Khalil Ur Rehman Qamar, one of the most influential writers in Pakistani television, has long faced criticism for his deep-rooted misogyny masked as “bold storytelling.” His latest drama, Main Manto Nahi Hoon, has once again stirred controversy for promoting disturbing narratives this time through a romanticized dynamic between a professor and his student.
In a recent episode, Sajal Aly’s character makes an uncomfortable, flirtatious remark about her professor, played by Humayun Saeed. She tells him, he probably has “Kids and a fat wife.” When he asks what makes her think that, she states,
“His face lacks motivation so that means he probably has a fat wife”
a line that not only fat-shames but reeks of outdated and sexist humor. In 2025, when the conversation around body positivity and consent has gained traction globally, such scripts do nothing but pull society back to regressive stereotypes.
This isn’t an isolated case. Khalil Ur Rehman’s dramas often glorify men while portraying women through a singular, punishing lens; either as loyal saints or as deceptive, cheating villains. Take “Meray Paas Tum Ho”, where the character Mehwish, played by Ayeza Khan, is villainized for leaving her husband. The infamous dialogue “Dou takay ki aurat” became a cultural talking point, openly reducing a woman’s worth to her chastity and loyalty to a man.
Another disturbing example is “Mohabbat Tumse Nafrat Hai”, where the entire plot hinges on female disobedience and ends with the woman being punished for questioning a man’s ego. Similarly, in “Sadqay Tumhare”, the female lead is emotionally manipulated under the banner of “true love,” while male entitlement is packaged as romantic persistence. “A woman isn’t unfaithful by nature, and a woman who is unfaithful isn’t a woman at all.”
His misogyny isn’t limited to fiction. In real life, Qamar has publicly lashed out at women who disagree with him. His televised clash with activist Marvi Sirmed was an eye-opener. He called her a “bitch” and said, “Who will even look at a face like yours?” His hatred for women who challenge patriarchal structures was further reinforced when he told Mahira Khan, after she condemned his abuse, that he has “intense hatred” for her too. If this isn’t petty and immature like his female characters, I don’t understand what else is.
The slogan Mera Jism Meri Marzi has been a favorite target of his interest. He misrepresents the phrase as an attack on religion and morality, when it actually calls for bodily autonomy and the right of women to make choices about their own lives; choices like saying no to unwanted advances, choosing a career, or rejecting toxic relationships.
Khalil Ur Rehman’s work plays a dangerous role in shaping cultural narratives. He reinforces the idea that men can be forgiven for anything, even infidelity while women must suffer eternally for stepping out of line. This double standard is toxic in a country where women are killed over mere suspicions of disloyalty and men quote Qamar’s dramas to justify violence and abuse.
PEMRA and other media regulators must re-evaluate what is being pushed into mainstream television under the guise of “bold scripts.” His dialogues normalize hatred, shame women for their choices, and glorify male rage. And viewers especially women must start asking whether these stories reflect reality or reinforce a version of it that only benefits fragile egos.
Writers like Khalil Ur Rehman Qamar have an enormous platform, and with that comes responsibility. Unfortunately, instead of challenging patriarchal norms, his work strengthens them. The media we consume shapes our worldview. If we keep rewarding men who reduce women to caricatures and promote regressive gender roles, we risk normalizing misogyny for another generation. It is time for Pakistani audiences and media authorities to draw a line between art and abuse.
