A woman is a human being before anything else—and as a human, she deserves the freedom to wear whatever she loves. I’ve always imagined a woman in a sari, anklets on her feet, a tip on her forehead, walking barefoot beside me. Clothing should be her choice; without freedom, even “heaven” loses its meaning. Linking clothes with morality or paradise feels absurd to me.
Today, under the false banner of “modernity,” women are pushed into sacks—not because times have advanced, but because security has failed and women are treated like commodities. Men decide what women should wear. Once, their ancestors sold women like property; now they dictate women’s clothing in the name of “decency.”
In Cape Town, I saw women dressed however they felt comfortable—studying, driving, shopping—without anyone staring or judging. Only in Bangladesh and Pakistan have I seen such a toxic obsession with women’s clothes. When I asked a Black man there if women’s outfits bothered him, he simply said, “I’m a human, not an animal.” I saw white people show deep respect toward women. In my country, we grew up thinking Westerners only care about sex. How wrong we were. They cook, work, struggle, and live just like us—they simply don’t waste their lives obsessing over women’s bodies.
Growing up with Hindi movies, Western songs, and wild imaginations, I eventually realized the problem wasn’t women—it was our mindset. When I saw women with respect, I understood how beautiful the world truly is.
I fell in love with a woman’s eyes, voice, confidence—not her clothes. During my theater days on Bailey Road, I met actresses who lived in a world of art, far above the narrow views of society. But some arrogant men still ridiculed them. That toxic mentality is why Bangladeshi women are being forced into restrictive clothing today.
European women love shorts; Bangladeshi women love sarees and salwar suits. So why force them into sacks? Because some ignorant people believe even seeing a woman’s hands or feet is sinful. Religious narratives have labeled women’s bodies as sinful for centuries.
In college, we all wore the same uniform. You couldn’t tell who was Hindu or Muslim. Girls wore the same outfits as boys. We sat together with mutual respect; no one felt uncomfortable. If you liked someone, you expressed it honestly—not with hostility.
My deepest wish is for a world where people are seen simply as people. A world where humanity comes before gender, religion, or clothing. A world where everyone is recognized through human eyes, not through prejudice.
People will see people through the eyes of people, not through the eyes of a maid.
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