Revisiting Heer, Sahiba, Sohni: When Love Was Both Longing & Revolt

"Heer Ranjha na prem kahaani, eh tan sadi barbaadi ae.” This isn’t a love story — it’s the story of our ruin. We’ve glorified these folklores for centuries, romanticising their longing and sacrifice. But for me, that’s just a smokescreen — a beautiful lie to hide the ugliness beneath. Society committed its sins, and then named love the sin. 

What was Heer’s crime? What did Sahiba, Sohni, or Sassi do, except choose their own partners — choose love, choose freedom? They refused to be puppets. They dared to step outside the script written for them. And for that, they were punished. 

Heer was poisoned — not by an enemy, but by her own blood. Yet hadn't society already been feeding her slow poison long before that? Killing her softly every time she was told to obey, to marry a stranger, to keep quiet, to forget Ranjha? The very family that ended her life would’ve handed her over — alive — to a man who would never love her, had she not spoken up. So no, don’t tell me they cared. They weren’t angry because she was in danger. They were enraged because she dared to want something different—something that brought her happiness. And that is the greatest threat to patriarchy: a woman who chooses herself. 

Heer was blamed — again and again — even when all she did was love. 

In a society so conservative, so rigid, the courage it takes to love freely is beyond words. All Heer wanted was the right to choose her home, her peace, and the arms she could rest in. But those simple wishes shattered societal norms. Because if a woman can choose whom she loves — how can she be controlled? If she follows her heart, how will she perform the duties the world forces upon her? 

When Freedom Becomes the Crime

So they crushed her slowly. And when that didn’t work, they poisoned her. Because a dead Heer is easier to worship than a living, breathing rebel. 

Maybe that’s why women like Heer chose death — Not because they gave up, but because they hoped for a kind of peace in the afterlife, where the ghosts of society wouldn’t haunt them. Where no one could part them from the one they loved. 

But Heer wasn’t alone. The same tragedy bled into Sahiba’s story. She, too, was blamed within minutes, branded a traitor to her lover. As if everyone had lined her path with roses. As if the world supported her decision to love. No. She was torn, caught in a cruel dilemma between protecting her brothers and protecting her love. She decided to beg, to surrender her dignity at her brothers’ feet, just so they’d spare Mirza’s life. She chose to humiliate herself, but not to lose him. 

And still, the betrayal came — not from her, but from fate. Mirza died thinking she betrayed him. He never knew the truth. And Sahiba, shattered by the weight of that misunderstanding, couldn’t bear to live. 

Because what’s more cruel than your lover dying with doubt in his eyes? What’s more painful than being blamed by the world, when all you did was try to protect everyone you loved? 

But society never let women speak. Never gave them a chance to explain. It was society that pushed them to the edge, and then called them disloyal for falling. The hypocrisy is unbearable. 

Like Heer, like Sahiba — their stories end in death not because they were weak, but because the world was too cruel to let them live freely. They chose the afterlife to unite — because this life denied them even that. 

And the biggest irony? Their only sin was love — which is supposed to be the greatest virtue. 

If they had followed society’s rules — its “glacier of light” — they’d still be alive, but hollow. Because a woman who kills her desires just to survive is not living — she’s merely existing. And that is the real tragedy. 

Remembering these stories is not about romanticising them. It’s about exposing the brutal chains of patriarchy and the moral hypocrisy that still bind women who dare to choose for themselves. 

These are not tales of love — they are tragedies. The only thing worth glorifying is their courage. Heer, Sahiba, Sohni, Sassi — they never took the easy way out. They stood strong. They resisted. And yet, the world still fails to grasp the depth of their fight. 

What’s worse? This pattern continues, but now it hides in shadows. Once, women were openly crushed. Today, the chains are silent — disguised as guilt, silence, and conditional freedoms. 

How many more Heers must die just for loving? How many more Sahibas must be blamed for trying to protect both family and heart? How many more Sohni-Sassis must drown in despair before their choices are seen as human — not crimes? How many more must sacrifice everything — just for the right to love freely? 

Views expressed by the author are their own.