In a triggering scene, a house helper is seen violently beaten, dragged across the floor by her hair as her husband screams at her to give him more money. The woman keeps refusing, since the man is a drunkard who steals all their money to gamble it away. When the house help begins crying for help, another woman steps outside from her apartment and stands between them to protect her. The drunkard orders her to leave, as its a personal matter between a husband and his wife. But the woman refuses to do so, threatening to call the police. She takes the beaten woman inside her house.
Did this scene come from a recent hit drama like ‘Tere Bin’, or from a forgotten, classical drama from the 90’s which talked about post- partum depression, pressure to give birth to sons and struggles of a working class family to make a living for their three daughters? Haseena Moin’s ‘Aahat’ was decades ahead of its time when it came to discussing sensitive topics, giving women the catharsis they need that decades later, ‘Tere Bin’ glorified with toxic relationships.
In several ways, Aahat was ahead of its time when it pulled back the curtain to reveal the struggles Pakistani women underwent, talking about the things that today’s television dramas would have been called ‘vulgar’. It explores the struggles of Rabiya, who gave birth to a fourth daughter, and is being pressurised by her mother-in-law to give her a son, or her husband must marry another woman. Rabiya’s pain is nothing new for Pakistani women, who bear the brunt of family problems, and the drama never shies away from being blunt about the pain: like a scene where Rabiya is made to isolate herself from her children in a room until she is able to give birth to a healthy son, under the orders of a peerni. Or the taunts for only giving birth to daughters which puts pressure on her health as she toils around the house, regardless of the warnings of her doctor and friend.
But most importantly, what makes ‘Aahat’ the exemplary drama that proved Haseena Moin knew what Pakistani women yearned for, better than the writers today, was how she crafted female friendships that rose from the pains women shared with each other. Rabiya’s friendship with the brilliant and witty Naheed (played by Talat Naseer) is what guides her to take a stand for herself and eventually for her children. Naheed’s boldness and selfless love for Rabiya rescues her in moments when her post-partum depression make the worst of her, like in the first episode, she immediately begins working around the house after undergoing a critical surgery, because her mother-in-law refuses to take care of her three daughters, calling them a burden. Or the humiliation Rabiya endures because of the limited money her husband makes, that eventually push her into making shocking decisions. It was Naheed who offered her safety, and eventually proved that the drama was a love letter to the magic of female friendships.
In an episode when Rabiya has to make a critical decision, Naheed reminds her that she will never be granted a place on the table, but she needs to keep raising her voice to make it happen.
“Hum aurtoon kay pass koi jagah nahi hoti’ she urges. “Mein isliee har dafa chala rahi hoti hoon kyun kay mujhay pata hai kay istarhaan meri awaaz koi sunay ga. Islie apni awaaz uthaya karo ta ke log tumhein sunien.”
Would this message remain evergreen in the years ahead ? Tere Bin, currently rated as a critical hit drama on Pakistani screens, proved that the enduring message of friendships and female empowerment has been lost forever. For 58 episodes, the drama stomped out any effort Moin made to give Pakistani women the space they needed to find their voice; instead glorifying the opposite with a clueless storyline featuring two toxic characters, and an even toxic slutty savitri who plotted to break them apart. From the first five episodes, Meerub was slapped for refusing to marry Murtasim, lead a toxic storyline of stalking, abuse, harassment, and even marital rape to a point. What was once a space crafted by the gentle and clever writing of Haseena, is now bombarded with 45 minutes of Haya plotting to make sure Murtasim catches Meerab in a scene that makes him slap her and then divorce her so Haya could become his wife.
The wound left behind by the passing of Haseena bleeds anew when we come to realise that what television dramas show on our screens is what even female drama writers today staunchly believe is what the audience needs. When the writer of Tere Bin Nooran Mahkdoom, had been questioned about the controversial marital rape episode, she defended it as ‘a demand of a serial’, a complete 180 from the time when a decades old drama written in the times of Zia had not only condemned domestic abuse and rape, but even made sure that the message that abusers should be punished is given to the audience.
The problem never was just about Tere Bin, but the complete decline in the quality of our dramas, pushed by an industry that now considers that any show featuring one of out the following: domestic violence, wailing women, a satti savitri desperately wanting a man’s attention. Pick one of them and you have a hit on your hands, even get a Pride of Pakistan award ready. Take a stand and make a drama like ‘Udaari’ that talks about child abuse and sexual assault, PEMRA is at your doorstep ready to call you a traitor for going against the Islamic Republic of Pakistan.
In a time even Pakistani women can’t find a place to be still, with the economy ravaging, human rights violations growing even worse by the day, public spots becoming hunting grounds for rapists and harassers, the grief we carry in our bodies is understood by no one better than Haseena Moin, and the prevailing message that becomes relevant as currently a hit drama featuring two cousins falling in love features a scene accusing women for falsifying rape accusations for the sake of attention. It’s no surprise that more women are turning to classical dramas because the gentleness and sharp writing of Moin will keep outshining whatever dumpster bin dramas we’re fed in the name ofĀ ‘hitĀ dramas’.
