Precipice at the 20th – Mann UnMayal (Part 1)

I grew up during Pakistan Television’s days of glory. Transmission would begin at 6 pm, just after tea time.  Abbi’s Tennis done, our homework completed, dinner organized to be served immediately after “Khabrain”, the living room inviting as only Ammi’s could be, we would gather expectantly to enjoy the evening’s fare.  A delicately embroidered dust cloth was always thrown over the TV as protection. From what? I don’t know, perhaps just dust or to deliver fair warning not to manhandle this most revered of household appliances. Not everyone owned one, we got ours rather late, hence the care. We were allowed to watch but not touch, that concession for grownups including the “batman” who would gingerly pull off the cover and fold it, then with measured movement press the “On” button, not to be confused with the “Off” button adjacent to it.  Voila! The infamous black and white PTV insignia, accompanied by the most depressing musical score ever written, revealed itself gloriously and continued to do so for fifteen minutes; TV had not yet discovered the commercial value of its transmitted nanosecond.  I hated the start which belied  the delightful content to follow, and I abhorred the end, at Khabrain, which signaled marching orders to dinner and then bed, for us. In between, everything was magical.


I had many favorites.  Dr. Kildare and Captain Kirk were swoon-worthy, the one-armed man pursuing The Fugitive gave me nightmares as did eerie aliens of The Twilight Zone, Mr. Steed was cool and classy but Mr. Spock reminded me too much of Ammi to become a favorite, and a Russian, Ilya Kuryakin, took my breath away.  Occasionally, Ammi would suffer compassion over discipline and I would snuggle up to Abbi to watch Perry Mason which aired after my curfew, the insufferable Khabrain.  I dreamed of committing murder and getting caught only to be saved by the suave Mr. Mason. Women never interested me.  They were often coy or manipulative, smoked cigarettes, spoke brazenly and dressed revealingly, all very “haww”-inducing in my world. Admittedly I was a misogynistic and judgmental child, and was never chided over it, this being the norm.  I was only bewitched by Samantha; beautiful, blonde, noticeably rich, making magic just by twitching her lips.  I wanted to be her, minus pointy-chinned Darrin as husband.


I never missed Kalyon ki Mala  - in fact participated in some of the recordings with the exceedingly talented Sohail Rana and Shahnaz Begum courtesy my dear friend Huma Khusro’s uncle Zubair Ahmad who was a newscaster at PTV Karachi.  For a few memorable days, Huma and I sat alongside Nazia, Zoheb, Afshan, Fatima and several other melodious young boys and girls thinking ourselves equally so.  After a few sessions we weren’t invited back, but I still sing along to all of Sohail Rana’s ditties composed for that incomparable production, in Urdu and Bengali.     

Imported entertainment and children’s fare aside, the jewel in PTV’s crown were its drama productions. I was too young to absorb the social commentary of Khuda ki Basti or to appreciate the satire in Taaleem e Balighan, or to feel the pathos of Mirza Ghalib Bandar Road Par, but they remain etched in my memory and I draw learnings from them subconsciously, drop by drop, as if to keep myself hydrated.  By the time Uncle Urfi, Shahzori and Kiran Kahani came around, I, along with the Pakistani nation, had developed a taste for the PTV serial.  Neelofer Aleem was the new face of the urban Pakistani woman.  Ammi and the cleaning lady both took to wearing their dupattas the “Shahzori” way while doing household chores; above the crown, crossed behind the neck, forward over the shoulders. Men and mothers-in-law were scandalized and Haseena Moin became the Ismat Chughtai of PTV, appreciated and reviled in equal portions. Fast forward to the arrival of colored TV and Pakistani drama serials had cemented their place in South Asian entertainment history.  Stories was well conceived, scripts always sharp and witty, direction flawless, casting on point and acting delightful.  They were a class act worthy of international recognition.  To this day one hears Indian friends share anecdotes about innovative attempts to “catch” PTV to watch Waris, Dhoop Kinarey, Ankahi and Tanhaiyaan.


Oh my, I have not just digressed but regressed much too far. My story is not about the golden age of the Pakistani drama serial. It is about the plunge that contemporary productions inevitably take into the precipice of wandering and wavering, stretching and extending, ultimately losing their eager, expectant audience.  They do this consistently, predictably and exactly at the 20th episode.

Mine is not a Nielsen household of Pakistan so my opinion may not count, and I realize that ratings are sky-rocketing which gives scant motivation to change, but I also notice the discerning, loyal ones switching channels or “off-ing” it, possibly never to “on” it again. Something’s gotta give to prevent the Pakistani serial from falling headlong into the precipice at the 20th.  Otherwise, my inclined heart – mera mayal mann – will not be so any more.

More soon on the one’s I watch, those that have plunged – sadly – and those about to take the dreaded leap.  Watch this space.