At Kerala House, a flood of generosity

August 23, 2018 01:01 am | Updated 01:01 am IST - Mumbai

  Community effort:  Volunteers at Kerala House, young and old, help in collecting, sorting and packing goods to send to Kerala.

Community effort: Volunteers at Kerala House, young and old, help in collecting, sorting and packing goods to send to Kerala.

Kerala House, one of the state bhavans near Vashi railway station, is usually quiet, almost sleepy. Guesthouse residents stroll around; a few locals browse the handicrafts store; a handful of visitors from the city may trek in from the island city for the authentic Kerala cuisine.

This rainy evening, though, its sheltered colonnade is filled with cartons and sacks, and the lobby is a maelstrom.

A group sits on the floor, sorting hygiene products, another lot packs snacks, a smaller set consult clipboards and make calls. The reception phone rings constantly. Malayalam fills the air, naturally; when other languages filter through, they mostly carry the flavour of Kerala’s long vowels.

One short, slim woman is in an immaculate sari, but it’s mostly jeans and T-shirts for the men and all the younger people, and most of the older women are in salwar-kameez. Rucheek, still recovering from an accident a couple of years ago, lost the use of one arm and some mobility. He says he’s one of many “normal citizens” volunteering. “The government is doing good work, but we must help too.” How did they come together? From the floor, Sudha says, “We come from various Malayali organisations around the city.” Rukmini Sagar, one of the few who offers a last name, is probably the oldest volunteer. “I’m 77,” she tells me in a conspiratorial whisper. She was chief coordinator for Kerala’s Malayalam Mission, which teaches children of the State’s diaspora its native tongue, and is now its vice president. From Pallakad originally, she has lived in the Mumbai region for 50 years, 35 of them doing “various social work.” A child walks up with a paper bag and offers me an apple. She’s 10, and is helping with folding fabric and packing, and distributing food. Is she the youngest? “No,” she says, and points to a boy who is running up and down the corridor. “He’s six, but he just wants to play.” A group of young men stand around chatting, the only idle ones.

Outside, cars come in, disgorging more cartons and sacks. A couple on a scooter wobble up; she is driving and he is clutching a huge sack. Students from a Mumbai college chat with a man with a clipboard; Sakshi says she’s here to find out what was needed, so she can call classmates and let them know. Her friend, who asks not to be named, says their college is also collecting funds to give to the Kerala CM’s relief fund. Sarath and Sulakshana, from Nerul, say they have been coming every day, delivering goods they have bought with money collected from their neighbourhood, some ₹80,000 so far.

Salam Salih calls and apologises: it being Id, he was with family for the afternoon. He’s a software-engineer-turned-cinematographer, and has been here every day since August 18, when Kerala House sent a message out to the community, asking for help sorting and packing. He’s one of those at the centre of the whirlwind, sending out social media messages, coordinating volunteers and donors. I ask him what I can do. He gestures around the room at the chattering, laughing people: “It’s a holiday today, so we have more than enough people.” Do they all know each other? He laughs. “These are three-to-four-day-old friendships. Most of us met here.”

They are self-organised — “We have no captain; we’re working together” — into groups doing different things: receiving goods, unpacking, sorting, repacking, labelling. They’ve been here, some of them, 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day, sometimes longer.

A woman raises her voice above the hubbub: a truck has come. Immediately, the young idlers troop outside and clamber into the container lorry’s cavernous interior. A bucket-line materialises in the colonnade. Enough being a journalist: I join them.

First sacks of food grains go from hand to hand, then to the back of the container. Then, cartons zip up the line: biscuits, baby food, sanitary products. A call goes out: “Weighta!” I have figured this means “heavy load!” But passed shoulder to shoulder, the sacks feel light. The erstwhile idlers yell out in mock distress: we are supplying too fast. There’s not much space in the lorry, and aside from lifting, they have the cumbersome task of making sure everything is stacked ergonomically. The older people with the clipboards call a longer pause: they need to make sure exactly what’s been requested is in the truck.

During a tea break, G. Rajeev, Kerala House’s manager, tells me Malayali organisations have despatched 63 trucks from the MMR, and maybe 40 have gone from here. Some 400 tonnes of goods have been donated by people from every community, and 200 to 400 people have volunteered every day to help his 12-member team. New to the city, he is overwhelmed by the generosity he is witnessing. Kerala is broken, he says. “But we will recover. We must.”

Sibi Sathyan, media professional and another of the core group of volunteers, says the needs are changing now. It was emergency rations and water; now it is women’s and children’s clothing, medicines, toiletries, sanitation products. There’s also a shortage of baby food, and a need for cleaning equipment, and protective gear like gloves. A bunch of medicines are being stacked. Medical students and hospital staff have helped sort and repack them earlier, and they will be airlifted.

The call goes out again: the next lorry is ready. I join them. At one point when one of the ‘weighta’ sacks is about to be passed, I take my cue from the younger, far fitter men and walk the length of the corridor with it. The lads in the truck give me a happy cheer.

I tell Salam I should go back to my computer and file this story. “Come back tomorrow?” he asks. “I’ll be here.”

Kerala House, Vashi, is accepting donated goods until the evening of August 23. Please call (+91 22) 27810112 to find out what is most needed.

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