

How sad and tragic it is to hear the story! How painful is it to listen to the story of his life! A thankless job, he had been doing with no credit given to be in the service of the common people irrespective of the rich and the poor, the high and the low whoever came to and asked for, got it after a little persuasion!  A blood donor, how is the life of his? A professional blood donor, have you thought it about? He has saved giving blood to many, but what has he got for that? Is his blood not costly and valuable? Is it water? Is it not valuable? The answer is never can it be. He may be poor and needy, but his life is valuable, no doubt which we cannot deny it.

The poor blood donor, he donates blood for money, for saving lives, but what does he get it for? If he remains not connected with the hospitals and nursing homes, how will he able to give and make money?  If he does not give his blood, who will? Sometimes philanthropy draws him, sometimes money and poverty, scarcity of things and resources. Sometimes situations and circumstances too change one into a blood donor. He donates blood to make money, for social prestige, to maintain his family. Now-a-days many drunkards give blood to drink wine and for addiction which but pains us to think. In this age, of unemployment and joblessness, frustration and depression, waywardness and nowhere to go, false philanthropy and nobility, hypocrisy and egoistic leaning, debunking the hollow ethics of humanity and humanism, modernity and post-modernity, where to go it finally? Man is after all the same man and his thinking cannot change even though he grows developed and well-to-do. How to make a living?

What prestige has got a blood donor? Who acknowledges his priceless donation, say you? If he breathes his last untimely, who will come to see his family? Even the courtesy visit he cannot expect it.

When he used to give blood, people used to search for him. But when he lay dying, none was by his side to see him in his last days. How did he turn into a blood donor? This has a story of its own. If he does not give, then who will save our lives? This tells us about our society and the morale of it.