‘Mrs Edhi’, ‘Bilquis Aapa’, ‘Mother of All Orphans’, ‘Mother of Pakistan’... ‘Mummy’ — are just some of the names and titles used to address the force of nature that was Bilquis Edhi. Mrs Edhi, who passed away on April 15 after being hospitalised for a cardiac arrest, had impacted the lives of millions of people through her work, and through her consistent support for the work of her husband, Abdul Sattar Edhi, the greatest philanthropist and social worker that Pakistan has ever seen.

Growing up, I had followed the work of Mr and Mrs Edhi like every other person in the country who cared about the welfare of children and of those that were marginalised and struggling. The impact that the Edhi Foundation had made through their ambulance service, their morgue, dispensaries, orphanages, old peoples’ homes, mental institutions and other interventions is something that we watched in awe, wondering what it was that propelled this couple to keep going in the most difficult of landscapes.

The period of time in which Karachi saw a lot of violence and there was death on a daily basis, a time when people were scared to step out, we saw Edhi Ambulances saving people, picking up the injured and burying the dead. In man-made disasters, natural disasters and through all forms of suffering and crisis, the Edhis were always there. They were always larger than life.

But it was only later on in life, when I got to meet and know Mummy — as she liked me to call her — that I truly understood how a petite, unassuming and seemingly simple woman had become the rock that she was. And how her larger-than-life persona belied an immensely human person.

Behind the larger-than-life social worker persona of Bilquis Edhi, who passed away April 15, was a woman with a great sense of humour, strong instincts and a zest for life. A personal remembrance of the woman being called the ‘Mother of Pakistan’…

Bilquis was born on August 14, 1947. At a very young age, she started working as a nurse by joining the dispensary that was run and managed by Edhi Sahib. This was the year 1965. She was a rebel in the sense that, at that time, not many Muslim girls went into the nursing profession. However, by her own account, it was something that interested and fascinated her. She married Edhi Sahib in 1966 and that was the beginning of a long and eventful life, shared fully between the two.

Mrs Edhi was undoubtedly the force behind Edhi Sahib. She believed in the work he did and the sacrifice that he had made to his life and the lives of his family to be able to commit to a larger cause. And she spearheaded many of the programmes herself. The child adoption programme, for example, which discouraged the killing of abandoned babies and ensured their placements into ‘forever families’ through the Edhi Foundation, was very close to her heart.

She more or less ran the programme, which was the first time Pakistan saw this scale of an adoption programme. Each adopting family was personally vetted by her and put through a stringent test, which they had to pass to get to the other side. She had her own mechanism of evaluating and determining which homes babies were to be placed in. The process often proved to be nerve-wracking for the applicants, who never knew what the results would be. She appreciated strong nerves and a strength of character. Any child that somehow found its way to her was enveloped in the warmth, love and hope that she radiated.

It was her programme and her consistent hard work that normalised the process of adoption in Pakistan and conversations around it began to happen publicly, as opposed to behind closed doors, which had been the norm before. She was clear that hers was an attempt to end the stigma about adoption in society and give protection and acceptance in particular to the girl child.

Many accusations were levelled against her as a consequence of this, the primary one being that the programme encouraged promiscuity and facilitated premarital relations and, therefore, was against religion. Mrs Edhi remained undeterred in the face of this criticism and continued placing children with adoptive families, while the jhoola (the cradle that all Edhi centres placed outside for people to anonymously deposit babies) became a symbol of acceptance and protection.

The waiting lists of thousands of families wanting to adopt that the Edhi Foundation maintains, backed up her assertion that the critical narrative was far less popular among ordinary people. I asked her once what she thought of telling children about their adoption. She was quick to respond: “No relationship, the basis of which is a lie, can be fruitful in the long run.”

My relationship with Mrs Edhi began in 2005. I remember going to her offices in Bolton Market in an attempt to explore the adoption process. I had heard horror stories of how she made you go through a very aggressive questioning process, was unpredictable and could make it extremely difficult. Luck had it that she was not at her office that day. I was too intimidated to go back, and procrastinated. But when a Bollywood actor, visiting for the KaraFilm Festival that I helped run, expressed an interest in visiting a Pakistani orphanage, I quite happily seized the opportunity to facilitate his visit to the Edhi Centre. In fact, I made sure that I was the one who accompanied him.

My intention, of course, was to meet Mrs Edhi through a different avenue, and not as an applicant. I was not, at that point, aware of her love for cinema and the world of entertainment, therefore did not realise how this would be the first step into bonding with her in a way that led to many journeys together. Over the years, she remembered our first meeting with a smile and kept photographs of the day — though I was definitely not the reason for her happiness.

Shortly after the meeting, I went back to see her and she facilitated my process and gave me what can only be called the gift of life. For this I will always remain indebted to her. I spent a lot of time with her after 2006. She was the person who encouraged me and gave me my first adoption cases to file in court. At that point in time, there were no lawyers that were holistically dealing with or aware of the process of adoption and what it entailed, other than the court process. My evolution into a lawyer who specialises in domestic and international adoption cases was built on the foundation laid by her, and the experiences that we shared. She always told me I had more to give and how important it was to contribute to those around me, those that were struggling or disenfranchised.

It was a normal routine for her to call me over just to chat or because she had something important to discuss. Sometimes these calls used to happen at unearthly hours, but no one could ever imagine saying no to Mrs Edhi. Over lunch, tea and dinner we talked, laughed and cried about life, the beauty of it and the pain. She had a fantastic sense of humour, a very infectious smile and laughter and an extremely sweet tooth. There were a number of times she asked me to smuggle in sweets without anyone noticing, as she was diabetic and not allowed to have sugar. We made a compromise on sugar-free cookies — though she said it wasn’t the same thing.

I have the privilege of knowing how Mrs Edhi loved music, Bollywood films, Pakistani cinema and dramas. She shared stories of how she used to hide in a burqa and go and watch films in a cinema with colleagues in her youth, when Edhi Sahib thought she had gone for work. She was aware of the latest fashions, though her own life was centred around austerity and simplicity — the joy it gave her to prepare trousseaus for girls in her care who were getting married. There was attention to detail and a flair for colour, which reflected her personality.

She was also a match-maker and a great believer in love, romance and freedom of choice. The number of couples that married against their parents’ wishes, were hunted by their families and who found refuge with her, is countless. To her, each one of them mattered — she knew their names and their circumstances, and ensured that they were protected in every way possible. She excitedly shared details of how she found them shelter and helped set up their homes.

One of her greatest strengths was that she was astute and a very good judge of character. This served her well, as most of the decisions she made were based on her instincts. At one period of my association with her, I disagreed with her methods of approaching certain things in the adoption process. She challenged me, dismissing my thoughts and my “upper-class sensitivities.” At that moment, I was angry and hurt. However, it was many years later that I realised that she gave me an opportunity in that moment to find my strength and my voice, to develop a fearlessness. Her methodology was not without logic. Her contribution to my life is something that I will always cherish. The crossroads took me to a place where I might never have been had I not met her.

Everyone who had the pleasure of knowing Mrs Edhi as family, close friends, acquaintances, or even those that were touched by her presence in passing, will always remember the spirit that kept her going. Despite exposure to all types of difficulties, challenges and the trauma that went with the kind of work she did, with her family life sacrificed for a greater cause, she never lost her sense of humour and zest for life.

Her resilience, along with her absolute faith in God and destiny, were contagious. She could go through the worst of situations believing in a greater plan, and fate. From her I learnt the patience to accept what is not in your control and feel gratitude for the blessings we do have. She was an embodiment of what she taught and shared with others.

Her presence will be greatly missed, but she continues to live in the hearts of people she so selflessly gave to, the lives she changed, shaped and impacted. Rest in peace, Mummy.

The writer is a lawyer and heads the Imkaan Welfare Organisation

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 24th, 2022