Over the past half-century, the language of love in Pakistan has not moved in a straight line from “traditional” to “modern.” Instead, it has bent, folded, and adapted to urbanisation, class mobility, mass media, and digital life, producing new ways of speaking affection while keeping old anxieties firmly in place. What has changed most is not the intensity of love, but where, how, and in what language it is allowed to surface.
For much of the twentieth century, romantic expression was shaped by restraint. Love was something to be endured, not announced. In Urdu, the dominant public language of romance, intimacy lived in suggestion rather than declaration. Mohabbat (love) and ishq (passionate love) appeared in poetry, not conversation. To say main tum se pyaar karta hoon (“I love you”) was blunt, even indecorous. Instead, people said tum bohot aziz ho (“you are very dear”), tumhara khayal rehta hai (“you remain in my thoughts”), or nothing at all. Silence itself carried meaning. Longing (intezar, waiting) and pain (dard) were seen as proof of sincerity.
This emotional economy was reinforced by social structure. In both urban and rural settings, reputation (izzat) mattered deeply, especially for women. Romantic speech had consequences. Love therefore travelled through poetry, songs, intermediaries, or glances. In Punjabi, affection could be warmer but still coded: sohniye (“beautiful one”) or meri jaan (“my life”) carried tenderness, but public romance remained limited. In Sindhi and Pashto contexts, love language was often devotional or stoic. Munhinjo sajan (“my beloved”) or sta pa khayal ke yam (“I am thinking of you”) said just enough, never too much.
The first major shift came with early urbanisation in the 1990s and 2000s. Migration to cities, television dramas, pop music, and mobile phones softened the boundaries. Love began to sound more conversational. Urdu became simpler, mixed with Punjabi or regional speech, and romance increasingly passed as “friendship.” Saying tum achay lagtay ho (“I like you”) felt safer than pyaar. Teasing became common. Emotional closeness was negotiated through humour, everyday concern, and physical presence rather than grand declarations.
At the same time, class differences sharpened. Among working-class and lower-middle-class couples, affection remained direct and embodied. Love was shown through checking in, showing up, providing. Nicknames like jaan or meri were common, mock insults functioned as intimacy, and language was earthy rather than poetic. Saying khayal rakho (“take care”) could mean more than a dozen romantic lines. English, when used, often sounded artificial or pretentious in these settings.
By contrast, elite and highly educated urban circles moved in the opposite direction. Here, love language became cooler and more ironic. Emotional excess was embarrassing. Relationships were described vaguely: “We’re seeing each other,” “We vibe,” “It’s complicated.” English increasingly replaced Urdu for emotional expression, not because it was more intimate, but because it was safer. Saying “I miss you” in English carried less cultural weight than tumhari bohot yaad aati hai. English functioned as emotional insulation, allowing people to feel without fully committing.
The most dramatic transformation, however, came with digital urbanisation in the 2010s. Smartphones, WhatsApp, and Instagram reshaped love language across classes. Romance moved off the street and into the screen. Emojis replaced poetry. A single ❤️ could now say what once required a ghazal. Voice notes allowed intimacy without literacy, and typing offered deniability. Online ho? (“Are you online?”) became a modern equivalent of longing.
This shift made romantic language more explicit in private and more restrained in public. People who would never say pyaar aloud could write “I love you” at 2 a.m. Screens created intimacy, but also risk. The same message could be harmless for an urban university student and dangerous for a factory worker or domestic worker. Gender and class continued to determine who could afford to speak freely.
Urban middle-class romance today is marked by hybridity. Urdu and English blend seamlessly: I really miss you yaar, tum matter karti ho, you make me feel calm. Emotional vocabulary now borrows from therapy and self-help. Partners talk about “space,” “boundaries,” and “comfort.” Love is framed as emotional support rather than sacrifice. Yet this apparent openness often exists only behind closed doors. Public affection remains limited, carefully curated, and socially monitored.
In rural and more conservative contexts, change has been slower but not absent. Romantic language remains compressed and symbolic, but phones have quietly expanded possibility. Love is still expressed through concern, waiting, or loyalty (wafadari), but messages travel faster and farther. Even here, words are chosen carefully. Too much sweetness can still threaten izzat.
Across all these contexts, one thing is clear: love in Pakistan has not become less intense, less sincere, or more “Western.” It has become linguistically strategic. People choose words not only for what they feel, but for what they can afford to risk. Urdu still carries emotional gravity. Punjabi still teases. Sindhi still devotes. Pashto still guards dignity. English still buffers vulnerability. The biggest change is not what people feel, but how carefully they say it. Love has moved from poetry to implication to hybrid speech, from public silence to private verbosity. The words have changed. The calculations behind them have not.
I’ve always liked how my Pakistan friends say they don’t talk about love—right before sending a three-minute voice note at midnight, whispering miss you like it’s classified information.
Let’s be honest: romance hasn’t disappeared. In South Asia, it has just gone underground. It slipped off the street, ducked under izzat, dodged aunties and algorithms, and re-emerged on phones with emojis, half-English sentences, and the strategic use of “seen.”
When I was younger, love sounded like poetry. Not because people were more romantic, but because poetry was the safest hiding place. You could recite longing without naming its object. You could ache publicly while loving privately. Like in other countries, in Pakistan everyone understood the code. Dil, intezar, dard—these weren’t just words, they were shields.
Now? My friends tell me that Love is typed with thumbs and deleted twice before sending. It’s “I miss you yaar” because yaar softens the risk. It’s “take care” because that’s socially bulletproof. It’s English because English doesn’t carry the same weight, the same consequences. Saying “I love you” in English feels like borrowing someone else’s emotions—returnable, refundable.
Urban life didn’t make people braver. It made them better editors. Cities teach you how to manage reputation while craving intimacy. Screens give you privacy but also receipts. One screenshot can ruin a life; one voice note can save a lonely night. Romance now lives in the gap between desire and fear.
What fascinates me most is how class still decides who gets to speak freely. A well-heeled girl can flirt ironically and call it “vibes.” A working-class woman has to calculate every word. The same heart emoji can be cute or catastrophic depending on who sends it, who receives it, and who finds out.
And yet—despite all this caution—people are still wildly romantic. They just express it sideways. They remember your coffee order. They check if you got home safely. They wait. They worry. They stay. In places where words are dangerous, actions become poetry.
So no, love hasn’t become colder or more Western or less sincere. It’s become tactical. It’s learned how to survive scrutiny, morality, gossip, and bandwidth. It’s learned when to speak and when to stay silent.
And honestly? There’s something very sexy about that restraint. Because when someone finally does say it—properly, plainly, without emojis or excuses—you know it cost them something.