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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, 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 peacefully, 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
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