They hailed from different ethnic communities, lived in different cities, and their family backgrounds were entirely different. But they met, became friends, and wanted to marry. Her father was against it and forbade her to see him.

Same old story… it’s been going on for hundreds, if not thousands of years -- Romeo and Juliet, Heer and Ranjha, or these two youngsters – let’s call them Aasiya and Kalam to protect their identities, because they are not part of any immortal folk legend or literary classic, but a young couple in modern day Pakistan, up against cultures, traditions, values that would drag them back into the Middle Ages.

Except that this is not the Middle Ages, they’re both educated young people -- and Aasiya had access to the internet. And so one fine August morning last year, a journalist in Karachi checking her email found a note titled simply ‘Aasiya’. It contained just one line: “give me ur ptcl contact number & ur addres plzzz”. The delete button was nearly pressed but a couple of days later a reply sent: “Who are you and why do you want to contact me?”

As the story unfolded, it turned out that this college-educated young woman’s father and stepmother were trying to force her into marriage with her ‘foolish cousin’ and were also beating her (on her legs) and locking her up. But she considered herself engaged to Kalam. She established the genuineness of her case by sending her father’s name, address and phone number in Bahawalpur area, as well as Kalam’s contacts in Karachi. “plz help me plzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”.

What could one do sitting in Karachi, except provide some moral support -- “You should know that no one has the right to abuse you, legally or under any religious law. If a case is brought against them, they can be punished under the criminal law for doing this.”

Her answer, a couple of days later: “baji, this is my last mail because aj kay baad mujay completly band kerdeya jayga mayree ruksati tuk.
abu nay mayree zaberdasti shadi kerdi hay. shayed ab mayree zindagee ka ye last month hoga.” (I will be completely locked away until I sent to my in-laws. My father has forced me to marry. This might be the last month of my life).

Was she being unnecessarily dramatic, or was this a genuine case, a matter too serious to ignore?
After that email, and talking to Kalam in Karachi, it was obvious that something had to be done. This was not about trying to facilitate a marriage or to support a girl disobeying her father. This was about trying to prevent the forced marriage, mistreatment and incarceration of a young Pakistani. Whatever her family and others like them may think, an adult citizen is an adult citizen, whether a daughter or wife. And each citizen is entitled to certain rights, which include the right to freedom of movement, the right to be treated with respect and the right to make their own, autonomous choices in life.

Aasiya had probably never read the UN Charter of Human Rights, but she knew that she was not being treated right. She had an inkling that the law of the land, as well as her religion, gave her the right to marry of her own choice. Kalam (whose family had even been to Bahawalpur before with a formal marriage proposal) filed a habeas corpus petition to get Aasiya released. He is neither rich nor influential. But he went all the way from Karachi, taking leave without pay to attend the court hearings. Amazingly, the judge never asked for Aasiya to be produced, and dismissed the case.

Shortly afterwards, Kalam got an email from her, saying she was resigned to her fate and asking him to forget about her. The judge had not asked for her statement, she had been beaten, locked up, and forced into a nikkah with her cousin, and everything seemed quite hopeless.
And yet – the secrecy that would have ensured her defeat had been broken. The court hearings rattled her family, people were watching, and because the nikkah with the cousin had been done secretly, neighbours were willing to testify that the wedding was a farce. Aasiya’s unwillingness and the outside pressure combined meant that the ‘ruksati’ could not be held.
Aasiya used the time that this delay bought to plot her escape. She again displayed that amazing initiative and got word to Kalam that she would meet him on a certain day. And so he took her home to his family, and a nikkah was arranged.
Then the threats started. Her father was invoking the Hudood Ordinance (as so many fathers before him have done), and accusing Kalam of having kidnapped her.

Their lawyer in Bahawalpur filed a counter-case against him for threatening his clients. In mid-December, Aasiya and Kalam went back there – with great trepidation, fearing the worst – and testified before the High Court that they were adults, married of their own choice.
The Qazi who had pronounced Aasiya’s nikkah with her cousin was trotted out – but the judge threw out that nikkah as invalid because the girl said that it had been forced. Some blustering by the father led to a stern warning that non-cooperation in this case would lead not only to a fine, but also charges of trying to hamper the due course of justice, illegal detaining an adult citizen and trying to force her into marriage.

And so Aasiya and Kalam returned to Karachi, where they now live – happily ever after or not is another matter. The point is that the legal system did not let them down. They have their lives ahead of them to make the mistakes that most married couples make, but at least this is a marriage that both of them want. And if one family is against it, at least the other has accepted her as a daughter.

Maybe there is hope for this country yet.

Note: The names of the individuals concerned have been changed to protect their identity. This article is a follow up of an earlier piece, ‘The price of love’ (Sept 12, 2004).