Pakistan’s Courts Are Running Out of Time

Thar a name that instantly evokes images of thirst, golden dunes, drought, Marvi, peacocks, the Karoonjhar Hills, rainwater ponds, love, and endless waiting. More than Pakistan’s largest desert, Thar is a living testament to patience, simplicity, love, and humanity’s timeless bond with nature. Here, every moment of life is connected to the sky. Even as the people of Thar walk upon the earth, their eyes remain fixed on the heavens, for their livelihood, livestock, crops, and happiness all depend upon the mercy of the clouds. As if giving voice to the very heart of Thar, Shaikh Ayaz wrote: “Whether it rains or not, Thar remains Thar; But when it rains, fresh blood begins to flow through every vein of life.” The greatest festival of Thar begins with the arrival of the rains. When the first raindrop falls upon the sun-scorched sands, the fragrance rising from the earth carries centuries of longing. It is a scene beyond the power of words. It feels as though the heart of the desert begins to beat again, every grain of sand takes a breath, and every withered plant offers gratitude to the Creator. Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai immortalized Thar through the voice of Marui in his poetry. To Marui, the sands of Thar were more precious than gold because they represented her identity. Shah’s message still echoes across every dune, village, and heart in Thar—that love for one’s homeland is the truest expression of human identity. Whenever Shaikh Ayaz wrote about Thar, his words carried the music of nature itself. For him, the monsoon was not merely a season—it was a revolution. A revolution that transformed barren sands into gardens, thirst into hope, and sorrow into joy. For most of the year, the people of Thar struggle against drought, scorching heat, water scarcity, unemployment, and poverty. Thousands of families migrate to irrigated regions in search of work. Women walk miles every day carrying water. Without grazing land, livestock become weak, and many young people leave for distant cities in search of livelihoods. Yet the moment the monsoon clouds appear on the horizon, lamps of hope begin to glow in every heart. Rain does not merely bring water it opens a new chapter of life. Within days of rainfall, the endless dunes transform into carpets of emerald green. The songs of peacocks, the calls of cuckoos, herds of goats, caravans of camels, and the fragrance of wildflowers carried by the breeze create a symphony that no modern city can ever reproduce. Rain-fed ponds fill with fresh water. Children leap with joy. Herders lead their animals to lush grazing lands. Thari women, dressed in brilliantly colored traditional attire, sing ancient folk songs. The entire landscape becomes a celebration of life. If there is one place where nature reveals its complete magnificence during the rainy season, it is the Karoonjhar Hills of Nagarparkar. When dark monsoon clouds embrace the granite peaks, seasonal waterfalls cascade down the rocks, and sparkling streams descend like ribbons of silver, it seems as though nature herself is painting with every color imaginable. Karoonjhar is more than a mountain it is a symbol of Thar’s history, culture, folklore, and resilience. Standing for centuries, these ancient hills have silently witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, kings, ascetics, and the enduring stories of the people of the desert. During the rainy season, the famous Gaddi Hill in Mithi transforms into a lively cultural gathering. Families arrive in large numbers to enjoy the pleasant weather. Children delight in swings, visitors savor local cuisine and tea, artisans display handmade crafts, musicians perform on the rabab and algoza, and the warm hospitality of the people of Thar leaves every guest feeling at home. The construction of better roads from Mithi to Nagarparkar has significantly increased the number of visitors, yet much more remains to be done to develop tourism sustainably. Hidden beneath the sands of Thar lies a civilization thousands of years old. The Bhodesar Temples, Gori Temple, Virawah, ancient Jain monuments, historic wells, and old trade routes all stand as silent witnesses to the region’s glorious past. Sadly, many of these invaluable heritage sites still lack proper protection. Time, harsh weather, and neglect continue to erode them. If preserved according to international standards, Thar could become one of South Asia’s most remarkable cultural tourism destinations. However, alongside the beauty brought by the rains, another reality is emerging one that may threaten Thar’s future. Illegal occupation of natural grazing lands, the conversion of sand dunes into agricultural fields, and increasing environmental degradation are disturbing the delicate ecological balance of the desert. Livestock farming has always been the backbone of Thar’s economy. If natural grazing lands disappear, thousands of families will lose their primary source of income. Development that destroys nature is not progress—it is an injustice to future generations. Over the past two decades, climate change has increasingly affected Thar. Irregular rainfall, sudden cloudbursts, prolonged droughts, and extreme heat are steadily altering the region’s fragile ecosystem. The people of Thar still lack many basic necessities. Clean drinking water, quality healthcare, education, and employment opportunities remain scarce in many areas. While the rains temporarily ease their hardships, lasting solutions depend upon thoughtful and sustainable development. Tourism That Can Transform the Economy Thar possesses extraordinary tourism potential. Its breathtaking landscapes, rich cultural heritage, folk music, handicrafts, religious harmony, the majestic Karoonjhar Hills, desert safaris, camel caravans, and traditional cuisine offer experiences unlike anywhere else in the world. To unlock this potential, several important steps are needed: Historic and cultural heritage sites across Thar and Sindh should be preserved and restored, recognizing them not merely as relics of the past but as the identity of future generations. Modern visitor information centers should be established at major historical and cultural attractions to educate tourists about the region’s history, traditions, and natural beauty. Local youth should receive professional training as tour guides, creating employment opportunities while enabling them to confidently present their homeland’s heritage to the world. Tourism should be developed

Every age has its favourite political illusion. Ours is the belief that if a state redraws its map, it can redraw its destiny. The illusion is neither new nor uniquely Pakistani. Throughout history, rulers confronted with public discontent have often reached first for the cartographer rather than the reformer. Kingdoms were partitioned, provinces were multiplied and capitals were relocated with the promise that a new administrative design would produce a new political reality. Sometimes it did. More often, the map changed while the lives of ordinary people remained stubbornly the same. The road stayed broken. The school remained understaffed. The hospital still lacked medicines. Geography had moved; governance had not. Pakistan has once again arrived at one of those historical moments. The debate over new provinces has returned with renewed intensity. South Punjab, Bahawalpur, Hazara and, occasionally, urban Sindh have re-entered political discourse. Television studios debate new boundaries with remarkable confidence. Politicians promise administrative revolutions. Constitutional amendments are drafted, revised and forgotten. Yet beneath all these proposals lies a single assumption that Pakistan’s crisis is fundamentally geographical. It is an attractive assumption because geography is visible. A new province can be announced, celebrated and printed on official maps within months. Institutions do not yield so easily. Honest administration, competent bureaucracy, independent local government and accountable public service demand years of patient political labour. They produce fewer headlines than constitutional amendments, but they determine whether citizens experience the state as a servant or a burden. This is not an argument against creating new provinces. It is an argument against believing that new provinces alone can rescue a failing administrative culture. The debate deserves seriousness rather than slogans because the pressures giving rise to it are entirely real. According to the 2023 Population and Housing Census, Pakistan’s population has exceeded 250 million, making it the fifth most populous country in the world. Punjab alone contains approximately 127 million people—more inhabitants than almost every country in Europe. Balochistan stretches across nearly forty-four per cent of Pakistan’s landmass while containing only a small fraction of its population. Sindh continues to experience one of the fastest rates of urbanisation in South Asia. Such demographic realities naturally provoke questions about administrative efficiency, regional representation and equitable development. Communities demanding new provinces are therefore not merely inventing grievances. South Punjab has long argued that development has been disproportionately concentrated in central Punjab. Bahawalpur invokes historical identity and constitutional commitments made at the time of accession. Hazara has repeatedly asserted that its political priorities differ from those of the wider Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. These demands arise from genuine perceptions of administrative neglect and unequal political influence. A mature federation should listen carefully before dismissing them. Yet listening carefully also requires asking difficult questions. If the existing provinces have themselves become highly centralised, why should another layer of provincial government automatically bring authority closer to the people? If citizens already struggle to persuade provincial bureaucracies to repair roads, improve schools or manage municipal services, why should replacing one provincial capital with another necessarily transform that experience? Is Pakistan’s principal challenge really the number of provinces, or is it the distance that has gradually grown between government and the governed? History offers reasons for caution. In 1955, Pakistan adopted the One Unit Scheme, merging the provinces of West Pakistan into a single administrative entity. The stated objective was efficiency, administrative coherence and national integration. Instead, the policy deepened provincial resentments, weakened regional identities only in theory and strengthened them in practice. By 1970, the experiment had collapsed. The map had changed twice within fifteen years, but governance had not become more responsive. The lesson was clear enough for anyone willing to see it— political legitimacy cannot be manufactured by administrative engineering alone. The framers of the 1973 Constitution attempted a different approach. They recognised Pakistan as a federation in which diversity would be accommodated rather than erased. Decades later, the Eighteenth Amendment significantly expanded provincial autonomy, transferring important subjects—including health, education and culture—from the federation to the provinces. Many constitutional scholars rightly regarded it as one of the most consequential democratic reforms in Pakistan’s constitutional history. Yet an uncomfortable paradox remains. If greater provincial autonomy was expected to produce more responsive government, why do so many Pakistanis still experience the same frustrations in their daily dealings with public institutions? Why do overcrowded hospitals, deteriorating municipal services, inadequate schools and inaccessible bureaucracies continue to dominate public complaints? Perhaps because Pakistan decentralised authority from Islamabad to provincial capitals but never completed the journey from provincial capitals to the people themselves. That distinction lies at the heart of the present debate. The real question before Pakistan is therefore not whether the federation should eventually have four provinces, six provinces or eight. Every federation evolves with changing demographic, political and economic realities. The more fundamental question is whether power should continue to accumulate in increasingly distant capitals or finally begin to reside where citizens actually live—in districts, municipalities, towns and villages. Before Pakistan redraws another map, it must first decide what government is supposed to do. A state exists not to administer territory but to serve people. Maps are only instruments; institutions are the purpose. When governments forget that distinction, they begin to mistake the appearance of reform for reform itself. The debate over new provinces is therefore important. But it is important for a reason larger than cartography. It compels Pakistan to confront a more profound constitutional question, does the country require more provinces, or does it require government that is finally prepared to come closer to its citizens? History possesses an inconvenient habit of refusing to validate political shortcuts. Nations that confuse administrative rearrangement with institutional reform usually discover, sooner or later, that maps can change more quickly than governments. The temptation to redraw boundaries is understandable because it promises visible action. Yet the record of history suggests that boundaries alone seldom transform the quality of governance. Pakistan’s own constitutional evolution illustrates this truth. At independence in 1947, the new state inherited

The assault on the Khazina Banda police post in Hangu was not another entry in Pakistan’s grim terrorism ledger. Attackers first struck with explosive-laden quadcopters and then ambushed the post and its reinforcements. Al Jazeera’s initial report put the police death toll at 11, including Deputy Superintendent Diyar Khan, with 28 personnel injured; subsequent local reporting revised the fatalities to nine. Fifteen attackers were reportedly killed. No organisation immediately claimed responsibility. The disputed count does not alter the horror. Men defending the State confronted a privately financed force equipped with drones, explosives and heavy weapons. Hangu should destroy the fiction that terrorism, narcotics and illicit arms are separate problems assigned to separate departments. They form one war economy. Narcotics generate cash; illicit finance launders it; weapons protect routes; militants supply coercion; political and official patronage obstructs investigation. The system survives governments and military operations because Pakistan attacks gunmen without dismantling the business that replenishes them. This was the warning in Pakistan: From Hash to Heroin and, more systematically, in its sequel Pakistan: From Drug-trap to Debt-trap. The Afghan war did not merely push refugees across the border. It created an enduring logistics chain in which weapons travelled one way and opium, heroin and dirty money travelled the other. The jihad (holy war) against the erstwhile Soviet Union was presented as strategic necessity. Its unrecorded balance sheet included extremism, heroin, the Kalashnikov culture, protected smugglers, corrupted institutions and a drug elite wealthy enough to enter respectable business and influence politics. The term “narcoterrorism” is often used carelessly, as if every attack can be attributed to a particular consignment. That is not the proposition. The connection is systemic, not necessarily transactional in every case. Armed groups and criminal syndicates occupy the same spaces, use overlapping routes, brokers, hawala channels and protection arrangements, and profit from weak border governance. Money is fungible. Revenue from smuggling, extortion, narcotics or lawful-looking businesses can buy the same rifle, drone component or safe house. Pakistan helped manufacture this economy through choices made during the General Zia-ul-Haq era and then preserved it through denial. The State celebrated the fighters, tolerated the gun markets and allowed traffickers to convert illicit fortunes into property, commerce and political access. Periodic seizures created the appearance of enforcement, while financiers, facilitators, beneficial owners and patrons largely remained beyond reach. The poor courier was arrested; the network endured. A poppy field was destroyed; no viable crop or market was supplied to the farmer. An addict was criminalised; treatment remained scarce. The spectacle of control substituted for control. Afghanistan’s changed opium economy does not justify complacency. The UN Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) estimated that cultivation fell by 20 percent in 2025 to 10,200 hectares and production dropped by 32 percent to 296 tonnes, far below pre-ban levels. This is important, but it is not the burial of the drug economy. Stocks, established trafficking routes and accumulated capital, survive a harvest decline. UNODC also warned that synthetic drugs, particularly methamphetamine, were becoming organised crime’s new business model because production is easier to conceal and less dependent on climate. The market adapts faster than bureaucracies. The same adaptation is visible in the air above Hangu. Reuters reported in July 2025 that militants had used commercially acquired quadcopters in at least eight attacks in Bannu and adjoining areas within two and a half months. The provincial police chief acknowledged that the police had no equipment to meet the threat and that militants were better equipped. One year later, weaponised quadcopters helped open a lethal assault on a police post. This was not an unforeseeable innovation. It was an institutional warning ignored until officers paid with their lives. The immediate response followed the familiar script: condemnation, funerals, retaliatory operations and claims that the mastermind had been killed. Removing operational commanders is necessary, but body counts do not measure the destruction of a war economy. If the financier remains solvent, the trafficker keeps his route, the arms supplier retains access, the hawala operator moves the proceeds and the protector remains influential, another commander will emerge. Tactical success without financial and institutional disruption merely changes the names of the dead. Islamabad is entitled to demand that Kabul prevent Afghan territory from being used for attacks. The Taliban government’s denials cannot answer evidence of militant mobility and sanctuary. Pakistan, however, cannot outsource security or erase its history by pointing across the Durand Line. Routes, facilitators, arms stocks, laundering channels and political shields also exist inside Pakistan. A foreign-policy accusation is not a domestic counterterrorism strategy. The starting point must be a permanent national narcoterrorism and illicit-arms fusion centre, not another ornamental committee. It should bring the provincial counterterrorism departments, police, Anti-Narcotics Force (ANF), Federal Investigation Agency (FIA), Customs, Federal Board of Revenue (FBR), Financial Monitoring Unit (FMU) and intelligence agencies onto a common operational platform. Every major terrorist investigation should generate a parallel financial, narcotics, communications and weapons inquiry. Investigators must follow beneficial ownership through real estate, trade misinvoicing, shell companies, cash couriers, hawala networks and virtual assets, freezing and confiscating criminal proceeds through courts and due process. Weapons require the same discipline. Pakistan needs a national register of recovered arms and ammunition, forensic and ballistic databases accessible to provincial police, mandatory tracing of serial numbers and ammunition lots, and public reporting of leakages from official stocks. Border terminals and maritime routes need risk-based scanning rather than theatrical checking. Most urgently, exposed police posts require layered counter-drone protection: detection, electronic countermeasures, hardened positions, trained response teams and protected communications. Sending under-equipped policemen against weaponised drones is not bravery by policy; it is abandonment by the State. Supply-side enforcement must be joined to rural development and public health. Farmers require credible alternative livelihoods, irrigation, credit, storage and assured markets; addicts require treatment, rehabilitation and reintegration. Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, China and Central Asian states need verifiable cooperation on routes, precursor chemicals, laboratories, wanted financiers and arms flows under UN facilitation. Diplomatic declarations should be tested against shared data, inspections, arrests, convictions,

There is a common perception among experts that a new world order usually emerges after a world war or a major geopolitical event. Wars are caused by the irrational behavior of existing powers, illegal resource capture, and opposition to rising powers. These factors make the peaceful transition difficult. Thucydides’ Trap further explains the phenomenon. In modern history, World War I and World War II are often quoted as examples.   World War I began after Germany’s exponential growth and emergence as a new economic and global power. Germany’s efforts to enhance its influence further complicated the situation for existing powers such as the British Empire. It threatened them, and they started to conspire against Germany, especially after the launch of the Berlin-Baghdad railway line. The Berlin-Baghdad railway was considered a game-changing initiative for Europe and the Middle East. The British Empire negated it and built alliances with France; Russia, and later on, the USA helped them. World War II is considered a byproduct of the 1930s economic recession, Germany’s reemergence, Britain’s declining power, and the USA’s emergence as a new economic and global powerhouse.   World War I resulted in the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and Germany. It laid the first stone of the new empire, the USA. President Wilson tried to build on the fallen Empires and create a new world order through the League of Nations, but it could not sustain itself and ended with World War II. World War II ended with the collapse of Germany and the end of the two empires, the UK and Japan. After World War II, the USA emerged as a global empire and began crafting a new world order. Fortunately, it had the support of the USSR and China, which helped it create a new world order. However, after building a new world order, the USA turned against the USSR, and China laid the foundation of the Cold War Era.   The new system was built to continue the exploitation, but with new tools and strategies. With the end of World War II and the rise of freedom movements, the Western powers realized that the age of occupation and colonization had passed. It is not possible to enslave people physically. Thus, they pondered what new ways of controlling people should be. They identified the economy as a leading tool. Hence, they began devising tools to control the global economy. In the beginning, they leveraged the West’s production capacity to dominate the global economy. With the advent of globalization, they introduced tools to control supply chains and dominate markets by exerting absolute control over intellectual property rights, market rulemaking, and non-tariff barriers such as human rights, democracy, and the environment.  It led to the weaponization of the economy.   Simultaneously, they initiated the process to strengthen control over the financial system. The Bretton Woods institutions helped the USA and the West to dominate the global financial system. The US$ further consolidated its dominance as the leading global currency of global trade and reserves. Unfortunately, they also weaponized the global financial system.   However, with the dawn of the 21st century, they started to realize that new economic, technological, and trade powerhouses are emerging. These will challenge their dominance and exploitation. The rapid development and trade progress of the Global South further deepened their fears. China’s advances in technology and innovation made them worry about their future. However, China’s emergence as an alternative economic, trade, and technological power, challenging Western dominance in these areas, antagonized them.  After the launch of global initiatives such as GDI, GSI, BRI, GCI, GGI, AIIB, CIIE, and CIFTIS, among others, the West took off its gloves and began openly opposing China.   The West is opposing China, especially its BRI and technological aspects, just like the British and other powers opposed Germany’s rise and the Berlin-Baghdad railway line just before World War I. Therefore, many experts believe that the world is living under the threat of a looming third world war.   However, another school of thought claims the world is already in World War III, with different parameters. This time the battlefield would be trade, technology, and financial systems, as mentioned by an expert from Russia, Ms. Daria Para.   According to this theory, the world is already at war. President Trump has already intensified the trade war. He is using it as a tool to extract maximum benefit and consolidate the USA’s dominance over the global economic system. The USA is also not allowing any country to surpass it in the field of technology. First, in the late 90s and early 2000s, it compelled Japan to give up its dream of technological leadership. Now, the USA is doing everything to undermine Chinese advancements. It is sanctioning Chinese companies and compelling other nations to cut or restrict relations with China. Even the USA is creating challenges for Chinese students, as it considers them essential to technological development. Hence, admissions have dropped significantly. The USA has also weaponized the financial sector and is using it to penalize countries.   The war in these areas is deeply impacting humanity. It is aggravating inequality, food insecurity, and human suffering. This time, people are dying of malnutrition, unsafe water, poverty, and lack of opportunities for livelihoods, not with bullets or bombs. It is more painful and leaves lasting impacts on those who survive. Unfortunately, the war is intensifying in these fields. It is feared that soon it will lead to a hot war. First glimpses are already visible from the Iran-USA conflict, Russia-Ukraine conflict, regime change in Venezuela, blockade of Cuba, and conflicts in many other countries.   However, China and the Global South are still making every effort to avoid a third world war and create a new world order through reforms. The demand for reforms is rational and genuine, as due to flaws and inefficiencies of the existing order, inequality and poverty are on the rise and the world is facing the existential threat of climate change.

Since its inception, Pakistan has been confronted with a multitude of complex and interwoven challenges that have persistently constrained its political stability, economic progress, institutional development, and social transformation. While the nature and intensity of these challenges have evolved over time, their cumulative impact has continued to impede the country’s pursuit of sustainable development and national prosperity. Among these enduring national challenges, the governance crisis has emerged as one of the most pressing concerns, posing serious implications for sustainable development, institutional resilience, socioeconomic progress, and the country’s long-term stability. A number of instances can be quoted to highlight the dismal situation of governance in Pakistan. The very first among these is the lack of citizens’ interest in participation. Citizens are not sufficiently aware of their participatory rights; therefore, they do not keep an eye on public officials and don’t raise their voices when their legal rights are violated by the elite class of the state. Moreover, in terms of transparency, Pakistan is far behind the required standards. According to the 2025 Corruption Perception Index published by Transparency International, Pakistan scored 28 out of 100 and ranked 136th out of 182 countries, indicating a high perceived level of public sector corruption. Furthermore, it is our bad luck that the situation of the rule of law has always been in trouble since 1947. Unfortunately, the rule of law has been confined to the conventional concept of law enforcement, internal security, and crime control, while, at the same time, it overlooks the basic elements, including transparency, accountability before the law, and the equal, just, and clear application of the law. Although, the state has numerous accountability committees and agencies to hold corrupt individuals accountable and curb corrupt practices in society. But still, the state is struggling to implement accountability in its true sense. Ignoring the major causes that have led to the deplorable situation of governance in Pakistan would be totally unjust. These include a number of factors that have directly or indirectly facilitated its existence. In this context, political instability is the biggest cause of bad governance in Pakistan. For most of the time, a myopic approach is adopted by political parties to establish their own governments. They remain engaged in the struggle for power while toppling governments by hook or by crook. Likewise, the relevant institutions do not respond immediately to the emergence of new challenges, leading to dearth of responsiveness in institution’s working.   In addition to it, the lack of strategic vision of the political leadership is also a factor which hits the structure of governance in Pakistan. Quite understandably, Political leaders have failed to foresee Pakistan’s emerging challenges and to cope with the persistent challenges that the state has been confronting for a long time. Keeping in view the crunch of governance, whom should be blamed and held accountable? It is the need of the hour that well-crafted and result-oriented policies regarding governance be formulated and effectively implemented to address the issue in its true spirit. Social media should play its crucial role in spreading awareness. Democracy should be strengthened. Posting, transfer, and promotion of bureaucrats should be done on merit. Last but not the least, the right to information should be guaranteed to citizens as provided under Article 19A of the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. These bold steps can place Pakistan in the list of countries having good governance.

Our discussion of Bulleh Shah in Part IV concluded with a question: Who are we when power can no longer name us? Bulleh Shah dismantled the identities imposed upon the human person by lineage, orthodoxy and social hierarchy. Waris Shah takes the inquiry into the institutions governing everyday life. He shows what happens when two human beings attempt to live according to the freedom Bulleh imagined. Heer is celebrated as Punjab’s greatest love story. To describe it merely as a romance, however, is to conceal its intellectual achievement. Earlier poets narrated the sufferings of Heer and Ranjha; Waris Shah’s classic poetic work Heeer (1766) placed an entire social order on trial. Shafqat Tanvir Mirza rightly observed that Waris treated the story through the “politics, economy and cultural values” lived by the people of his period. His poem contains a devastating criticism of poor governance, institutional corruption, religious exploitation, arrogance of the wealthy and misery of those without power. Love provides the narrative, but power determines its outcome. Waris Shah wrote against the background of eighteenth-century political disintegration. Invasions, weakening imperial authority, struggles among local forces and economic insecurity had destabilised Punjab. Waris Shah was not attached to a royal court capable of insulating him from ordinary suffering. His Heer therefore became more than a reconstruction of an old legend. It preserved Punjab’s speech, customs and collective memory while exposing the institutions through which privilege protected itself. Heer is central to this achievement because she is not a passive beloved. She recognises Ranjha, brings him into her father’s household as a herdsman, arranges opportunities to meet him and openly asserts her choice when the relationship is discovered. She possesses intelligence, desire and moral agency. Her freedom is tolerated only while it remains invisible and does not threaten the authority of the family. The moment Heer chooses her own future, affection turns into surveillance. Her body becomes the bearer of family honour, and marriage becomes the means through which that honour is restored. Heer does not ask permission to feel. She declares a commitment already formed through conscience and love. Her language is especially significant. She does not present Ranjha as an object she wishes to acquire. She has offered her own life and accepted responsibility for that choice. In a society where marriage joins families, properties and status groups, such self-determination is revolutionary. The dispute is not simply between one prospective husband and another. Ranjha represents Heer’s autonomous choice; the Kheras represent the settlement arranged for her by others. Her family treats marriage as a transaction carrying consequences for lineage, reputation and power. Heer insists upon treating it as a union requiring the will of the persons whose lives it determines. میں تاں منگ رنجھیٹے دی ہو چکی اساں منگ درگاہ تھیں لیا رانجھا Main tāṅ mang Ranjheṭe dī ho chukkī Asāṅ mang dargāh thīṅ liyā Rānjhā I have already been pledged to Ranjha; from the divine court itself I received him. اساں جان رانجھیٹے دے پیش کیتی لکھ کھیڑیاں نوں چا گھولدی ہے Asāṅ jān Ranjheṭe de pesh kītī Lakkh Kheṛiāṅ nūṅ chā gholdī hai I have laid my life before Ranjha; I would sacrifice a hundred thousand Kheras for him. This is the political economy hidden within the romance. Property is not limited to land, cattle and wealth. Patriarchal authority extends the idea of ownership to women. A daughter may be cherished as long as she accepts the future selected for her. Once she claims ownership of her own will, love within the family becomes conditional. Research on Heer similarly identifies the family, property, mosque, qazi, feudal hierarchy and ruling elite as interconnected institutions shaped by economic interest. Kaido is the most visible agent of this system, though he should not be dismissed as a solitary villain. He represents social surveillance: the resentful custodian of conformity who observes, reports and converts private happiness into public scandal. Power does not survive through rulers alone. It recruits relatives, neighbours and self-appointed guardians of morality who internalise its prohibitions and enforce them upon others. Kaido’s triumph begins when Heer and Ranjha’s love is no longer treated as a human relationship but as an offence against collective honour. The family then requires an institution capable of turning its demand into a lawful and religious command. The qazi enters at precisely this point. Waris Shah does not attack faith. He exposes the appropriation of faith by those serving property and patriarchy. The qazi is called because parental pressure has failed to secure Heer’s consent. Religious vocabulary is employed to present submission as virtue and resistance as sin. Heer answers him from within the moral tradition he claims to represent. She insists that genuine faith cannot be separated from truth, and that her union with Ranjha possesses a reality no ceremonial decree can erase. The surviving text presents an extended confrontation in which the qazi invokes authority while Heer asserts conscience and consent. Unable to persuade her, institutional power reveals its coercive core. The qazi threatens punishment and demands that she accept the Khera marriage. قاضی بنھ نکاح تے گھت ڈولی نال کھیڑیاں دے دِتی تور میاں Qāzī bannh nikāh te ghat ḍolī Nāl Kheṛiāṅ de dittī tor miyāṅ The qazi bound the marriage and placed her in the palanquin; she was sent away with the Kheras. ہیر کھیڑیاں نال نہ تُرے مولے پیا پِنڈ دے وچ ہے شور میاں Hīr Kheṛiāṅ nāl na ture, maulā piyā Piṇḍ de vich hai shor miyāṅ Heer would not willingly go with the Kheras; an uproar filled the village. کھیڑے گھن کے ہیر نوں رواں ہوئے جویں مال نوں لے وَگے چور میاں Kheṛe ghin ke Hīr nūṅ ravāṅ hoe Jiveṅ māl nūṅ lai vagge chor miyāṅ The Kheras took Heer and moved away, like thieves driving stolen cattle. The comparison is Waris Shah’s own and is among the most revealing images in the poem. The final line strips the ceremony of its respectable appearance. There has been a qazi, a marriage procession, jewellery, property and public