Last week’s Pamaal episode had me thinking — how do women, especially strong ones like Malika, keep missing the red flags that stare us in the face? As a Gen Z viewer, I’d spotted it in Raza early on — the way he guarded his belongings, snapped at his bhabi for touching his things, agreed, Malika didn’t see that though – that unsettling mix of charm and control. Yet, Malika didn’t spot it. Maybe because she didn’t allow herself to think objectively (a trait we often miss when we fall in love), and to really get to know him. Maybe she saw in him the man of her dreams — the one she had written about, imagined, and idolized.
From a distance, everything looked perfect. Raza was attentive, polite, well-spoken — almost too good to be true. But narcissistic behaviour rarely walks in wearing a villain’s cape. It’s soft, disarming, wrapped in attentiveness. And when you’re being adored, who stops to wonder if that attention comes with invisible strings?
The wedding night should’ve been a clue — Raza telling her he likes things his way, that he keeps close what he loves. Sounds romantic until you realize he wasn’t talking about love, he was talking about ownership. The upcoming episodes made that even clearer — Raza’s temper flaring up over the smallest things, his sense of control now extending beyond his wardrobe to Malika’s choices and movements. When he questioned her for going out with her bhabi and called it “shaadi ki dusri ghalti,” it honestly had me rolling my eyes and boiling inside.
Okay, I get it — maybe being sent off to boarding school after his parents’ death left emotional scars. Maybe there’s an attachment disorder at play, anxiety, or even unresolved trauma. We saw traces of that early on, with his obsession over his belongings. But now with a person, a life partner, it takes on another level. He wants Malika to exist within his rules, his comfort zone, his narrative. That’s not love — that’s control dressed up as concern.
And this is the early onset of narcissism — often mistaken for perfectionism. The need to control surroundings, the obsessive order, the possessive attachment to objects (and eventually, people). It begins subtly: a tidy wardrobe, strict personal boundaries, a certain way things “must be done.” But that perfectionism isn’t about neatness — it’s about control, the belief that no one else can do things right. Raza’s fixation on control has now seeped into his marriage — and it’s starting to show.
Then there’s Malika’s history. Her father passed away early on, but her mother raised her to be strong, self-sufficient and outspoken. Malika isn’t easily swayed — she’s imaginative, driven, and knows her worth. But she believes Raza to be the dream character that walked into her life straight out of her stories, the kind of man she had written about and shaped herself — the one who would understand her, see her the way she saw herself in her own words. That’s exactly where the trap lies. When someone mirrors your ideal so perfectly, it doesn’t feel like a red flag — it feels like fate. So when he’s territorial, she doesn’t see control; she sees passion. “He just likes things his way,” she tells herself — and that’s where it begins.
What shifts the character ftom those we’ve seen before, is that Malika isn’t the passive, helpless heroine. When Raza questioned her character, she didn’t stay silent — she stood up for herself. That moment was refreshing and long overdue. But when she told Anas to take a step back despite being childhood friends and cousins, it stung. It’s another reflection of how society polices women’s friendships, how even the most confident ones end up negotiating their comfort for peace.
And yes, marriage is about compromise — but not the kind where one person has to shrink themselves to fit the other. No one, woman or man, should have to give up their likes, dislikes, or individuality for love to survive. The moment that happens, it stops being compromise and starts being submission.
Raza’s behaviour keeps adding layers. Him refusing to wear the shirt Malika bought him because it didn’t fit right. These minor traits aren’t harmless; they show how validation in such relationships always flows one way. When Malika got hurt, his concern looked real, but his words — “my love is protecting, keeping what I like” — summed it up. That’s not affection. That’s possession.
Women like Malika — confident, capable — are often the easiest to catch off guard. They aren’t naive; they’re hopeful. They believe love can be respectful and consuming. But narcissistic relationships often start with that exact illusion: intensity mistaken for intimacy. It’s the small things — the possessiveness disguised as protection, the “I just care about you” that slowly morphs into “don’t do this without asking me.”
We’ve seen this pattern before. Remember Khaas? Sanam Baloch’s character endured constant belittling from a husband who thought love meant control — commenting on her looks, undermining her choices, erasing her individuality piece by piece. Raza feels like a quieter, more calculated version of that. He praises Malika, celebrates her writing, yet subtly makes her orbit around him.
Maybe Malika didn’t ignore the signs. Maybe she just saw what she wanted to see. When love is wrapped in validation — someone who reads your stories, quotes your lines, makes you feel seen — it’s easy to forget that love isn’t supposed to consume your space; it’s supposed to share it.
As Pamaal unfolds, Raza’s layers are becoming clearer. He’s not a one-note villain — his trauma and possessiveness are tangled. But that’s what makes it dangerous. Because narcissism isn’t loud, it’s quiet. It doesn’t roar, it whispers. And by the time you see it for what it truly is, it’s already rewritten your idea of love.
The performances in Pamaal are so convincing, you end up feeling every emotion — the frustration, the tension, the heartbreak. Usman Mukhtar is giving us a Raza that reveals glimpses of men we’ve seen or been. Saba Qamar, as always, is a powerhouse; she brings Malika’s strength, confusion, and quiet defiance to life with such grace that you can’t look away. Together, they make Pamaal the kind of story that pulls you in and refuses to let go. We’re watching, analyzing, and feeling every beat — and that’s when you know a story is about to wrap you up in its many layers, navigating or even triggering emotions you felt you had left behind.
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