For years, political hostilities between India and Pakistan have disrupted entertainment exchange, but rarely have restrictions been as sweeping as those triggered by the Pahalgam fallout.

The latest wave of bans targeted Pakistani shows on YouTube, blocked streaming access to cross-border dramas on Netflix and Amazon Prime, and even temporarily disabled Instagram accounts of Pakistani actors and peace activists.

The clampdown came at a time when Pakistani dramas have been enjoying immense popularity across the border, on digital and social media. They have not just built massive fan bases there, but are also engaging with radical themes that, as Indian journalist Raksha Kumar points out, are missing from Indian television dramas, due to “superflous” research, lack of courage or financial constraints.

One standout example is a three-part mini series that aired last August on the privately owned Hum TV, produced by veteran television pioneer Sultana Siddiqui. Each installment tells a stand-alone story. Each is bound by the shared theme of how far-right radicals terrorise individuals and the communities they inhabit at large and the limitations of the state to give justice or security to the victims.

The final episode of Tan Man Neelo Neel (Body and Soul Covered in Bruises), the last in the trilogy, elicited great emotion for audiences in both countries. The lead characters attacked by an angry mob were their parents’ only children. They were young people whose dreams were cut short.

CAPTION: Tan Man Neelo Neel’s last episode on Hum TV’s YouTube with English and Hindi subtitles

The story ends with a chilling mosaic honouring real-life victims of ‘blasphemy’ mob violence like Mashal Khan, a university student in Mardan, 2017 and the brothers Mughees and Muneeb Butt, in Sialkot, 2010.

Mob violence

Many others could have been included. The list is long and includes those who were victimised on the pretext of religion even if mob violence wasn’t involved. The theme resonates wherever this phenomenon has occurred.

Since she launched Hum TV in 2005, Sultana Siddiqui, now in her late 70s, has used the television channel as a platform for storytelling from a progressive bent of mind, offering a nuanced portrayal of Pakistani society through deeply grounded characters.

This isn’t the first time her storytelling has crossed borders. Zindagi Gulzar Hai (Life is Beautiful) 2012 was a hit in neighbouring India. The series shows a picture of Pakistan different from the narrative seen in the Indian context. Its popularity, fueled by social media, created a demand for Pakistani content in the Indian market.

Its lead actor Fawad Khan, went on to become a Bollywood heartthrob, but was then ‘banned’ in India along with other Pakistani artists following the 2016 Uri attack. The Pakistani film Maula Jatt that he stars in was due to be released in India, but that has been stalled too. And the release of a Bollywood romance he stars in, Abir Gulaal, is now also in limbo due to renewed hostilities.

Countering ‘foreign’ serials

What catalysed Sultana Siddiqui to start Hum TV channel was a desire to create relevant content rooted in Pakistan. “My son asked, ‘Are you sure this will work? Indian channels are dominating ratings.’ I told him, ‘Give it two days – those ratings won’t last’,” she recalls. “I was scared too. But when it happened, the entire atmosphere shifted. Not just in Pakistan, but anywhere Urdu is spoken.”

She wanted to counter the dominance of ‘foreign’ serials, particularly Indian dramas known for their sensationalist aesthetics. “Those vibrant colored walls, the dramatic music, and women cooking without a single stain on their clothes – it all used to bother me,” she says.

The series are part of a long line of Hum TV productions that have challenged social norms, like Udaari (Soaring, on child sexual abuse) and Dar Si Jaati Hai Silah (Silah Gets a Bit Scared, on domestic violence).

Speaking to Sapan News at her office in Karachi, Sultana Siddiqui recalled the backlash against Udaari (2016), which state-run regulators branded ‘immoral’ and threatened to shut down.

“I asked them, ‘What exactly do you gain by doing this?’” she recalled. Their reply? “You get a lot of publicity.”

Public support

But Sultana Siddiqui believes it wasn’t just the regulators. “When one of my dramas performs exceptionally well, there are always two kinds of competitors – those who respond positively, and those who don’t. I choose to rise above. But some out of sheer spite think, ‘It’s doing well, so let’s bring it down,’ and they write complaints.”

Udaari received a record number of notices from the Pakistan Electronic Media Regulatory Authority, an indication of how much pushback such socially conscious shows can get. The subject matter, she was told, was too “bold” to ignore.

Her response: “Look at the end – the rapist was caught and punished. The purpose of Udaari was to show that if you see your child disturbed, talk to them. Because often, it’s the nearest person who abuses the child, someone they trust.”

What sustained her was support from the public. “That’s where we drew our strength from, to fight the case legally,” Sultana Siddiqui says. “Sorry, but we are not followers; we create and make others follow.”

She admits having to self-censor many aspects of her productions. “Of course, you can play it safe, but if you’re intelligent, you should know what your purpose is.”

While Pakistani television channels today enjoy far more freedom than under military regimes, it was Pakistan’s last military dictator, Gen. Pervez Musharraf, who in fact allowed private channels to start.

“Back then we mostly adapted novels into dramas, where the mother was the epitome of goodness,” she says. “They were slow-paced and good in their own right, but their reach and impact were limited. The subjects were limited too – you couldn’t tackle issues like child abuse… You couldn’t even show a couple holding hands. That’s not the case now.”

In contrast, films get caught in layers of bureaucracy with those in different regulatory departments “sending mixed signals – one says yes, the other says no.”

The horrific cases of mob violence in Pakistan affected Siddiqui on a personal level, she said, leading her to create the Tan Man series as a response.

“I don’t have the energy anymore to keep running around, directing projects,” she admits. “But I saw something that shattered me. I just hope some change comes from it – something that makes me feel like I’ve done my part. If nothing else, at least it brings some awareness.”

“When I see things like this, I know it’s already time for me to bow out,” she says. “But before I do, I want to leave behind something meaningful."

Alongside Tan Man Neelo Neel, which runs for 11 episodes, the trilogy features Mann Jogi with nine episodes and Nadaan with eight. The latter tackles the controversial practice of ‘Halala Nikah’ and exposes how religious doctrine is exploited for personal political gain.

The second installment, Nadaan, directed by filmmaker Mehreen Jabbar (Ramchand Pakistani, 2008), examines the scourge of drug addiction. The story shows how drug addicts pose threats to people around them; they resist the opening of rehabilitation centres that might weaken their grip, hiding behind performative piety to deflect scrutiny, and ultimately incite mob violence to protect their influence and preserve the toxic ecosystems they benefit from.

Cross-border drama

Sultana Siddiqui has always strongly favoured the inclusion of cross-border talent in Pakistani and Indian cultural productions. She has participated in various bilateral conferences and meetings, including those organised by Aman Ki Asha (Hope for Peace), a joint platform initiated in 2010 by the two biggest media groups of India and Pakistan respectively.

At the 2018 inaugural Pakistan International Film Festival, which Sultana Siddiqui hosted in Karachi, she invited prominent Indian industry figures as guests, including the team behind the blockbuster film Baahubali. But when she informally asked one of them, a veteran writer, to create content for Pakistani audiences, he politely declined, citing “grave risks”.

Sultana Siddiqui advocates for a more equitable exchange of cultural assets between India and Pakistan. She doesn’t mind Indian productions hiring Pakistani writers but “it should be a two-way street. For every writer they take, we should get one in return – maybe even agree on a percentage.”

There are other kinds of risks involved in collaboration that may derail such efforts. There have been cases of storylines from Pakistan being picked up by Indian productions but then, “things were added according to their own wishes.”

State policy has also played its part. In 2016, Pakistan banned Indian dramas on its television channels, after India’s unofficial curbs on Pakistani artists. The blackout, she notes, did give a short-term boom to homegrown content, but the real game-changer has been the rise of digital streaming platforms.

Not all of Hum TV’s projects have been free from critique. The 2019 television series Ehd-e-Wafa, a collaboration with the military’s media wing, the Inter-Services Public Relations, drew criticism for glorifying the army and depicting other professions and state institutions unfairly. Earlier ISPR-sponsored shows like Alpha Bravo Charlie (1998) and Sunehre Din (1991) focused on military life without overt political messaging.

Asked whether private channels should be subject to such influence, Sultana Siddiqui stresses that collaboration should involve professionals who understand the craft.

(The writer is a journalist intern with Sapan News based in Karachi, passionate about covering women-centric stories at the intersection of peace, human rights, and politics. On X @AbdullahZahid. By special arrangement with Sapan)