Our car is hurtling towards the Allah Wali Chowrangi in Karachi — Bajia is behind the wheel. Passersby on the road who glance at us look back in surprise. They wonder who is driving the car; Bajia might be navigating the car expertly, but her small and fragile figure, crouched up on the seat, is easy to miss.

My lips are dry, and I am praying to God: please let Bajia and I reach our destination safely.

Spending a decade in the company of Fatima Surayya Bajia habituates one to the most reckless kind of driving seen by an 80-year-old, and also leaves imprints that cannot fade with time.

Also read: Bajia — the lady with old-world charm

Bajia’s house in Karachi’s Bihar Muslim Society was a place that taught me everything: there I learnt how to write, but I also learnt about life, how to forgive people, and how to live for others.

She was Bajia (‘older sister’) for every one of us; a true dervish who was humble, compassionate, and down-to-earth.

Her living room was a testament to her generosity and open heart. It would constantly be filled with all kinds of people, each with the intention of meeting her for their own benefit, but Bajia hardly cared about that.

She would meet them all the same, treating every visitor with the same, familiar love.

She had a peculiar inability of refusing people’s requests. She couldn’t say no, no matter what the situation was. There wasn’t a time she stepped out of her house without the intention of helping someone.

‘We are going right now’

It was one of the colder nights of December, and Bajia was settled before a heater, going through newspaper cuttings in her room. I was lying on a couch in the living room. The doorbell rang, and a moment later Bajia’s long-time cook Abdul Wahab came inside, informing her that a man was at the door wanting to speak about a matter related to his employment.

Since it was 10pm, I figured it would be unwise to disturb Bajia. I went to the door to ask the man to come back in the morning, when I heard Bajia entering the room behind me.

“Come inside,” she said to the man, her tone as warm as a mother’s, welcoming her son home after a long night.

The man was a public sector employee who had been served a show cause notice. Bajia did not know him at all, but intently listened to his problem. When he was done, she asked Abdul Wahab to fetch her shawl. “And take out the car,” she ordered.

Bajia then announced that we were going to the Governor House. I remember pleading with her, “Bajia! It’s we’ll past 10… we can go tomorrow as well.”

She would not budge. “We are going right now,” she said simply.

Within minutes, we were sitting opposite Dr Ishrat ul Ebad Khan, the Governor of Sindh. Some time later, the employee’s matter was resolved.

Comfort in the midst of chaos

One could write pages on Bajia’s humility, but what was most quintessentially her was her strength and self-sufficiency.

Until her paralysis in 2014, she did all her chores herself. She never asked the domestic help for anything— not to do her laundry, or clean her room, or wash her bathroom.

Also read: Book on Bajia’s life and works launched

In 1960, Bajia started her professional career by writing for Jang. She was married years earlier, right after partition. Bajia gave birth to two daughters, but both of them died shortly after birth. She would remember them and always thank God for giving her so many “sons and daughters.”

Bajia was certainly known for her witticisms. When someone asked her about her health, no matter how ill she was, her response would be the standard retort: “Got the flu.” But she hardly acted like an aged person, especially one with her illnesses. Nothing kept Bajia down.

During Ramazan, I remember being sapped of all energy by the end of the evenings, but Bajia would be fully energised, rushing around to make Iftar for all of us — her many sons and daughters.

You were right, Bajia. You were a mother to us — the constant comfort in our chaos; and today, you've left all of us, your children heartbroken.