Omar tells me I missed a spot trimming my beard, so I go back to the mirror to make sure that it’s leveled. I look at myself, wearing one of the few button down shirts  I own, and run all the Urdu phrases in my head that I will be using with Edhi-sahib. We leave for the Edhi Tower, the central command center for the Edhi Ambulance, where Anwar Kazmi sits with his feet up. Kazmi-sahib manages the entire Edhi Foundation’s social services and doubles as Abdul Sattar Edhi’s secretary.

Omar and I arrive at the Tower at 9 AM. Kazmi-sahib tells us to sit across from him.  He motions over to me and says, “Edhi-sahib isn’t in the best mood right now, so let’s wait a little bit.”

“He’s not in a bad mood because of us, right?” I reply after a brief pause.

“No no. He’s mad at everyone right now.”

Kazmi-sahib chuckles, Omar and I awkwardly join in. We’re not sure how to take this. We came quite a ways to shoot a film on this man and for him to be a little reluctant about seeing us feels unsettling. Kazmi-sahib gets back to his work. Omar decides to take a walk around the building, I stay put and pray for a miracle. A second later, Kazmi-sahib receives a phone call.

“Get ready, you’re going to Mitadhar to meet Edhi-sahib.”

Finally.

**

Omar and I quietly enter the small Mitadhar office, which is where Abdul Sattar Edhi sits. We are escorted by a lady from the front and are brought to Edhi-sahib’s office. A moment later, Edhi-sahib arrives in his usual gray tunic. We stand up out of respect, taking turns to shake his soft hands and sit down. Silence fills the room.

“So, where are you guys from?” He asks.

“America.” I reply, “we met before in New York.”

“Ah, I meet so many people. It’s hard to remember them.”

Edhi-sahib is frustrated. He mentions how he is tired of getting all this coverage from the West, and how it’s not helping much.

“I’ve been visiting America since the 50′s. Pakistan is my home. I don’t want to live anywhere else” He says with conviction.

I don’t know what to say. I look over at Omar. I wish this conversation was taking place in English because Omar could take over. Since my Urdu is better, I’m leading this dance.  We have waited for this moment for quite some time. We groomed ourselves, wore our nicest shirts, scoured through Urdu / English dictionaries hoping that this crucial meeting in Pakistan would guarantee us the access we need. But now we sit in silence, laughing with hesitation, praying we don’t mess this up. The silence grows and I have to say something.

“Well.” I say, stuttering. “We are Pakistani, too. It’s just we speak terrible Urdu.”

Edhi-sahib laughs. He tells us that he left school after second class and never went back.

“I’m an illiterate. I can’t read or write in Urdu”  He adds.

I try to one up him by saying that I can barely read the signs in Urdu on his wall. I try to read the Urdu sign near Edhi-sahib and stumble on most of the words. Edhi-sahib laughs.

The room warms to us over the next fifteen minutes.

Finally, he says, “when do you want to get to started?”

The tension breaks. We are in.