Sacred Drops of Blood

There was once a very great sanyasi; he possessed the ability to transform people by his mere words. The sound of his voice carried listeners into the stillest, most peaceful meditation. But, he wanted to do more for the world. His vision was to help all of humanity, to be a service to all those he met, to heal the world on a massive scale. He prayed to God to give him the ability to save people' s lives. "You can not save everyone; you can not be of service to everyone. Just keep speaking, keep chanting, keep writing, keep praying. In this way you will really heal," God said to him. But the saint was not persuaded. "Please, God, let me be of service – of direct service – to all. Let me save people' s lives."

The sanyasi had performed so much tapasya and was so pure in his desire to help, that God granted him the boon of being able to save the life of anyone who came to him. He had simply to take a drop of his blood and place it on the patient' s upper lip. Any ailment would be cured; any suffering would immediately be alleviated. The saint was exuberant; his dream had been fulfilled. Now he felt that he would really be able to save the world and to cure those who came to him.

The first day four people came. For each person, he simply pricked the tip of his finger with a needle and the blood came out. One small drop had such miraculous healing powers. That night, the selfless saint had a beaming smile on his face for those whom he had cured.

The next day, forty people came, having heard of his miraculous powers. For each he squeezed a small drop of blood from his finger and blessed them as he placed it on their upper lip. Each was instantly cured. Paralysis, leprosy, depression, anxiety – all disappeared with the simple drop of the sanyasi' s blood. Word spread throughout the land, more and more people flocked to his healing magic. And the sanyasi was in bliss – here he was using his simple God-given blood to cure so many. He dispensed these drops freely – with no hesitation, no discrimination, no vacation. "I am in your service…" he would say.

Soon, thousands were flooding the simple ashram in which he lived; they were overflowing in the streets. The saint was dispensing the equivalent of cups of blood each day. But, he did not even notice. Such was his dedication and devotion to those whom he was curing. He sat, in meditative bliss, as he squeezed first his finger-tip, then the veins in his arm to dispense blood to those in need.

It was not long before the sanyasi had to squeeze harder in order to coax the blood from his body. Soon, a mere needle prick was not a large enough opening; he needed small knives to pierce the prominent veins of his forearms and legs. From there, the blood flowed freely again, and all were relieved. However, soon, even those veins were no longer coursing with high volumes of healing nectar. They, too, were becoming drier and drier.

As his blood volume dropped each day, the sanyasi became weaker. The color drained from his once vibrant face. Darkness drew circles around his eyes. His voice, which previously had boomed, singing forth the divine glories of God, was now not much more than a whisper. But, the sanyasi was not worried. Those who loved him urged him to take rest, to take at least a break from giving blood, to let himself recuperate.

Although he listened with his ears and appreciated the concern, he could not stop pumping blood from his body. He would say, "I am in the service of the world…These people have come from so far…They have been waiting for so long…This man is an important minister, but he' s suffering from pneumonia…I feel no pain. I feel no weakness. I feel only the joy of giving myself to others." Those who loved him could do nothing, other than watch the scores of people continue to pour in, continue to plead for "just one drop."

Soon, even the once succulent veins of his forearms would give no more blood. Even the largest, most abundant veins of his body held on selfishly to their sparse quantity of this life-giving fluid. But, the sanyasi was not deterred. "This is only a challenge. Only more tapasya to do." He would say. He ordered his servants to build a device which would squeeze harder than human hands were able to do, a vice-like apparatus into which he could place a limb and have it milked completely of the blood inside.

Throughout this, the people kept coming. As word spread – in frantic whispers – that the saint was ill, that the blood was running dry, the people flocked even more frenetically. They pushed and trampled one another in an effort to get "just one drop." People, who perhaps had been postponing a visit until a later date, dropped everything and came running. "Please Maharajji," they would plead. "Please, just one drop. We have come from Madras, we have come from Nepal, we have come from London. My daughter has this horrible affliction on her face. My husband lost his arm in a car wreck. My son refuses to get married. Please Maharajji, please just one drop. Just one drop and then we' ll go away so you can take rest." For each who came, the saint smiled as he placed a drop of blood on their upper lip.

The ocean of his blood soon became an arid desert. Where once his veins had flowed like copious rivers, they were now limp and desiccated

His devotees pleaded with him to stop; their tears of concern poured onto his holy feet. But, all he could see were needy, ailing people stretching out to the horizon, each one crying pitifully, "Please, Maharajji, just one drop."

When those who had flocked for blood realized that the sanyasi could give no more, they were un-deterred. "We will work the pumping machine," they screamed. And they stormed toward the saint, who sat peaceful, although nearly lifeless, draped only in his simple dhoti. But, the pumping machine was not powerful enough to pump water from a desert. So, they tied him up, the ropes cutting deep into his parched skin. And as some pulled the ropes tighter and tighter, others cut into his veins with knives (no longer small ones, but now the type used for butchering animals). "There must be another drop left. There must be," they cried furiously.

As his beloved devotees watched, the last drop of blood was cut from their great sanyasi, who had once overflowed with life, with vigor, with dynamism. Now he hung, still in the ropes which had tied him, lifeless and completely desiccated. However, they noticed, there was a smile on his limp and pallid face.

"Just five minutes," we plead. "Just step foot in my house to bless it…just take one meal at my home." It may not be physical blood we demand, but both our desperation and the effects on the saints is the same. "But, I' ve waited 5 years. But I' ve come from America. Please, Maharajji, just five minutes….but Maharajji, my daughter said she won' t get married unless you are there…but, I can not go into surgery unless you come to the hospital…but it would mean so much to us if you could just come to our home for 10 minutes…"

When we go to visit a saint, rarely do we ask when he last took his meal or what his usual time for rest is. "It' s only 5 minutes," we convince ourselves. "Just one drop, one drop of blood…" When we are blessed enough to have a saint at our home, rarely do we say to him, "go to sleep. You must be tired. You have sat with people [or worked] all day long." Rather, we think "But, it' s only once a year he comes," or "but this is the first time we' ve ever had him alone."

"Just one drop…just one drop and then we' ll let you take rest."

Sure, it is only five minutes, or one hour, or one night. For us. But, we do not have the vision to see the streams of people, flooding out to the horizon, who will beg for "just five minutes," after we have had ours. Rarely, even do we lift our eyes to look.

"But," you may ask, "if the saint healed so many with his blood, why does it matter that he died? His purpose on Earth and his desire were to heal people. So, why does it matter that he lost his physical body in the meantime?"

The answer is that a doctor could have healed most of the physical ailments that came to him. Those suffering from emotional/psychological problems, could probably have been helped had they put into practice that which he taught in his lectures. He did not need to give his actual blood to so many. But, it is easier to get the "instant cure," easier to let him place the blood on us than to make the trip to the doctor and take the medicine he prescribes, or to implement the necessary diet of less fat, less sugar, no meat, etc.

It is easier to be cured by someone than to cure ourselves. Somehow, when a saint speaks in public, giving instructions and messages publicly, we think that it pertains to everyone but us. "But I need to speak to him personally," we decide. "My problem is different." Rarely do we take a saint' s "no" as "no." We know that if we plead harder, beg more desperately that they will give in, because they truly are in the service of humanity.

But, do we want to milk the blood from their bodies? Do we really want to be healed at their expense? Is that what love really is? We must realize that each of our demands, that each 5 minutes, each compulsory visit to a home, each one drop of blood, is only one of thousands more that he is selflessly giving to others. We must be careful to let him nourish himself such that his blood continues to flow. We must make a sincere effort to keep the life alive in these saints who would give their lives to us, without hesitation and without discrimination.