"Immediately, we need O-negative blood."

I got an emergency call from Doctor Anoop Mirakur at the Central Hospital of that country.

"Tell your circle. It's crucial."

Usually, my doctor friend calls me for such emergencies, thinking I am well-connected with Indian organizations as I work with the Embassy of India.

There were countless Indian organizations in that overseas city.

If you want to go abroad, you need an Indian passport. Once you get a foothold and have a little money, our Indians will start dividing themselves by forming specific secular alliance groups named after their villages, towns, religions, castes, and political beliefs.

Before getting the chance to go abroad, these people might have wandered around with itching and scabies, jobless due to inefficiency and a lack of specialization.

When they establish themselves in another country, they start disguising themselves as an extraordinary phenomenon, even if they work in menial jobs. They reinvent themselves, flourishing through boastful performances. They start wearing expensive overcoats, suits, and ties, pretending to be above the world.

I first informed all the key persons of these melodramatic Indian organizations in that city about the necessity of 'O' negative blood for a patient in the central hospital.

Most of these great administration bosses made me uncomfortable with their retorts. Their questions were unsolicited and premature.

Who needs blood? It was nonstop.

What country are they from, which state, which district, what religion, which caste, and what is their name?

Honestly, I forgot to ask these questions to Doctor Mirakur when he requested blood donors.

The fact is, the examinations went unanswered, and I never asked the doctor about it either.

"A mother and a child are in danger."

I conveyed all the information I had received to the so-called privileged members of the association.

Doctor Anoop called me again to stress the urgency. He insisted that after arranging blood donors, they should be taken to the hospital as soon as possible.

I was again interrogated by the association heads about the particulars of the needy patient.

"I don't know about that."

I got annoyed at the attitude of these hopeless people.

"If you trust my information, I will wait for you; otherwise, forget it."

It was a holiday, and they were not in a hurry to help us but were eager to open their bottles for the day. The benefactors were planning how many bottles to open before lunch.

The clock was ticking, and unfortunately, no leaders called me back.

The urgency of the need made me restless. I was forced to find another way.

After looking at the unattended telephone numbers in my directory, my eyes accidentally stuck on a number.

It was a group of Ghazal lovers and devotees. I used to go on a few holiday evenings to listen to the Ghazal Shayaris. It was a collective group of descendants of Urdu poets from the Sindh province in Karachi, Pakistan.

Should I make a call to cross the border? I was in a dilemma.

Later, I found nothing wrong with it and decided to call the leader of the group.

Because of my previous involvement with the Indian counterparts, with a little reluctance, I called Zaheer Bhai.

He was preparing food for the holiday get-together to be held that evening.

His reply came back in a fraction of a second, without any hesitation.

"Some of us will reach the hospital."

He spoke with eagerness.

"We need time for our car to reach there."

Tears filled my eyes and mind.

"Please wait for us at the hospital gate."

Like a soft Ghazal Raga, those words soothed me.

Zaheer put down the phone without waiting for my words of gratitude, and a five-member squad arrived before I reached the hospital.

That mother and child recovered and came back to life.

Instead of me showing gratitude, those men, God's messengers of goodness, thanked me and left without any pride in their great work.

I waited for Doctor Mirakur until he was free from his work to say goodbye. Without my asking, the doctor gave me details about the patients who received the blood.

While the child was taken for some tests, the doctor stopped by with a trolley and showed it to me. Without knowing the worth of the lifeblood coursing through those veins, the child smiled at me without any idleness.

I got back into my car and sent messages to all those curious association heads who wanted to know more about the needy, providing all the particulars, including country, state, and religion, of the mother and child in need of blood.

In a few minutes, my phone was flooded with calls.

How much blood do you need?

Where should we come? Is there any other help needed? A bundle of inquiries.

At that moment, I embarrassingly realized the variance in the colours of blood.

Even though its identical, society assigns colours according to ethnicity, caste, and locality.

But I saw that newly born baby, animated with a smile, even though the life contributor was an unknown rival. An unseen lullaby in elegant blood might have been like an enchanting Ghazal Shayari presentation.

Those kind-hearted Ghazal group members didn't ask who was at the receiving end.

***

Today is World Blood Donor Day, which is observed to raise awareness about the importance of blood donation and urge more people to donate blood.

That too, without any difference in thoughts.

Wishes from Subhashita

Calming Ghazal Ragas.

With a lyric of Compassion.