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I booked an online appointment with a gynaecologist in Karachi during the pandemic. I had a severe urinary tract infection and needed immediate relief. Everything felt routine at first: the doctor joined the video call late, held her phone awkwardly and asked about my symptoms. I explained, she prescribed medication, and then came the expected questions: Was I married? For how long? Any children? When I said “no,” her tone shifted as she asked, “Bachay tou chaihiye na aap ko?” (You do want children, right?). It felt subtly menacing – the assumption was clear: not wanting kids meant something was wrong.
What shocked me more was my own response. “Ji, ji, bilkul,” (Yes, yes, of course) I mumbled. Later, I was furious with myself for crumbling under pressure – for not being honest.
I live in a country where a woman’s value is often measured by her ability and willingness to become a mother. People casually throw around words like baanjh (infertile) even when a woman is simply choosing to wait. And when she openly says she doesn’t want kids at all? That’s seen as selfish, even threatening.
Everyone, from distant relatives to strangers, feels entitled to pry. “What are you waiting for? It’s been X months since your marriage!” they say, with no regard for privacy. Some declare that children are your only legacy or support in old age. Others recommend fertility clinics, religious clerics, hakeems (a wise man or traditional healer) – even therapists, as though choosing not to have children is a mental illness that needs to be “fixed”.
Once, an older driver who used to pick me up from work asked if I had kids. When I said no, he stared at me through the rear-view mirror and began invasive questioning about my and my husband’s reproductive health. I changed the subject multiple times but to no avail. As I was getting out he was still at it: “Do remind me on WhatsApp. I’ll give you the number of a hakeem who fixed someone with the same problem.”
This pro-natalist rhetoric is a part of more than just casual conversations. It dominates our media and political discourse. Pakistani dramas often depict child-free women as cursed, manipulative, or to be pitied. Even our state leaders echo this mindset. Former prime minister Imran Khan once remarked, “I disagree with the western concept of feminism; it has completely degraded the role of a mother,” – as if feminism and motherhood are incompatible and a woman’s worth hinges solely on her womb.
This messaging trickles into healthcare and policymaking. According to the State of World Population 2025 report by UNFPA, two in three women in Pakistan have no autonomy to make decisions about their reproductive health. And yet we have no national policy or public discourse that supports women who want to remain child-free.
Fertility is seen as something to be promoted and managed, rarely questioned. While I come from a relatively privileged, urban background, the pressure to have children is often far more intense in rural areas, where rigid gender roles persist and access to contraception or reproductive education is severely limited. Even in cities, married women are seldom offered contraceptive counselling that centres personal choice.
In fact, women who suffer miscarriages are blamed for their diet, jobs, or travel. “Naukri chhor do” [Just quit your job] is a common refrain used in Pakistan to rush “such” women back into their reproductive role.
It’s not that I never wanted children. Growing up in a matriarchal household in Karachi, I dreamed of becoming a neurologist who balanced a career, home and kids. Marriage wasn’t my fairytale but motherhood was always a part of the plan.
I’d conjure names, plan Excel sheets of schools, and imagine my future child asking me questions that would reshape my values. I was constantly evolving, as a woman and an imaginary mother.
Even after marriage, I held on to that desire. But juggling three intense roles – author, poet, journalist – I realised I couldn’t offer a child the emotional presence they deserved. My husband understood. Our reasons differed: mine were emotional, his rational. He questioned bringing a child into a world rife with crisis and climate collapse. We agreed: if we ever wanted to dote on a child, we’d adopt, volunteer at orphanages, or become godparents.
This decision, however, unsettled others. A cousin once said, “You just do the deed, I’ll raise the baby,” as though motherhood was a royalty deal, not a lifelong responsibility. Others offered remedies, from taweez-gandey [spiritual amulets and threads] to a kurta: a replica of the son of the religious leader Imam Husain. They applied mannat ki mehndi [devotional art] on my palm, invoking a belief rooted in Shia’ism: God grants children in honour of Hazrat Qasim’s nikah ceremony, which took place the night before the Battle of Karbala. I was even accused of being “too career-driven,” a “radical feminist,” or “too westernised”.
During this time, I developed cysts in both ovaries. That, combined with pregnancy announcements from friends who once vowed to remain child-free made me feel abandoned. It was as though my tribe had moved on to a new club I couldn’t enter. I started questioning everything. When my period came, I’d stare at the blood and wonder: could that have been a baby?
But I know now, I am not alone. Across the world, more women are choosing to remain child-free – not out of selfishness but after deep introspection. In countries such as the US, UK, and Japan, declining birthrates are framed as crises, but for many women, fulfilment simply looks different.
I may never hold a child who shares my blood, but I hold space for thought, for love, for stories, and for the kind of care that isn’t always visible but still deeply felt. I no longer see myself as lacking. I see myself as whole. If I were to face that doctor again today, I wouldn’t crumble. I’d say, calmly but firmly: no, I don’t want children – and that’s OK.
