As the shrivelled bodies of often desperately poor, cancer-ridden patients line up, she goes beyond giving them physical succour. Sanghavi volunteers as a 'motivator' to reassure the kin, guide them through those traumatic moments, even persuade them to chip in. It's an exhausting task, since most of the relatives, often hopelessly undernourished, flinch from donating blood (banks give blood of any group provided an equivalent amount is donated by the patients' kin).
ìThey are often uneducated, don't understand the complex treatments their relatives undergo. Particularly, when it comes to chemotherapy-treated patients who need platelets. The donor has to be hooked onto a machine for more than two hours. That really frightens most relatives, explains Sanghavi. Sometimes they would scuttle away, or dither, even disclaim the patient. Dealing with these people for the last six years, Sanghavi realised how real their fear was-they were often completely lost in this demanding city, didn't have sufficient funds to buy a meal. And she understood if they grew giddy with the thought of donating blood. The fainting, the tremors were often no act.
So, for the last two years she has been distributing food packets-bhaji, chappati and bananas."It is meant for the patients' relatives, since often it's they who need to be fed and motivated so that they provide support to the sick ones, she says. The logistics of organising food for hungry souls almost stumped Sanghavi, wife of diamond dealer Rameshchandra C. Sanghavi. She had not been groomed for this-trying to coax permission for food distribution at Tata Hospital, getting a maharaj to cook the food, juggling scant funds, or handling a team of 10 volunteers. But, at 46, with her two grown-up sons out of her hair, she decided it was a problem she'd tackle alone.
It's a fulfilling task."When I'm at the hospital, I even forget home, she says."There are an amazing number of good souls in this city. The kelawallah, Naushad Sheikh, insists on giving extra. The maharaj who prepares the food doesn't get a profit. Sometimes, donors just walk in and give an entire month's supply without asking a single question. Tata Hospital's dean, Dr K. Dinshaw, has been most cooperative. Even the hospital staff, Kishan Solanki and Vasant Mayavanshi, skip their lunch hour while helping with the distribution.
When son Vaibhav was down with jaundice and needed care, Sanghavi dithered over whether she should give up, but the neighbourhood pitched in. She's grateful that volunteer groups like Jain Social Group and Goghari Mahila Federation have bolstered her whenever funds, or even her will, ran dry. Buoyed by such support, her diffident foray is now almost a movement, with the Mahila Mandal promising to treat it as a full-fledged project named Adhar. Buttermilk will be an addition that's she busy working towards-500 glasses daily, manna during the enervating summer that's already teasing the Mumbai air.
When she started off, she would spend all her savings-a time when tacit support from her husband helped her carry on."I couldn't seek outside help unless I proved it could be done. Till date I've never asked anyone for funds. I would pester my son Mehul for his salary, promising to repay it later! She recalls those days when her philanthropism meant Rs 600 out of her own pocket. Today it costs Rs 1,000, but, help is at hand.
In her own estimation, she may be"just a housewife . But the people who accept that rare meal with gratitude think differently. For them she's a 'devi', who may be contacted at Tata Hospital's blood bank 022 414 67 50.
