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Pakistani television once gave us opinionated women, emotionally intelligent men, and love stories that carefully walked the line between affection and obsession. Today, instead of dismantling toxic masculinity, prime-time dramas appear to be celebrating brooding stares, clenched jaws, and wrist-grabbing, always set to a deeply melancholic ballad.

The hero is violent, the heroine endures, and by episode 30, everyone is convinced it’s love. The industry’s obsession with ‘toxic-but-hot’ men and compromising, self-effacing women has created a feedback loop where abuse is mistaken for intensity. But this isn’t how it’s always been.

As a Gen-Z viewer revisiting classics like Haseena Moin’s Dhoop Kinare, I realised that toxic love tropes weren’t always a part of our viewing experience. Dr Zoya Ali Khan, played by Marina Khan, was progressive, competitive, and confident in her own skin. She didn’t crave male validation and expressed affection with clarity, offering a rare, nuanced portrayal of female sexuality in South Asia.

Her counterpart, Dr Ahmer (Rahat Kazmi), processed his childhood trauma without using it to excuse poor behaviour. With Dr Zoya, he was never domineering or aggressive, channelling empathy, maturity, and emotional growth — not control.

Take Ankahi as another example. Its protagonist, Sana Murad (Shehnaz Shaikh), was a determined young woman supporting her family after her father’s death. Far from the damsels in distress we see now, Sana was unapologetically ambitious and emotionally layered. Her missteps at work were never used as comic relief mocking female competence.

The drama’s men were flawed but respectful. Taimur (Shakeel) treated Sana with patience and dignity. Faraz (Javed Shaikh), though loud and expressive, was never toxic or threatening, even in jealousy. Sana was not reduced to a prize between two men; she had agency, made informed choices, and navigated her desires on her terms.

What set these characters apart was that they were allowed to feel deeply — anger, jealousy, sadness — without harming others. Today’s dramas, however, routinely show male leads grabbing women by the wrist, delivering manipulative monologues, and coercing heroines into submission, all under the guise of love.

A recent example is Mann Mast Malang, starring Danish Taimoor as Kabir. In one disturbing scene, Kabir ties up the heroine, Riya, to keep her from leaving. In another, he threatens her: “Tou main ghar say utha kay le jaoon ga [then I’ll abduct you].” These scenes don’t reflect love — they normalise abuse, presenting coercion and violence as romantic gestures.

Taimoor has a pattern of playing controlling men in dramas. In Kaisi Teri Khudgarzi (2022), he plays Shamsher, a rich, entitled man who stalks and harasses Mehak, a soft-spoken middle-class, standard issue “good girl”. Her rejections are ignored, and after her family is forced to relocate, she is coerced into marriage. Later, Shamsher is portrayed as the ultimate lover, sacrificing wealth and life for Mehak, completely glossing over his earlier predatory behaviour.

Taimoor’s roles in Deewangi and Ishq Hai follow similar arcs: the heroine is kidnapped or forced into submission, and the hero’s aggression is rebranded as passion. And yet, Taimoor is not alone in this.

In Tere Bin, Wahaj Ali’s character, a feudal lord, exudes unchecked authority, possessiveness, and cold emotional detachment, all idealised through a romantic arc with a strong-willed law student, played by Yumna Zaidi. The drama’s most controversial moment — a scene hinting at marital rape — was later diluted and dismissed by producers, treating a critical issue as just another plot twist.

Even when heroines are strong and educated, they’re often written into submission by love interests who are violent or regressive. In Qarz-e-Jaan, Yumna Zaidi plays a law student married off to her cousin, Ammar (Nameer Khan) — a rapist, blackmailer, and murderer. Her strongest resistance only comes after he kills her brother-in-law. That earlier crimes, especially rape, didn’t elicit the same response.

The show also drew criticism for softening the antagonist’s arc by granting him a redemption monologue that shifted the focus from his actions to his childhood trauma.

Then there’s the infamous Mere Paas Tum Ho (2019), starring Humayun Saeed and Ayeza Khan, written by Khalilur Rehman Qamar. It unapologetically villainised women for their choices, branding them “do takay ki aurat” or a woman worth two pennies, while absolving its male protagonist of all accountability. The message was loud and clear: male ego trumps female agency.

Feroze Khan’s roles also contribute to this toxic template. In Ishqiya, his character’s jealousy is framed as love, while in Khuda Aur Muhabbat, a woman’s rejection invites divine punishment — her tragedy linked to the male lead’s baddua or curse. The subtext is dangerous: women who defy men deserve to suffer.

The glamorisation of abuse isn’t limited to this decade. Bashar Momin (2014) cast Faysal Quraishi as a cold, manipulative businessman whose control over his love interest was styled as a modern-day Beauty and the Beast. Toxicity was dressed in designer suits and dim-lit aesthetics.

What makes these portrayals especially harmful is their influence in a society already plagued by gender-based violence. These dramas don’t just romanticise aggression, they desensitise audiences to it, turning trauma into entertainment and teaching viewers that domination is desirable. Audiences are enamoured, and young boys and girls fantasise about becoming Shamsher and Mehak, Nageen and Sultan.

The problem isn’t just on-screen. Industry economics reinforce it. Not all actors have the power to turn down such roles in a system where high TRPs, brand endorsements, and online buzz are tied to the very characters promoting patriarchal control.

But not all is bleak.

It would be unfair to claim all contemporary Pakistani dramas glorify toxic masculinity. Kuch Ankahi (2023) offered a refreshing change — characters navigating property disputes, career growth, and generational patriarchy with dignity, self-worth, and mutual respect. The show proved that compelling stories don’t require coercion or abuse to be impactful.

Such shows are the exception, but they highlight a crucial point: the industry can do better. It once did.

Dr Zoya and Dr Ahmer. Sana and Taimur. These characters set the gold standard for emotionally intelligent storytelling. Today, that legacy is eroding, replaced by shallow romantic arcs that confuse violence for devotion and possession for passion.

These portrayals distort romance, normalise coercion, and condition audiences to root for their own oppression. In a society grappling with gender-based violence and patriarchal control, such dramas reinforce systems we need to dismantle.

To counter this, writers must craft narratives that challenge patriarchal norms, producers must prioritise ethical storytelling over sensationalism, channels must diversify content beyond harmful tropes, and audiences must demand and support dramas that portray healthy relationships and empowered individuals. We must ask: are we consuming stories, or internalising them? Because if we continue to celebrate predators as heroes and silence women through scripted love, we’re not just watching dramas — we’re writing tragedies into real life.