A society where male chauvinism rules, being a woman in itself is a grave crime, rather a sin that cannot be atoned for from birth till death. Even after being killed by relatives, some women in Pakistan cannot be buried in a community graveyard, as their crime (falling in love) is considered very abominable in the eyes of the custodians of traditions. Pakistan is a country where the majority of women are considered everything but human beings. A woman becomes a servant of the family in the home, a bargaining chip in settling feuds, a source of shame in genealogy, a prey of lust and a speechless miserable creature who is fated to serve, suffer and sacrifice at the altar of traditions in a feudal society. Our panchayats and jirgas are headed by chaudharies and sardars who feel no compunctions while passing judgments to carry out honour killings, watta satta (exchange) marriages and even gang rape of innocent girls to settle disputes. Our state, along with its own police, judicial and administrative systems, has accepted these institutions. The Human Rights Commission of Pakistan’s report sheds light on the wretched condition of women in Pakistan. It says 791 women were killed in the name of honour, 2,903 women were raped, 2,581 of them in Punjab, in 2010. In addition, 719 women committed suicide. In these hard times when women cannot utter a single sentence against the atrocities and injustices perpetrated against them by male ‘yahoos’, an illiterate woman, Mukhtaran Mai, from the village of Meerwala, has shaken the entire edifice of the panchayati system. There is no need to go into the details of Mukhtaran Mai’s case as it is known all over the world. Mukhtaran Mai has moved a review petition on May 19 against the apex court verdict that rejected her appeal against the acquittal of her tormentors who allegedly raped her almost nine years ago. Here, the scribe just wants to salute the matchless bravery and acute agony of an illiterate woman who is still fighting her case for justice in an unjust society. Mukhtaran Mai, an insulted and humiliated but also a brave fighter, needs Saadat Hasan Manto for baring her heart and soul before the custodians of traditions. Luckily, Manto has already won the cases for many Mukhtaran Mais in the court of our society. If you do not believe, read this: “The special train left Amritsar at two in the afternoon, arriving at Mughalpura, Lahore, eight hours later. Many had been killed on the way, a lot more injured and countless lost. It was at 10 o’clock the next morning that Sirajuddin regained consciousness. He was lying on bare ground, surrounded by screaming men, women and children. It did not make sense. He was in shock. Then his eyes moved and, suddenly, caught the sun. The shock brought him back to the world of living men and women. A succession of images raced through his mind. Attack…fire…escape…railway station… night… Sakina. He rose abruptly and began searching through the milling crowd in the refugee camp. He spent hours looking, all the time shouting his daughter’s name…Sakina! Sakina!…but she was nowhere to be found. He sat down…and tried to think clearly. Where did he part from Sakina and her mother? Then it came to him in a flash — the dead body of his wife, her stomach ripped open. Sakina’s mother was dead. He could hear her voice: ‘Leave me where I am. Take the girl away.’ The two of them had begun to run. Sakina’s dupatta had slipped to the ground and he had stopped to pick it up and she had said: ‘Father, leave it.’ He could feel a bulge in his pocket. It was a length of cloth. Yes, he recognised it. It was Sakina’s dupatta, but where was she? There were eight of them, young men armed with guns. They also had a truck. They said they brought back women and children left behind on the other side. He gave them a description of his daughter. ‘She is fair, very pretty. No, she does not look like me, but her mother. About 17. Big eyes, black hair, a mole on the left cheek. Find my daughter. May God bless you.’ The young men had said to Sirajuddin: ‘If your daughter is alive, we will find her.’ At the risk of their lives they had driven to Amritsar, recovered many women and children, and brought them back to the camp, but they had not found Sakina. On their next trip out, they had found a girl on the roadside. They seemed to have scared her and she had started running. They ran after her and caught up with her in a field. She was very pretty. One of the men had said to her: ‘Don’t be frightened. Is your name Sakina?’ Her face had gone pale, but when they had told her who they were, she had confessed that she was Sakina, daughter of Sirajuddin. The young men were very kind to her. They had fed her, given her milk to drink and put her in their truck. One of them had given her his jacket so that she could cover herself. It was obvious that she was ill at ease without her dupatta, trying nervously to cover her breasts with her arms. Many days had gone by and Sirajuddin had still not had any news of his daughter. All his time was spent running from camp to camp, looking for her. At night, he would pray for the success of the young men who were looking for his daughter. One day he saw them in the camp. They were about to drive away. ‘Son,’ he shouted after one of them, ‘have you found Sakina, my daughter?’ ‘We will, we will,’ they all replied together. The old man again prayed for them. That evening there was sudden activity in the camp. He saw four men carrying the body of a young girl found unconscious near the railway tracks. He began to follow them. He stood outside the hospital for some time, then went in. In one of the rooms, he found a stretcher with someone lying on it. A light was switched on. It was a young woman with a mole on her left cheek. ‘Sakina,’ Sirajuddin screamed. The doctor, who had switched on the light, stared at Sirajuddin. ‘I am her father,’ he stammered. The doctor looked at the prostrate body and felt for the pulse. Then he said to the old man: ‘Open the window.’ The young woman on the stretcher moved slightly. Her hands groped for the cord, which kept her shalwar [pants], tied around her waist. With painful slowness, she unfastened it, pulled the garment down and opened her thighs. ‘She is alive. My daughter is alive,’ Sirajuddin shouted with joy. The doctor broke into a cold sweat.” (Khol Do) Are we all Pakistanis not breaking into cold sweat by Mukhtaran Mai’s opening her wounds? If yes, then she has already won her case in our society. (Translation by Kavita Chiranji) The writer is a staff member. He can be reached at faheem.dt@gmail.com