Politics is often described as Pakistan’s favorite past-time, but it’s the humble television serial that has for decades consistently attracted the largest number of eyeballs—for both good and ill.
Exact figures for the viewership of Pakistani dramas are difficult to come by, but their popularity both at home and abroad is undeniable. Even as views of broadcasts have declined in recent years, viewership has surged on on-demand streaming and digital platforms, with the most popular dramas achieving billions of views and high digital engagement. While also popular among men, the viewership of serials is highest among women of all ages, securing a coveted demographic that both politics and sports struggle to attract.
This popularity, however, has proven a double-edged sword, with production houses scrambling to fill airwaves, often prioritizing quantity over quality. The mass viewership discourages innovation, with many of today’s most popular dramas continuing to peddle regressive views, chauvinistic ideals, and a view of ideal femininity that belongs in the bins of yesteryear.
An average drama revolves around a tried-and-tested love story, reinforcing traditional gender roles, as the female lead’s ultimate goal is inevitably matrimony. The male characters serve as either hero or villain, and sometimes both, fueling ceaseless conversations around their likes and dislikes, leaving the women pursuing them as thin caricatures with little personal agency.
One such recent example is Qarz-e-Jaan (2024–2025). The 32-episode drama depicts woman advocate Nashwa, portrayed by Yumna Zaidi, who overcomes cultural constraints and takes on a sexual assault case in which the perpetrator is her cousin. Widely praised for its depiction of misogyny and male privilege during its broadcast, the show appeared to undo its own impact as it neared conclusion by humanizing the rapist.
Rather than focusing on the victim—as well as the lead, who is forced by her family to marry him—it takes pains to absolve the perpetrator’s guilt even as he ends the show in handcuffs. Zaidi’s Nashwa, who at one point takes her own husband to court, also appears to “forgive” him, raising questions over the serial’s message: is rape less of a crime if the perpetrator’s upbringing was at fault? A monologue by the rapist in the final episode appears to suggest so, resulting in appreciable backlash on social media.
Dil Waali Gali Mein (2025), also 32 episodes, stars Sajal Aly as Deeju and Hamza Sohail as Mujji in a classic rom-com trope of enemies to lovers. The central couple comes from rival families, and the show spends much of its runtime on their attempts to a build a life together. However, the show lets down its female lead, who has knee-jerk responses to most situations. When facing problems from her in-laws, she forces her husband to move to her parents’ home and then pushes him to invest in legally disputed property. At one point, she turns abusive, slapping her husband in public and then filing for divorce—only to have a sudden change of heart ahead of the conclusion, undermining whatever message the show might have been developing.
Aye Ishq e Junoon (2024–2025) builds on another familiar trope, class disparity, through its 35 episodes. The show depicts a working-class woman meeting an affluent man—and subsequently getting harassed, and almost murdered, by his younger brother. Through a series of convoluted plot points, she “forgets” the identity of her harasser, believes it is the elder brother, yet agrees to marry him nonetheless. She eventually regains her memories and takes the younger brother to court. However, instead of suffering in prison, he “escapes” accountability and is killed during a police encounter. The woman, predictably, just serves as prop to plot progressions aimed at eliciting reactions from viewers.
Reason for optimism
This is not to say the serial industry has nothing positive to offer. Historically, the drama industry has pushed for women’s empowerment, with Ankahi (1982) and Tanhaiyaan (1986), among shows that are often singled out for their progressive views. Both shows depict women balancing personal and professional aspirations alongside family drama, moving beyond the standard tropes of women waiting for a “prince” to save them.
In recent years, Tan Man Neelo Neel (2024) used 11 episodes to highlight the dangerous misuse of Pakistan’s blasphemy laws, ending with the public lynching of the leads over false accusations arising from the male lead, Shuja Asad, dancing at a Sikh mansion that his accuser presents as him as dancing at a mosque. The show takes pains to show the false nature of the accusations and the ease with which public anger can be directed toward violence.
Ongoing show Case No. 9, written by journalist Shahzeb Khanzada, is making strides by realistically depicting a sexual assault victim seeking justice through the Pakistani court system. Drawing inspiration from real-life cases, it highlights the public and media’s need for a “perfect” victim, emphasizing that a victim should not have to prove their innocence as prerequisite for justice.
Unfortunately, the exceptions are just that: exceptions that reinforce the rule of the majority projecting regressive views. With an audience both local and overseas, creators feel no need to break the mold, as any new narrative inherently carries risks that discourage investment of production houses. Another factor is undoubtedly a growing global shift toward conservatism, with younger generations influenced by adherents to “traditionalism” preferring content that reinforces their views.
Representation matters, especially in shows consumed by a large number of viewers. Changing the prevailing trope-laden drama landscape requires either a push from the consumers or from creators. Barring action from either, the local drama industry will continue to churn out tried-and-tested formulas, knowing they will find a willing audience. Without this shift in either audience appetite or creative ambition, the industry will remain trapped in the comfort of its own clichés.