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Vigilante mobs have killed at least 89 people over blasphemy accusations from when Pakistan came into existence till 2022. Just last year, four people in Sargodha, Swat, Quetta, and Mirpurkhas were murdered by angry mobs after being accused of blasphemy.

This is what we see in the final nine minutes of Tan Man Neel o Neel, HUM TV’s hit mini-series in which a love story unravels into a cautionary tale on mob mentality and manufactured outrage.

The story revolves around Rabi (Sehar Khan) and Sonu (Shuja Asad), a young couple full of hope as they plan their future together. Their happiness is threatened by Rabi’s cousin, Kami (Usman Javed), who has harboured feelings for her since childhood. Kami is more than just a jilted admirer; he’s a professional agitator working for local politicians. When he learns of Rabi’s engagement to Sonu, his heartbreak turns to vengeance.

At a wedding where Rabi is the event planner and Sonu is performing, Kami airs a clip of Sonu’s classical dance in a temple courtyard, falsely claiming it’s inside a mosque. Kami whips the crowd into a frenzy, urging them not to stand idly by as their faith and places of worship are under attack, encouraging them to take justice into their own hands.

The hysteria reaches its breaking point in a scene that mirrors the lynching of Mashal Khan and Priyantha Kumara. As they run through the narrow streets of their neighbourhood, Rabi, Sonu, his best friend Moon, and Rabi’s father and uncle are no longer people — they are prey, hunted by a mob drunk on manufactured rage.

Then, Tan Man Neel o Neel does something unexpected: it ends. Abruptly. Brutally.

In an instant, most of the cast is gone. Moon, Rabi’s father, and her uncle lie dead in the alley. Rabi and Sonu’s fate is left to implication — we don’t see their bodies, just their belongings left behind like scattered wreckage. A dupatta on the streets where Rabi grew up. A jacket caught on a power line, falling from a rooftop where Sonu used to practice his dances.

As the credits roll, the show leaves viewers with images of real victims — people who, like Rabi and Sonu, were accused of blasphemy and paid for it with their lives. This isn’t just a cautionary tale. It’s a mirror held up to a nation where mob violence is law.

According to Usman Javed (Kami), this sleight of hand by show creators Sultana Siddiqui, Mustafa Afridi, and Saife Hassan, in which the drama stays on a straightforward trajectory with plenty of lighthearted moments, reserving the shock factor till the very end is what makes the show particularly impactful.

By maintaining a lighter tone for most of its runtime, the sudden shift to darkness is more emotionally resonant.

According to Javed, he filmed a few prison cell scenes, as one version of the ending had his character, Kami, going to jail.

Javed shared that even he was deeply moved upon seeing images of real-life victims, as the actors had been unaware that the ending would include them.

The actor, a graduate of the National Academy of Performing Arts, said that he deliberately avoided watching real-life mob lynching footage, wanting the play to be true to the script’s demands and his interpretation of the character of Kami.

When I reached out to viewers on X for their thoughts on the show, many pointed out the clever references and subtle callbacks peppered throughout the drama.

For instance, director Hassan plays the role of a powerful politician who — despite relying on mob mentality and manufactured outrage to further his ambitions — becomes the first victim of Kami’s mob attack in the end.

Others wrote about the incredible bond that forms between Sonu and Rabi’s mothers and how the images of them hugging each other and crying are that much more poignant, knowing that at the end, it’s just the two of them left — two women lose everything because of men with fragile egos who couldn’t handle a woman’s rejection.

Another powerful moment occurs at the end when we see director Afridi, who briefly appears in the show as a host at the event where the mob begins, sitting on a sidewalk, crying. In the background the show’s OST plays: “Hum khud hi apnay qatil, hum khud hi apni dushman, hum khud hi aag k sholaay, aur zadd main apna aangan [we are our own murderers, we are our own enemies, we are the embers of the fire, and we strike our own home.]”

One viewer notes how this scene echoes an earlier moment when Sonu and Rabi are planning the catering for the event, and he tells her, “Dedh sau log hain [there are 150 people].” The viewer reflects, “There were dedh sau log, but among them, only one was truly human.”

Another viewer shared a screenshot of the final scenes with expressionless women and children watching from their balconies as the mob chases Rabi and Sonu.

In our interview, Javed reflects on this moment. According to him, the drama reminds us how easily our society can forget and move on. Javed believes Tan Man Neel o Neel is having an outsize impact on us all because it made us fall in love with and deeply connect with the cast of motley characters, only to suddenly and brutally tear them away, which mirrors the devastating loss experienced by real victims’ families and friends.

As one viewer sums it up: “Just a single accusation and a life erased in moments. No proof, no hesitation, just blind fury taking over while the world watches and moves on.”

Tan Man Neel o Neel also boldly confronts other heavy topics.

At the start of the series, Sonu’s best friend Moon is raped by a local politician who wants to humiliate him for asking for full payment for a dance performance. The show uses the subplot of Moon’s sexual assault to do two things. First, it emphasises how there is no perfect victim. Whether you are a dancer or a doctor or from a certain religion or neighbourhood — a victim is a victim. Yet, Moon’s occupation and standing in society ultimately determine whether or not he gets justice.

Tan Man Neel o Neel also stealthily educates viewers on the importance of timely reporting of sexual assault, emphasising that victims have a window of two days to file a police report and that a medical exam can significantly strengthen a case. The cop tells Moon, “Case kamzor toh tum kamzor [if the case is weak then so are you],” encapsulating the harsh truth that, in Pakistan, police are the gatekeepers to the criminal justice system who frequently treat rape victims as shameless criminals for coming in and asking for their rights.

The series also effectively showcases how politicians manufacture outrage, keeping the public constantly distracted to advance their nefarious political agendas — something that plays out disturbingly often in Pakistan, where such tactics manipulate public sentiments and sway elections.

Ultimately, though, where the drama really shines is in the last 10 minutes, making it clear what we all subconsciously know: that the problem is not that we have blasphemy laws on the books — it’s that, in Pakistan, blasphemy has become a business.

Even if the Supreme Court were to clear every accused currently imprisoned on blasphemy charges, the threat of violence would persist because the real threat is not the words on paper but the mentality of the rogue actors who play judge, jury, and executioner. Who bypass due process. Who misuse blasphemy laws to silence opponents, settle personal vendettas, or for financial extortion.

As Tan Man Neel o Neel shows us, our society is morally and mortally wounded. In Pakistan, the state no longer administers justice — the mob does. We’ve convinced ourselves that we are above the law and alone can determine guilt and deliver punishment. This is more than lawlessness; it’s a moral transgression that no state or society can survive for long.

To quote Kami’s father: “Ye aag apne hi ghar tak aa ponchay gi [The fire you light on the streets will one day reach your home].”

We need more than legal reform; we need a societal reorientation — an unlearning of the hatred and intolerance ingrained in our communities. Without it, the cycle of violence will continue and the mobs will keep growing.