Heroine

It takes two hands to clap. Clapping in the literary world also requires two hands, and generally speaking, by these two hands, we mean the hero and the heroine. While there is literature that lacks a hero and a heroine, it is akin to someone trying to clap using one hand and the sole of their foot. A sound might be produced, but it remains trapped within the bindings of the books, never managing to reach the masses. If literature were entirely devoid of heroes and heroines, it would undoubtedly become as dry as roasted grain flour, getting stuck in the reader's throat. To capture the public's attention, one has to put on a show, much like making a monkey dance to the beat of a small drum. If you simply stand up to preach or recount the state of the world, it is obvious that no one will listen. Just look at how people actively avoid the education department and mosques. Therefore, when someone has a message to convey, they tie a string around the monkey's neck and start beating the drum. The juicy exploits of the hero and heroine infuse the narrative with such color that people flock to it; certain feelings are coaxed, certain emotions are tickled, and the ultimate goal is achieved. In the field of education, the greatest importance is given to engaging lessons. Every topic should be presented in a way that children find the charm of street games like gulli-danda and kabaddi in it, thereby capturing their attention. The state of literature is quite similar. Wrap the bitterest dose of medicine in sugar, and people will swallow it while singing your praises. Why do the eras of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata still feel like tales from just yesterday? Azim Baig Chughtai attempted to tear down the veil of purdah using the Quran, but he received nothing but the shoes of clerics in return. However, his novel Sharir Biwi managed to banish the veil by feeding people bitter quinine in disguise, while Koltar did so by casting a dark curtain over conventional wisdom. If Allama Rashid-ul-Khairi and Premchand had not leaned on the shoulders of the hero and heroine, today, instead of residing in the hearts and minds of the people, their works would merely be dozing in dusty, dilapidated libraries.

Literature and life, literature and society, and literature and history share an inextricable bond. If an attempt is made to separate them, both will perish. In other words, if life—meaning the hero and the heroine—is removed from literature, nothing but a vacuum will remain. At this moment, rather than the hero, I wish to reflect upon the status of the heroine in literature. The heroine holds a status akin to the Jam-e-Jam—the mystical goblet that reveals the universe. By casting a single glance at her, we can gauge the economic, social, and political conditions of her era. For instance, observing the woman in Fasana-e-Azad, one can deduce that the only notable woman of that time was the highly cultured, educated, and captivating courtesan. Where else would Sarshar have found a woman from a respectable household, let alone from a respectable Muslim family? At that time, respectable wives would have been confined to their homes, toiling away at the stove and the cooking pots. Surrounded by unkempt, clumsy maids, men would grow frustrated and seek the tranquility of heart and mind in the embrace of courtesans. This courtesan was not of the cheap, commercial bazaar variety; she lived exactly like a noblewoman, yet she possessed far more refinement and aesthetic taste than the women of noble birth. Evidently, the status of the courtesan was much like that of a public park, established through public contributions for the pleasure of the public. Not every man had the means to keep an educated, well-mannered wife in a magnificent house, laden with flowers and steeped in perfume. Therefore, he devised a remarkably simple solution. He kept a wife at home who, aside from continuing his lineage, fulfilled his other basic needs, while in the bazaar, he kept a courtesan who nurtured his refined, aesthetic sensibilities. This proved to be a highly effective arrangement: he had his home, and he had his colorful romance. But the courtesan’s rival—the housewife—began to stir up mischief. If the husband went to the courtesan’s quarters for spiritual solace, the wife began locking eyes with men in her own neighborhood. Compelled by circumstance, those husbands who found the excursions to the public park a bit too expensive retreated back to the housewife. They reasoned that their own humble home-cooked meal was far better than the communal pot at the crossroads. The woman, too, grew emboldened. She began to learn everything that her husband sought in the company of the courtesan. But she advanced her steps gradually. Operating under a policy of ahimsa (non-violence), she began to acquire respect and attention by essentially begging at the courtesan's door. Defeating Sarshar’s triumphant courtesan, Premchand’s housewife—with her heavy veil, kissing feet at every step, and bowing her head in reverence—began to crawl her way into literature. The frequenters of the public park, astonished and somewhat proud to see a delicate chui-mui (touch-me-not) plant sprouting in their own domestic flowerpot, began to water it. The courtesan was all well and good, but this sweet, innocent, and seemingly harmless creature appeared so endearing that the scales tipped against the courtesan. Her virtues were suddenly perceived as flaws. The very same coquetry and charm for which men used to rub their noses in the dirt were now dismissed as the cheap antics of a prostitute. Declaring the communal tap at the crossroads to be filthy, people began digging wells in their own homes. But these wells grew deeper by the day. Eventually, the edges slipped from their grasp, and they were left to drown. The courtesan was infuriated and deeply offended, but the crown does not rest on one head forever. The shortsighted courtesan had certainly enjoyed the fruits of her labor, both ripe and unripe, but she had failed to plant new saplings. Meanwhile, the innocent, veiled housewife not only planted new saplings but also nurtured the old ones.

The result was that, sweeping away the ruins of the courtesan, the housewife began to build her own world, and soon she gained the upper hand. The very men who once crushed her under their heels began to curse and condemn one another in her defense. They dragged each other's flaws out into the open street. She herself remained neutral; she did not bicker or fight. A staunch believer in ahimsa, she began to raise absolute hell from behind her veil with her downcast eyes, much in the same way Gandhi Ji would fluster the government by keeping his fasts. However, total victory had not yet been achieved. This was because, following the courtesan, the fashionable 'Mem' (Westernized woman) or the Parsi woman had occupied a certain portion of the battlefield. This new breed of literary heroine began to infiltrate every story and tale. But how could the woman who had successfully banished the courtesan be intimidated by this 'Mem'? She realized that merely sitting at home would no longer suffice. Out of necessity, the man locks her in the house and ventures out alone, but once out there, he cannot bear to remain alone. He desires a walking stick in his right hand and a woman on his left arm. How could the tonic kept at home for the fortification of his heart and mind possibly assist him in the office and in his business affairs? Therefore, to pass the time, he began to seek warmth by finding an odd heroine here and there—a typist sitting at a distance in the office, or the manager's beautiful daughter who occasionally caught his eye. In response to this, when we look at the heroines of works like Gudar Ka Lal, or characters like Roshan Ara Begum and Zohra Begum, we are forced to admit that the woman's war raged on, and in the end, the victory was entirely hers.

But she was still not satisfied. She had decided to become a permanent yoke around men's necks. She pushed further. First, within the four walls of the house, she began playing hide-and-seek with her cousins, their friends, and the neighbors. Beneath the very warp and weft of the veil and burqa worn by Azeem Baig’s heroine, a fierce rebellion began to wrestle its way out. She began to dominate at every opportunity, hanging onto their necks and clinging to their chests. These veiled, secretive charms became even more tantalizing. The coquetry of courtesans felt outdated, and Premchand’s pious, non-violence-preaching female disciples began to look foolish and cowardly; their exasperating naivety became unbearable. The more she groveled, the more despicable she became. Now, the only heroine who could hold her ground was one who could snatch the very morsel from a man's mouth, one who could smash a hornet's nest right in his face. Instead of casting sweet, demure glances, she would serve up arrows dipped in bitter quinine. She might not be educated in the slightest, but she wouldn't hesitate to warm a man's cheeks with the occasional slap or smack. With a meager salary and a hard life, if a man had such a vivacious, sharp-tongued wife who could make all his sorrows vanish in an instant, who would ever die longing for heaven?

Man was born solely to endure the tyranny of woman. Without her, he wasn't even willing to live in Paradise. Out of nowhere, Adam had his rib split open to extract this menace, only to let her ride roughshod over him. Whether it is a wife or a courtesan holding the reins, men will blindly follow where they are driven. The more they are whipped, the more spirited and rhythmic their gait becomes. But there is a limit to everything. Along with ruling his heart, she appointed herself the guardian of his words and deeds, and began policing his very thoughts. She became an inescapable dilemma, like a shrew caught in a snake's mouth—neither to be swallowed nor spat out. She clung to him like an umbrella, a hat, or a raincoat, until the man finally cried out in frustration. First, Patras conceded, and soon after, Azeem Baig and Shaukat Thanvi also began to scream and plead for mercy. Meanwhile, Chacha Chhakkan, Munshi Ji, Mirza Ji, and thousands of other Jis cried out as well:

This is too much, Begum! Make us laugh, but not so much that our stomachs start to ache.

Meanwhile, the heroine kept reeling in the slack line. She had discovered the secret: if she was subjugated at all, it was only because her husband held the purse strings. Why not shatter this financial dependence once and for all? Thus, starting with sewing clothes for the neighborhood, she began to infiltrate every corner of the economic market. This new avatar added immensely to her charm. After all, if a woman arrives in a new guise, even her own husband falls in love with her all over again. When she stepped out to earn a living, it felt as though a spectacular circus had arrived in town. A woman teaching in schools! The Mullah Ji was left dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open. A woman becoming a doctor! The Hakeem Ji blinked rapidly in sheer astonishment. In the courtroom, the opposing lawyer suffered a coughing fit out of pure bewilderment. Make way! Watch out! The woman is coming! Men fell back in panic, while women rapidly began conquering one field after another. And having conquered the economic sphere, why wouldn't she ravage the realm of the heart as well? Consequently, she wreaked havoc everywhere.

And so... this new, breadwinning heroine, physically and mentally agile, began to strike out in all directions like a marauder. Now, things had gone too far. It was one thing when she fed them bitter quinine or slapped them around—that was harmless enough. Those were merely a woman's coquettish tantrums. She policed them, shed crocodile tears over trivial matters, and hovered over them day and night like a shadow—but so what? At the end of the day, she was still dependent on them! Even a pet cat occasionally swipes its claws, but then it purrs, rubs its soft, warm body against your legs, and wins you over again. She follows fashion, too. So what if she is expensive? She is still theirs. She shows off with the money she begs from them; she playfully coaxes the cash right out of their pockets. But this—stepping into the economic world with masculine bravado, slapping her thighs in open challenge, and snatching away her share by claiming it as her own hard-earned money—this was sheer highway robbery! An absolute fraud! As a result, this heroine was very quickly branded a witch. Men tried hard to reason with her. They clearly warned her that such headstrong and independent women meet terrible ends: they bear illegitimate children, their chastity is dragged through the mud, and the whole world spits on their existence. In offices, clerks will lead you astray. In hospitals, doctors will exploit you. In schools, male teachers will fall in love with you. They held up the guiding light of parental wisdom: In school, every girl is bound to become the mother of an illegitimate child at least once. There is no real studying or learning; they are only taught how to have affairs. They tried to shame the men: You live off the earnings of your daughters and wives! You should drown yourselves in shame! These schoolmasters might look as dry and shriveled as old leather, but each one fancies himself the Majnun or Farhad of his era. Pick up any story from that time, and you will find it brimming with the passionate romance between a teacher and his female student, always culminating in a cautionary, tragic end.

Undoubtedly, this literature would have also left its mark, and the heroine would have been pushed back down, bowing at the feet of degradation. But what happened was that, for some unknown reason, the demand for girls in the market outstripped that for boys. If a male graduate earned twenty rupees, a girl would easily rake in a hundred and twenty. As women's education became increasingly lucrative, men's education began to seem useless and futile. The heroine firmly planted her feet. But alongside this, a bizarre struggle commenced. The demand for educated girls grew, but not at the same rapid pace as their numbers. There was a time when a girl who had passed her matriculation was considered a rarity; now, graduates sprouted up in every alleyway. Utter chaos erupted in the marriage market. For an educated girl, the groom had to be at least an ICS or PCS officer. If only the government had appointed officers based on the population of girls, this disaster would never have struck. These handful of officers were a mere drop in the ocean. Whoever placed the highest bid walked away with the prize. As a result, a vast number of educated and graduate girls—waiting for government officers to rain down so they could scoop them up—ended up taking jobs in various sectors. This should not be taken to mean that because the number of officers was low, unfortunate clerks, failed schoolmasters, and ruined doctors were not being produced; they were multiplying even more intensely. Now, these poor men were left with only two options: either ruin their lives by marrying uneducated girls, or engage in fantasized romances with rich, educated girls and spend their lives pining for them. Those who placed a stone on their hearts and accepted their miserable fate still had souls that wandered in search of a true life partner. The longing for a like-minded wife with shared tastes kept piercing their hearts all their lives. And those who were a bit more daring began to burn in the fire of the modern, up-to-date beauty they occasionally caught a glimpse of in the neighborhood. The latter group grew larger in number, and the result was that men and women continued to be born and live in the world—not for each other, but for a suitable match! It was exactly as if bundles of cloth were left to rot in a shop, while on the outside, people roamed the streets naked. Or as if heaps of stale sweets and food from a hotel were being dumped into the gutters, while elsewhere people were dying of starvation. As shops and hotels overflowed with provisions, the number of naked and hungry people on the streets kept rising. In the exact same way, boys were locked in one cage and girls in another, with the guards of moral character stationed between them. The girls withered away sitting as spinsters, while the boys progressively turned into animals.

Consequently, humanity became increasingly starved, paralyzed, and inhuman. Then, a class emerged that burst forth like the pus of filth that had been covered up and hidden for years. Its first act was one of destruction. It is difficult to plant a new sapling without uprooting the trunk of an old, dense tree; new mansions can only be built by demolishing old houses. First and foremost, they clashed with the guard stationed between men and women. Since the world was incomplete without a woman, and neither their economic reality nor the moral guards allowed them to bring a woman home on their own earnings, the helpless man fell back into the embrace of the tawaif (courtesan). During the reign of the domestic heroine, the tawaif had been utterly wiped out and reduced to dust. Neglect and condemnation had disfigured her completely. Some had gone bankrupt and gotten married. Some, having lost their grand establishments, had set up small vending stalls near dirty gutters. Others had completely changed their appearance. And just as the domestic woman had once lifted her veil to snatch the man back from the tawaif heroine, today the tawaif tried to hide her face in that very discarded veil. Once, the domestic woman had stolen her wiles and makeup; today, the tawaif took cover behind the domestic woman's helplessness and destitution. Except for the absolute lowest class, it had become difficult to even recognize a tawaif. And when this rebellious class set out in search of the tawaif, they were horrified to see her wretched condition. The tawaif was no longer the chirping nightingale of Sarshar's novels. Instead, she had become a starving, wretched cat. Apart from beggars, carriage drivers, and laborers, no one even knew her name or whereabouts. When it served their purpose, they had woven this very tawaif into poetry, kneaded her into odes, adorned her in novels, and made literature her handmaiden. But when they forgot her, they forgot her so completely that they never looked back to check on her. Once taps were installed in the house, the sweet-water wells were so utterly forgotten that they went blind and became a breeding ground for snakes and centipedes. And now, in their time of need, they were panting at the edge of those very wells with their thirsty tongues hanging out. Not only that, but they were now determined to have the municipality clean them up. However, before this dried-up well could become useful again, it required immense help. Thus, the rebellious class cried out in her defense. Shouting out loud, they exposed this wound of the world, which had festered into a weeping ulcer. The poor but proud youth stood up to protect this class because she belonged to him; she could be of use to him. He saw all the beauty and all the elegance in this cheap streetwalker and beggar woman, who had absorbed all the filth of the world. But she was accessible to him; she had fallen due to neglect, and she was dependent on his mercy. The respectable woman grew further and further away from this young man's life. He could neither know anything about her, nor did he try to find out. In his eyes, she was reduced to a snobbish, selfish, and fake creature who considered loving glances an insult and viewed romance as disgusting. One who considered falling in love a humiliation, and a man's protection an insult to her pride. Where did she possess the dirty, terrifying magnetism of the common tawaif? By common tawaif, I do not mean the courtesan who shines in the world of great men, but rather the naked, starving dog on the street who grabs the leg of a passerby and drags him in, who offers herself like a public feast to men of every status at any price. Her filth and squalor are not things to be repulsed by, but rather in need of reform. If a drain is rotting in our house, it is not the fault of the poor drain, but the fault of the homeowner. Turning our faces away and calling it dirty will not make the filth disappear. If the tawaif is dirty and diseased, wretched and deceitful, it is not her fault, but the fault of the system that devalues humanity in such a way. By writing about the condition of the tawaifs, the new writers undoubtedly lanced a foul-smelling boil, which deeply offended the delicate sensibilities of the squeamish. However, draining the pus from this boil created the possibility of alleviating at least some of the world's suffering. No matter how degraded the tawaif may be, she is a part of our world's body; she cannot just be left to rot and be thrown away. People do not consider her a woman. She, who is the refuge for every miserable soul in the world and a dining spread for every starving man, is undoubtedly not a woman—she is an entity far more useful than that.

This is why today's young man is more concerned with the betterment of the woman of the bazaar than the housewife. The housewife is far removed from his life, while the woman of the bazaar is closer to him. What does he care if women's education is being neglected, if widows are wasting away unmarried, or if husbands are cutting off their wives' noses? For all he cares, the whole world could be widowed, and womankind could perish or survive. Look at it this way: if the drain in your neighborhood gets clogged, you raise a hue and cry. Yet, you do not care in the slightest that due to the war, good seeds could not be sown in Victoria Garden this year, and as a result, people will be deprived of the blooming flowerbeds. For all you care, the flowers may or may not bloom, but your drain must absolutely be cleaned.

Now, whether the world calls the heroine of contemporary literature impure, obscene, or abominable, the times have granted her the status of a heroine. She is a brick molded by the ups and downs of the age, and she has found her rightful place in the edifice of literature. Consider the heroine: first, there is Sarshar’s coquettish, delicate beauty, who has no care in the world other than eating, drinking, and living a life of luxury... I stand corrected—she does have one immense concern, and that is to engage in romance. This was an era of affluence and leisure. Then, in contrast, we have Premchand’s oppressed woman and Rashid-ul-Khairi’s downtrodden widow. This was an era of economic struggle and social reform. Next, take the humorists... they laughed and made others laugh. Obsessed with the superficial, they neither moved forward nor stepped back. Then there is M. Aslam’s ascetic girl, who has nothing better to do than fly the kites of love with passersby on the riverbank and sing songs with the bumblebees. There is Miss Hijab’s foolish, lazy, and useless maiden, who knows nothing except fainting at the sight of mice. This is a world where artificiality has made a mockery of beauty and love. This was an era of sheer exhaustion and lethargy. And then comes Krishan’s vibrant woman, Bedi’s pragmatic heroine, Manto’s living, breathing, universally recognized shameless prostitute, Ismat’s restless, blunt, and brazen girl, Satyarthi’s nomad, and Askari’s philosophical Memsahib... This is an era of fighting to the death just to survive, of struggling to build something, to destroy something, and to create something anew. It is an era of turning religion and the world upside down, as is evident from the current climate.

Now it remains to be seen with what glory the heroine of our future will make her appearance. In literature, it is the woman who has been worshipped second only to God. Or perhaps she comes first, followed by the other powers of the world. As far as one can predict, the heroine of the future will be neither an oppressor nor a victim; she will simply be a woman. And instead of treating her as Ahriman or Yazdan—a demon or a deity—writers will grant her the true status of a woman. And then, the real construction will begin.

It takes two hands to clap. Clapping in the literary world also requires two hands, and generally speaking, by these two hands, we mean the hero and the heroine. While there is literature that lacks a hero and a heroine, it is akin to someone trying to clap using one hand and the sole of their foot. A sound might be produced, but it remains trapped within the bindings of the books, never managing to reach the masses. If literature were entirely devoid of heroes and heroines, it would undoubtedly become as dry as roasted grain flour, getting stuck in the reader's throat. To capture the public's attention, one has to put on a show, much like making a monkey dance to the beat of a small drum. If you simply stand up to preach or recount the state of the world, it is obvious that no one will listen. Just look at how people actively avoid the education department and mosques. Therefore, when someone has a message to convey, they tie a string around the monkey's neck and start beating the drum. The juicy exploits of the hero and heroine infuse the narrative with such color that people flock to it; certain feelings are coaxed, certain emotions are tickled, and the ultimate goal is achieved. In the field of education, the greatest importance is given to engaging lessons. Every topic should be presented in a way that children find the charm of street games like gulli-danda and kabaddi in it, thereby capturing their attention. The state of literature is quite similar. Wrap the bitterest dose of medicine in sugar, and people will swallow it while singing your praises. Why do the eras of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata still feel like tales from just yesterday? Azim Baig Chughtai attempted to tear down the veil of purdah using the Quran, but he received nothing but the shoes of clerics in return. However, his novel Sharir Biwi managed to banish the veil by feeding people bitter quinine in disguise, while Koltar did so by casting a dark curtain over conventional wisdom. If Allama Rashid-ul-Khairi and Premchand had not leaned on the shoulders of the hero and heroine, today, instead of residing in the hearts and minds of the people, their works would merely be dozing in dusty, dilapidated libraries.

Literature and life, literature and society, and literature and history share an inextricable bond. If an attempt is made to separate them, both will perish. In other words, if life—meaning the hero and the heroine—is removed from literature, nothing but a vacuum will remain. At this moment, rather than the hero, I wish to reflect upon the status of the heroine in literature. The heroine holds a status akin to the Jam-e-Jam—the mystical goblet that reveals the universe. By casting a single glance at her, we can gauge the economic, social, and political conditions of her era. For instance, observing the woman in Fasana-e-Azad, one can deduce that the only notable woman of that time was the highly cultured, educated, and captivating courtesan. Where else would Sarshar have found a woman from a respectable household, let alone from a respectable Muslim family? At that time, respectable wives would have been confined to their homes, toiling away at the stove and the cooking pots. Surrounded by unkempt, clumsy maids, men would grow frustrated and seek the tranquility of heart and mind in the embrace of courtesans. This courtesan was not of the cheap, commercial bazaar variety; she lived exactly like a noblewoman, yet she possessed far more refinement and aesthetic taste than the women of noble birth. Evidently, the status of the courtesan was much like that of a public park, established through public contributions for the pleasure of the public. Not every man had the means to keep an educated, well-mannered wife in a magnificent house, laden with flowers and steeped in perfume. Therefore, he devised a remarkably simple solution. He kept a wife at home who, aside from continuing his lineage, fulfilled his other basic needs, while in the bazaar, he kept a courtesan who nurtured his refined, aesthetic sensibilities. This proved to be a highly effective arrangement: he had his home, and he had his colorful romance. But the courtesan’s rival—the housewife—began to stir up mischief. If the husband went to the courtesan’s quarters for spiritual solace, the wife began locking eyes with men in her own neighborhood. Compelled by circumstance, those husbands who found the excursions to the public park a bit too expensive retreated back to the housewife. They reasoned that their own humble home-cooked meal was far better than the communal pot at the crossroads. The woman, too, grew emboldened. She began to learn everything that her husband sought in the company of the courtesan. But she advanced her steps gradually. Operating under a policy of ahimsa (non-violence), she began to acquire respect and attention by essentially begging at the courtesan's door. Defeating Sarshar’s triumphant courtesan, Premchand’s housewife—with her heavy veil, kissing feet at every step, and bowing her head in reverence—began to crawl her way into literature. The frequenters of the public park, astonished and somewhat proud to see a delicate chui-mui (touch-me-not) plant sprouting in their own domestic flowerpot, began to water it. The courtesan was all well and good, but this sweet, innocent, and seemingly harmless creature appeared so endearing that the scales tipped against the courtesan. Her virtues were suddenly perceived as flaws. The very same coquetry and charm for which men used to rub their noses in the dirt were now dismissed as the cheap antics of a prostitute. Declaring the communal tap at the crossroads to be filthy, people began digging wells in their own homes. But these wells grew deeper by the day. Eventually, the edges slipped from their grasp, and they were left to drown. The courtesan was infuriated and deeply offended, but the crown does not rest on one head forever. The shortsighted courtesan had certainly enjoyed the fruits of her labor, both ripe and unripe, but she had failed to plant new saplings. Meanwhile, the innocent, veiled housewife not only planted new saplings but also nurtured the old ones.

The result was that, sweeping away the ruins of the courtesan, the housewife began to build her own world, and soon she gained the upper hand. The very men who once crushed her under their heels began to curse and condemn one another in her defense. They dragged each other's flaws out into the open street. She herself remained neutral; she did not bicker or fight. A staunch believer in ahimsa, she began to raise absolute hell from behind her veil with her downcast eyes, much in the same way Gandhi Ji would fluster the government by keeping his fasts. However, total victory had not yet been achieved. This was because, following the courtesan, the fashionable 'Mem' (Westernized woman) or the Parsi woman had occupied a certain portion of the battlefield. This new breed of literary heroine began to infiltrate every story and tale. But how could the woman who had successfully banished the courtesan be intimidated by this 'Mem'? She realized that merely sitting at home would no longer suffice. Out of necessity, the man locks her in the house and ventures out alone, but once out there, he cannot bear to remain alone. He desires a walking stick in his right hand and a woman on his left arm. How could the tonic kept at home for the fortification of his heart and mind possibly assist him in the office and in his business affairs? Therefore, to pass the time, he began to seek warmth by finding an odd heroine here and there—a typist sitting at a distance in the office, or the manager's beautiful daughter who occasionally caught his eye. In response to this, when we look at the heroines of works like Gudar Ka Lal, or characters like Roshan Ara Begum and Zohra Begum, we are forced to admit that the woman's war raged on, and in the end, the victory was entirely hers.

But she was still not satisfied. She had decided to become a permanent yoke around men's necks. She pushed further. First, within the four walls of the house, she began playing hide-and-seek with her cousins, their friends, and the neighbors. Beneath the very warp and weft of the veil and burqa worn by Azeem Baig’s heroine, a fierce rebellion began to wrestle its way out. She began to dominate at every opportunity, hanging onto their necks and clinging to their chests. These veiled, secretive charms became even more tantalizing. The coquetry of courtesans felt outdated, and Premchand’s pious, non-violence-preaching female disciples began to look foolish and cowardly; their exasperating naivety became unbearable. The more she groveled, the more despicable she became. Now, the only heroine who could hold her ground was one who could snatch the very morsel from a man's mouth, one who could smash a hornet's nest right in his face. Instead of casting sweet, demure glances, she would serve up arrows dipped in bitter quinine. She might not be educated in the slightest, but she wouldn't hesitate to warm a man's cheeks with the occasional slap or smack. With a meager salary and a hard life, if a man had such a vivacious, sharp-tongued wife who could make all his sorrows vanish in an instant, who would ever die longing for heaven?

Man was born solely to endure the tyranny of woman. Without her, he wasn't even willing to live in Paradise. Out of nowhere, Adam had his rib split open to extract this menace, only to let her ride roughshod over him. Whether it is a wife or a courtesan holding the reins, men will blindly follow where they are driven. The more they are whipped, the more spirited and rhythmic their gait becomes. But there is a limit to everything. Along with ruling his heart, she appointed herself the guardian of his words and deeds, and began policing his very thoughts. She became an inescapable dilemma, like a shrew caught in a snake's mouth—neither to be swallowed nor spat out. She clung to him like an umbrella, a hat, or a raincoat, until the man finally cried out in frustration. First, Patras conceded, and soon after, Azeem Baig and Shaukat Thanvi also began to scream and plead for mercy. Meanwhile, Chacha Chhakkan, Munshi Ji, Mirza Ji, and thousands of other Jis cried out as well:

This is too much, Begum! Make us laugh, but not so much that our stomachs start to ache.

Meanwhile, the heroine kept reeling in the slack line. She had discovered the secret: if she was subjugated at all, it was only because her husband held the purse strings. Why not shatter this financial dependence once and for all? Thus, starting with sewing clothes for the neighborhood, she began to infiltrate every corner of the economic market. This new avatar added immensely to her charm. After all, if a woman arrives in a new guise, even her own husband falls in love with her all over again. When she stepped out to earn a living, it felt as though a spectacular circus had arrived in town. A woman teaching in schools! The Mullah Ji was left dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open. A woman becoming a doctor! The Hakeem Ji blinked rapidly in sheer astonishment. In the courtroom, the opposing lawyer suffered a coughing fit out of pure bewilderment. Make way! Watch out! The woman is coming! Men fell back in panic, while women rapidly began conquering one field after another. And having conquered the economic sphere, why wouldn't she ravage the realm of the heart as well? Consequently, she wreaked havoc everywhere.

And so... this new, breadwinning heroine, physically and mentally agile, began to strike out in all directions like a marauder. Now, things had gone too far. It was one thing when she fed them bitter quinine or slapped them around—that was harmless enough. Those were merely a woman's coquettish tantrums. She policed them, shed crocodile tears over trivial matters, and hovered over them day and night like a shadow—but so what? At the end of the day, she was still dependent on them! Even a pet cat occasionally swipes its claws, but then it purrs, rubs its soft, warm body against your legs, and wins you over again. She follows fashion, too. So what if she is expensive? She is still theirs. She shows off with the money she begs from them; she playfully coaxes the cash right out of their pockets. But this—stepping into the economic world with masculine bravado, slapping her thighs in open challenge, and snatching away her share by claiming it as her own hard-earned money—this was sheer highway robbery! An absolute fraud! As a result, this heroine was very quickly branded a witch. Men tried hard to reason with her. They clearly warned her that such headstrong and independent women meet terrible ends: they bear illegitimate children, their chastity is dragged through the mud, and the whole world spits on their existence. In offices, clerks will lead you astray. In hospitals, doctors will exploit you. In schools, male teachers will fall in love with you. They held up the guiding light of parental wisdom: In school, every girl is bound to become the mother of an illegitimate child at least once. There is no real studying or learning; they are only taught how to have affairs. They tried to shame the men: You live off the earnings of your daughters and wives! You should drown yourselves in shame! These schoolmasters might look as dry and shriveled as old leather, but each one fancies himself the Majnun or Farhad of his era. Pick up any story from that time, and you will find it brimming with the passionate romance between a teacher and his female student, always culminating in a cautionary, tragic end.

Undoubtedly, this literature would have also left its mark, and the heroine would have been pushed back down, bowing at the feet of degradation. But what happened was that, for some unknown reason, the demand for girls in the market outstripped that for boys. If a male graduate earned twenty rupees, a girl would easily rake in a hundred and twenty. As women's education became increasingly lucrative, men's education began to seem useless and futile. The heroine firmly planted her feet. But alongside this, a bizarre struggle commenced. The demand for educated girls grew, but not at the same rapid pace as their numbers. There was a time when a girl who had passed her matriculation was considered a rarity; now, graduates sprouted up in every alleyway. Utter chaos erupted in the marriage market. For an educated girl, the groom had to be at least an ICS or PCS officer. If only the government had appointed officers based on the population of girls, this disaster would never have struck. These handful of officers were a mere drop in the ocean. Whoever placed the highest bid walked away with the prize. As a result, a vast number of educated and graduate girls—waiting for government officers to rain down so they could scoop them up—ended up taking jobs in various sectors. This should not be taken to mean that because the number of officers was low, unfortunate clerks, failed schoolmasters, and ruined doctors were not being produced; they were multiplying even more intensely. Now, these poor men were left with only two options: either ruin their lives by marrying uneducated girls, or engage in fantasized romances with rich, educated girls and spend their lives pining for them. Those who placed a stone on their hearts and accepted their miserable fate still had souls that wandered in search of a true life partner. The longing for a like-minded wife with shared tastes kept piercing their hearts all their lives. And those who were a bit more daring began to burn in the fire of the modern, up-to-date beauty they occasionally caught a glimpse of in the neighborhood. The latter group grew larger in number, and the result was that men and women continued to be born and live in the world—not for each other, but for a suitable match! It was exactly as if bundles of cloth were left to rot in a shop, while on the outside, people roamed the streets naked. Or as if heaps of stale sweets and food from a hotel were being dumped into the gutters, while elsewhere people were dying of starvation. As shops and hotels overflowed with provisions, the number of naked and hungry people on the streets kept rising. In the exact same way, boys were locked in one cage and girls in another, with the guards of moral character stationed between them. The girls withered away sitting as spinsters, while the boys progressively turned into animals.

Consequently, humanity became increasingly starved, paralyzed, and inhuman. Then, a class emerged that burst forth like the pus of filth that had been covered up and hidden for years. Its first act was one of destruction. It is difficult to plant a new sapling without uprooting the trunk of an old, dense tree; new mansions can only be built by demolishing old houses. First and foremost, they clashed with the guard stationed between men and women. Since the world was incomplete without a woman, and neither their economic reality nor the moral guards allowed them to bring a woman home on their own earnings, the helpless man fell back into the embrace of the tawaif (courtesan). During the reign of the domestic heroine, the tawaif had been utterly wiped out and reduced to dust. Neglect and condemnation had disfigured her completely. Some had gone bankrupt and gotten married. Some, having lost their grand establishments, had set up small vending stalls near dirty gutters. Others had completely changed their appearance. And just as the domestic woman had once lifted her veil to snatch the man back from the tawaif heroine, today the tawaif tried to hide her face in that very discarded veil. Once, the domestic woman had stolen her wiles and makeup; today, the tawaif took cover behind the domestic woman's helplessness and destitution. Except for the absolute lowest class, it had become difficult to even recognize a tawaif. And when this rebellious class set out in search of the tawaif, they were horrified to see her wretched condition. The tawaif was no longer the chirping nightingale of Sarshar's novels. Instead, she had become a starving, wretched cat. Apart from beggars, carriage drivers, and laborers, no one even knew her name or whereabouts. When it served their purpose, they had woven this very tawaif into poetry, kneaded her into odes, adorned her in novels, and made literature her handmaiden. But when they forgot her, they forgot her so completely that they never looked back to check on her. Once taps were installed in the house, the sweet-water wells were so utterly forgotten that they went blind and became a breeding ground for snakes and centipedes. And now, in their time of need, they were panting at the edge of those very wells with their thirsty tongues hanging out. Not only that, but they were now determined to have the municipality clean them up. However, before this dried-up well could become useful again, it required immense help. Thus, the rebellious class cried out in her defense. Shouting out loud, they exposed this wound of the world, which had festered into a weeping ulcer. The poor but proud youth stood up to protect this class because she belonged to him; she could be of use to him. He saw all the beauty and all the elegance in this cheap streetwalker and beggar woman, who had absorbed all the filth of the world. But she was accessible to him; she had fallen due to neglect, and she was dependent on his mercy. The respectable woman grew further and further away from this young man's life. He could neither know anything about her, nor did he try to find out. In his eyes, she was reduced to a snobbish, selfish, and fake creature who considered loving glances an insult and viewed romance as disgusting. One who considered falling in love a humiliation, and a man's protection an insult to her pride. Where did she possess the dirty, terrifying magnetism of the common tawaif? By common tawaif, I do not mean the courtesan who shines in the world of great men, but rather the naked, starving dog on the street who grabs the leg of a passerby and drags him in, who offers herself like a public feast to men of every status at any price. Her filth and squalor are not things to be repulsed by, but rather in need of reform. If a drain is rotting in our house, it is not the fault of the poor drain, but the fault of the homeowner. Turning our faces away and calling it dirty will not make the filth disappear. If the tawaif is dirty and diseased, wretched and deceitful, it is not her fault, but the fault of the system that devalues humanity in such a way. By writing about the condition of the tawaifs, the new writers undoubtedly lanced a foul-smelling boil, which deeply offended the delicate sensibilities of the squeamish. However, draining the pus from this boil created the possibility of alleviating at least some of the world's suffering. No matter how degraded the tawaif may be, she is a part of our world's body; she cannot just be left to rot and be thrown away. People do not consider her a woman. She, who is the refuge for every miserable soul in the world and a dining spread for every starving man, is undoubtedly not a woman—she is an entity far more useful than that.