Our Bajiya

Today, on what would’ve been her 88th birthday, Google honours Bajjo. Two and a half years after her passing, it is still heartbreaking to think about her. She made 85 feel too young an age to go, because all she had was love to give – no favours to ask, no embittered comments, always the one to make the effort even with people 60 years her junior. Bajj was always available if you needed anything; from helping your drivers daughter get admitted into school after the admissions had closed to making sure an innocent Bangladeshi cook wasn’t deported unfairly.

At her home, the governor and the governor’s driver, sat on the same sofa, drank tea from the same cup. She never turned anyone away, not at 6 in the morning and not at 11 at night.

She received the highest civilian award from the Japanese emperor, and in the 90s when India and Pakistan were conducting nuclear tests and war seemed imminent, she was offered Japanese citizenship for herself and five family members. She said, “can you offer 150 million people citizenship? The whole of Pakistan is my family”.

Bajiya beat cancer like it was a common flu. She lost all her weight, her appetite, her clarity of speech, to cancer, but not her strength of character. She’d say, “I’m sure they got it wrong, I never had cancer”, and she’d go about her business just the same. For her radiation she was being given minuscule dots of tattoo ink on her face to mark the areas where the radiation needed to happen. Some of it spilt, leaving her with a very large, circular permanent mark on her face. “Mistakes happen!”, she smiled and said.

Despite living alone it was her who would come see us as opposed to the other way around – she’d come in for five mins at the most, remain standing the whole time – “I just wanted to see your face”, she’d say, “now I’m leaving. I have too much work. I’ll come again tomorrow”. And she kept her word, as always.

Bajj always had too much work, none of it her own, none of it for herself. At her home, she’d be buried under piles of paper that she was allegedly “sorting out” for as long as I had lived. The answer to “do you need help?” would always be no. The answer to “can you help me?”, would always be yes.

That’s who Bajiya was I suppose, now that I think about it. She was one big YES in a world full of No’s. A smile and a helping hand, in a world full of people who never have the time. An encouraging constant source of support, never with any expectation whatsoever.

And the beauty of it is, she wasn’t just mine. She belonged to everyone. Today I live in the house where Bajiya once lived. She was my grandmother, but when I moved in, all my neighbours said, “Oh welcome! You are lucky to live in Bajiya’s house! Bajiya was our aunt!”. I smiled and didn’t say anything because in some way, in every way, they are right. Bajiya is as much mine as she is anyone else’s.

The day she had her stroke, she had gone to Lyari at age 85, on a scorching day, because someone’s gate keeper had promised their daughter that Bajiya would be the chief guest at a function in her school. That’s Bajiya.

I’m sure God would’ve come to receive her himself at the pearly gates, where she would have greeted him with her signature “Hullo!” and started saying “beta, you must put so and so in heaven, they don’t deserve hell”….

I have a knot in my throat thinking about her even today. Rest in peace, my darling Bajj – rest in all your glory, your impeccable egalitarianism, your unparalleled compassion, and your beautiful, beautiful, soul. Thank you for making it so easy to love you this much. Always.

Published on Facebook on September 1st, 2018.

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