Rich man’s poor story

One Mr. Chatterjee was a richman of Calcutta. He used to frequent Mother’s Home ‘Nirmal Hridaya’ where he tried to be useful by playing with children and teaching them letters. Whenever possible he would help Mother financially as well.
One day, his darling grandson fell ill. It was a serious malady. An immediate operation had been prescribed. Mr. Chatterjee engaged the services of the best surgeon of Calcutta to do the operation. Money was no problem.
But there arose a problem.
A post-operation medicine which was a must was not available in the market. It stalled the operation. The grandson’s life hung in balance. Mr. Chatterjee’s relatives and friends searched for the drug in Bombay, Delhi and Madras (Chennai) too but the result was negative. It was learnt that the drug was available abroad only.
Mr. Chatterjee didn’t know what to do! He was ready to pay any price but no one could produce the drug. Then, he wondered if by chance Mother Teresa could have that drug because she was receiving drugs from abroad as donations.
Chatterjee ran to Mother’s Home driven by sheer desperation. He hesitantly sat down as if in a daze. He wouldn’t play with Home children.
It puzzled Mother. She asked, “Chatterjee Babu, what is the matter? You look worried.”
He remained silent by his eyes rolled off some tears. Mother patted him reassuringly.
Chatterjee opened up. He narrated the problem of his 11 year old grandson whose operation was refixed for the day after if that medicine would be available.
Mother said, “I recently got a donation of many rare drugs from France. Some hundred boxes are there in the hall. Look in them. You may be in luck.”
He checked the boxes assisted by a Sister. After hours of search they found it in a box.
Mr. Chatterjee cried in joy. He ran to Mother with the box and revealed, “Mother! It is there in this box. We found it. Thank you a million million times.”
He wanted to pay the price, any amount Mother wanted. Simply any amount.
Mother said, “Chatterjee Babu, we don’t sell drugs. These drugs have been sent for poor people as donations from abroad.”
“But Mother, I am not poor. You know that,” Mr. Chatterjee protested. “I am a rich man. I can afford to pay any price to save my dear grandson, Milind.”
Mother looked into the tearful eyes of Chatterjee and smiled before saying, “Right now, you are no rich person. Infact, you are the poorest on earth. You ran through Calcutta with your money bags and couldn’t get the medicine you needed. Not even in other big cities. You were in most helpless state. You were the poorer than the poorest. Money couldn’t help you, neither could your property. Only the medicines sent for the poor came to your help. Please take the medicine and have your grandson operated upon. May be, God has sent this box just for him. Pay your thanks to Him.”
Mr. Chatterjee came to Mother with his grandson, Milind when he got well. Mother blessed him lovingly.

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