Once upon a time, Pakistan Television was our Harvard, our poetry club, our moral compass, and our neighborhood gossip hub, all wrapped in one black-and-white broadcast. In the evenings, life came to a polite halt. We sat watching Baseerat in the evening, a religious starter, then watched kid’s programmes, then Sindhi shows followed by Prime Time drama. That ended and the main news bulletin, khabarnama boomed through the house as fathers tried to absorb each and every word spoken by the newsreaders. In the later years, mothers told kids to finish homework before Ankahi started. Fathers adjusted the antenna like it was a matter of national security. Even the street dogs barked less during Dhoop Kinare. We didn’t have 200 channels, 4K resolution, or high-speed internet. What we had was rarer; class, depth, and stories that actually made sense.
Back then, Ashfaq Ahmed could shake your soul with one quiet dialogue. Haseena Moin could make you laugh, cry, and rethink your life without showing a single flying slipper or endless shouting match. Our dramas taught us patience, respect, and the art of holding a relationship — together. They made you feel smarter, not dumb.
Now? Welcome to the era of screaming contests in designer drawing rooms, where every family is plotting each other’s destruction between tea breaks. Today’s writers don’t research life; they research ratings. Plots are recycled more than plastic bottles, and subtlety has been deported from the country. An episode is 80 percent flashbacks, 15 percent glares, and 5 percent is a tea cup falling and spilling tea in slow motion while climactic music plays.
And yet, the golden era refuses to die in our hearts. Why? Because the TV of the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s didn’t just entertain us; it branded us. We still remember dialogues, faces, and moments because those dramas were carved into our cultural memory.
Television has long held the power to mirror society, shape opinions, and connect hearts. In Pakistan, the medium of television evolved from a simple black-and-white screen in the 1960s into a powerful cultural institution by the 1990s. This golden era gave rise to a generation of viewers who not only watched television but they lived through it. From dramas that echoed national identity to writers who served as the moral compass of a changing society, Pakistani TV was once a source of pride, reflection, and unity.
But today, those same viewers now watch TV with disappointment, even disbelief. What was once a platform for cultural nourishment has, in their eyes, become a parade of glitz, conflict, and blatant commercialism.
When television was a mirror
Earlier, in its golden era, television may have been limited in quantity but was rich in quality. Broadcasts were nationalised, programming was curated, and most importantly, content was rooted in the cultural soil of Pakistan.
Writers like Ashfaq Ahmed (Zaviya), Bano Qudsia (Aadhi Baat), Fatima Surayya Bajia (Aroosa), and Haseena Moin (Dhoop Kinare, Tanhaiyan) were not just dramatists; they were social philosophers. Their stories taught us how to run a household with patience, how to navigate relationships with dignity, and how to confront societal issues with wisdom.
The performances of Talat Hussain (Des Pardes), Khalida Riyasat (Bandish), Shakeel (Uncle Urfi, Parchaiyan), Zeba Bakhtiar (Anarkali), and Rahat Kazmi (Dehleez, Dhoop Kinare) were not just acting; they were art that left permanent imprints on the nation’s heart.
Dramas like Tanhaiyan showed that broken relationships could be mended with understanding. Waris taught the consequences of feudal power struggles. Dehleez explored justice and moral courage. Bandish revealed the power of forgiveness and the fragility of trust. Alpha Bravo Charlie glorified patriotism, discipline, and service to the nation. Aangan Terha used satire to reflect on society’s contradictions.
Pakistani cinema in this golden period also contributed to national storytelling. Films like Armaan, Aina, Bandish, and Humraz stood out not just for their entertainment value, but for their emotional depth. These weren’t just stories; they were moral classrooms, entertaining yet binding the collective conscience of Pakistan.
But somewhere along the road, the mirror cracked. The warm, golden glow of thoughtful television began to dim. The scripts became shorter in patience and longer in commercial breaks. The family sitting together to watch TV was replaced by individuals scrolling alone. The era of television as a cultural teacher was quietly buried and replaced by a restless chase for ratings.
"Old dramas taught us how to run relationships till the very end with patience, understanding, and sacrifice,” says Umme Salma, a 50-year-old teacher, who is disappointed with the present-day TV plays. “They showed us how to save and heal, not break and escape like they do now. There was always a solution, always a message of hope."
She pointed to Tanhaiyan as a brilliant example of how dramas once provided tools for reconciliation. "One drama used to focus on one core issue. Today’s dramas pile up negativity but back then, even difficult issues were shown with dignity, and we were taught to trust our elders, to value decisions made by forefathers."
Salma was particularly critical of the modern writing industry: "Old writers worked hard. Their words felt real, their stories were soaked in culture. Today’s writers just copy one another to gain views not to add value. They glorify betrayal, divorce, and disconnection. But old writers wanted to keep families together, not break them. Dramas are responsible for much of the damage in society today. Those dramas left a mark on our hearts and minds. We still remember the way Talat Hussain delivered a line, how Marina Khan smiled, how Qazi Wajid walked into a scene. We know them not just by name — we know their work because of which we can’t forget them. That was the power of true acting and storytelling."
“Our TV plays in the past were so literary, pure and poetic,” says Naima Bibi, 60, who has taught literature for 35 years. “Children learned manners just by watching those dramas. They imbibed culture, vocabulary, and civility without anyone lecturing them.”
Even humour carried wisdom. Anwar Maqsood’s satire in Aangan Terha resonates even today. In his words, “Aaj ka TV, kal ka Pakistan hota hai.” [today’ TV is the Pakistan of tomorrow] Ashfaq Ahmed, Zia Mohyeddin, and Mufti Sahab, they were not just writers; they were intellectuals who focused on society building.”
My grandfather, Abdul Hai, served as a secretary at PTV Karachi. “Zia Mohyeddin wasn’t just a host; he was a master of words,” he says, sharing a rare insider perspective on the golden era as someone who saw how television influenced society, especially the youth. When he spoke, it felt like Faiz, Ghalib, or Iqbal were speaking through him. But what made PTV truly special was the effect it had on our youth. “Teenagers and young adults didn’t just watch TV for fun; they absorbed values, manners, and a sense of responsibility. Dramas taught patience, empathy, and respect for family and society.”
He emphasised that young people of that era grew up learning through stories understanding sacrifice in Humraz, resilience in Khuda Ki Basti, and honesty and integrity in Alpha Bravo Charlie.
“The youth then were guided by television as much as by their schools and homes,” he added. “They were inspired to respect elders, honor relationships, and engage with society thoughtfully. They also learned historical and cultural values the struggles of our nation, our heritage, and the importance of identity. Today, these historical values are completely missing from what the youth watch and learn.”
“Writing is not just a profession; it is a responsibility,” says Samina Gul, who has authored books on Islam and societal values. “Every word carries power, the power to educate, to guide, and to shape minds. When I write, I want my readers to reflect on themselves and their society. Whether it is a book or a drama script, the intention should always be to inspire goodness, foster understanding, and promote justice. Writing that glorifies negativity, betrayal, or superficiality does more harm than good. Haseena Moin, Bajiya and Bano Qudsia didn’t just create stories; they built society. They understood the power of words and their effect on families, youth, and national culture. Today, many writers focus solely on ratings or popularity, forgetting that storytelling has the power to shape character and morality.”
From thought to thrill
When private TV channels started in the early 2000s, it brought more shows and choices, but also a big problem: everything had to sell. Viewers were no longer just watching; they were customers, and TV had to keep them glued with drama, not meaning.
The family stories we loved, full of respect and love, were replaced with betrayal, affairs, and endless saas-bahu fights. Remember the sweet mother-daughter bond in Shehzori or Zeenat? Now it’s mostly arguing, shouting, and tears!\
In short, TV went from showing real life and lessons to shocking people for ratings and sometimes the only thing we learn now is who can scream the loudest on screen.
Writers then and now
Writers such as Noor-ul-Huda Shah, and Amjad Islam Amjad weren’t just creating TV shows they were building mindsets, shaping values, and leaving legacies. Their scripts had literary finesse, imagination, and psychological depth. Each story felt like a carefully polished gem, rich with insight, emotion, and social commentary. Fast forward to today, and it is a TRP treadmill. Modern days writers often churn out 50-episode marathons with the same recycled plotlines; betrayal, love triangles, secret siblings, rinse, repeat. Character development? Social message? Moral reflection? Forget it. Today’s scripts make us roll our eyes, scroll on social media, and pray for a commercial break.
Foreign content and the forgotten Pakistani story
Where are we headed? Apparently, straight into the arms of Turkish and Korean drama obsession. Today, Pakistani audiences can’t get enough of Diriliş: Ertuğrul, Salahuddin Ayubi, Kosem Sultan, or Sultan Abdul Hamid. They cheer for Ottoman sultans, cry for Turkish queens, and dream of wearing necklaces that cost more than a month’s salary, all while forgetting that Pakistan has its own epic stories begging to be told. Yes, these shows glorify Muslim history — kudos to that — but let’s be honest: they are not about us, our struggles, or the nation we call home.
The obsession has gone so far that many Pakistani ladies now insist on Turkish-style jewelry and gowns for their weddings. It’s fine to appreciate Muslim heritage, but when did we start confusing Ottoman queens for Pakistani identity? Who is going to remind us of Quaid-e-Azam’s vision or Allama Iqbal’s dream? Our 1960s and 70s generation grew up with a sense of pride and identity, shaped by homegrown literature, PTV dramas, and real national heroes. The coming generation? They are more likely to know the wardrobe of a sultan than the courage of Fatima Jinnah.
Where are the dramas about our founding fathers, scientists, poets, and soldiers? Quaid-e-Azam’s political struggles? Allama Iqbal’s philosophy? Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan’s genius? Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s revolutionary poetry? .
Once, shows like Tabeer and Dastan connected viewers to the emotional cost of Pakistan’s independence, reminding us of sacrifice, struggle, and resilience. We’ve traded history for heartbreak, legacy for love triangles, and national pride for Turkish and Korean bling.
All is not lost
It would be unfair to claim that modern Pakistani television is completely hopeless. Shows like Udaari, Dar Si Jati Hai Sila, Parizaad, and Raqeeb Se prove that quality storytelling still exists like finding a diamond in a pile of glittering soap. Bold new voices such as Bee Gul, Zanjabeel Asim Shah, and Amna Mufti remind us that meaningful TV can still thrive, though sadly, these gems are rare and often buried under mountains of melodrama.
Meanwhile, global audience watch genres and narratives that educate, inspire, and entertain, but we are stuck with the same tired plots that seem to be leftovers from last week’s drama buffet.
“When Ashfaq Ahmed spoke, silence fell in the room. Now when TV speaks, we want to mute it,” says Abdul Hai, 73, with a hint of nostalgia and sadness.
Yes, today’s high-definition, social-media-hyped productions dazzle the eyes but often leave the soul starved. Revival is possible. All it takes is courage, conviction, and a return to writing with purpose; stories that teach, inspire, and reflect our society, not just entertain it.
The screen holds power: the power to divide or unite, to sell or inspire, to make us laugh or make us think. As we reflect on the changing dimensions of Pakistani TV, we must ask ourselves with all the sarcasm and drama aside: What do we want our next generation to watch, and more importantly, who do we want them to become?
Rabia Khan is a writer who covers social issues, literature, and cultural values of Pakistan. She can be reached at rabiayousufzai26@gmail.com.
All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer