They called him Donation Man. The one who came and gave.
He uttered not a word from his mouth. There was no expression on his face.
His assistant always walked three steps behind him, head bent, shoulders drooped, as if his soul bore the brunt of the charity being offered.
Food, medicines, clothes, household items, and objects that no one could imagine.
A bench at the temple, a fan for the women’s shelter, the drinking fountain at the hockey stadium, and three toilet seats for the public bathroom.
He came with much and left with nothing. But Donation Man ensured his mark upon everything. His name branded every article. Each object exhibited the letters of his illustrious moniker.
Anonymity was a sin. What was the point of giving if no one knew where it came from?
There was no free trade in the name of philanthropy.
Donation Man was accountable too. His account was being written by the Holy One up there. After this life, Heaven would be the next agenda. He could not risk leaving without an advance booking in place.
Shailendra Om Mahavaidya.
Donation Man’s name was not only a mouthful but required sufficient space to be written.
And often his assistant faced tiny dilemmas when printing his boss’s name on items with sparse area.
Pencils, matchsticks, needles, toothbrushes, newborn’s socks, electrical wires.
There was no discrimination when it came to giving as long as Donation Man’s name went on living. He cared little for propaganda other than the display of his mighty initials.
Years sprinted, and he gave more and more. Time was running out, but not his possessions.
Donation Man finally passed on from this world to the next. It was, after all, inevitable. But his legacy remains intact. His name goes on. And you may have come across him.
That toilet paper you just tossed away. The bowl you just peed in.
Donation Man’s name has been honored again. His liberated soul says thank you.
He wants to marry her. But doesn’t know how to say it. He’s been practicing That Crazy Proposal but it’s not as you might see it.