If you’re confused — and we were too — let us explain.

On Wednesday, user @croww_things posted what appeared to be an essay, or an article, or some kind of manifesto onto the site — the reason we can’t tell what it was is that it was written entirely in Crow.

What we can tell is that the statement was fairly contentious, because it attracted a community note in what appeared to be Parrot.

Some people, however, felt this was a disguise and that someone else was actually trying to discredit the crow.

Sparrow, for their part, didn’t immediately deny the rumour and actually thanked whoever put up the community note.

Or maybe they did deny it; we honestly can’t tell.

A raven had some shade to cast on the crow.

Wolf just wanted some peace and quiet to rest.

Thankfully, this being peak spooky season, one user was able to come up with a solution to the problem.

This dog also had something to say — we don’t speak Dog either; can someone please help translate?

Basically, we need someone to tell us what’s going on.

The attacker, identified as Ghulam Mustafa, was tracked down and arrested with the help of data from dozens of Punjab Safe Cities Authority (PSCA) cameras.

Surveillance footage captured the suspect pulling his motorcycle directly in front of the young woman’s scooty on the busy road before launching a vicious physical assault in full view of passersby. Initial police reports indicate the woman sustained severe facial trauma, including a fractured nasal bone, during the attack.

While the violence itself is deeply disturbing — the attacker dragging the woman by her hair and beating her mercilessly — netizens reserved their strongest reactions for the onlookers who didn’t intervene sooner.

One user on X called out the onlookers who stood by without doing anything, saying the “men who were just standing there should be ashamed”. “[Is] their masculinity only for women?”

“A man beats a random girl for no reason for 6-7 secs, multiple men standing a foot away yet no one bothers to stop him,” commented another, highlighting how many argue that men are supposed to be “protectors”, yet no man stepped forward to protect the woman being attacked.

One person pointed out the lasting psychological toll of the attack, saying the woman is likely to lose her confidence for a long time.

“Imagine just going out on your scooty as a girl in this country and coming home with a broken nose because aik admi ko rasta nahi mil raha tha (a man couldn’t get through traffic) so he decided to beat you up,” wrote another.

According to one user, even if the attacker believed he was targeting a man, that still does not justify nor excuse the attack.

“When there’s no fear of punishment, such incidents will keep happening,” they wrote.

While the suspect now faces a criminal case, the incident is bound to leave a scar far deeper than the victim’s fractured nose. It’s no secret that it’s difficult to navigate public spaces as a woman in Pakistan, and as a woman driver it’s doubly difficult.

It wasn’t long ago that former federal minister Fawad Chaudhry openly suggested women shouldn’t drive scooters because “girls are horrible drivers”. That kind of rhetoric has consequences. It shapes how society views women on the road and, in worse cases, it has the tendency to lend legitimacy to the toxic mindset of a man who thinks he can ruthlessly beat up a woman for not giving him way.

During the podcast, which touched on Rajab’s new film, his anger issues and fatherhood, among other topics, Ahmed also read out a list of names of public figures and asked his guest to name the first food item that came to mind for each. When he got to actor Durefishan Saleem, Rajab said “ras malai”, because she’s “gol matol” (plump, round). Yes, he fat shamed her.

But then, this is Rajab Butt, an internet personality whose conduct has drawn so much negative attention that the authorities have had to step in more than once.

You may be wondering what Ahmed was thinking, but then again, you don’t hand a microphone to someone with a proven record of offensive remarks and then act surprised when he offends. And you certainly don’t do it with someone like Rajab, who has made a whole career off profiting from outrage, not even sparing his own family from getting caught up in the negative attention.

The comment was repulsive, yes. But what was equally repulsive was the host’s reaction, which was to say there was no reaction at all. Ahmed let it pass without pushing back, as though body shaming were simply a normal part of the conversation. But Ahmed should know better as he has spoken about being on the receiving end of it in the entertainment industry.

Just last month, Rajab made headlines for an inappropriate ‘joke’ about child sexual abuse during a TikTok Live session with fellow creator Zaid Ali — a remark so far beyond the pale that it should have ended any possibility of having him as a guest on any respectable public platform again.

Yes, he apologised later, but only after the social media backlash grew intense enough that several celebrities, including Sehar Khan (of Aik Aur Pakeezah fame), called him out. Instead of doing any soul-searching, he responded to Sehar by arrogantly claiming that his vlogs pull higher viewership than her dramas. His deflection was a classic move in the arsenal of people looking to avoid accountability.

Rajab’s track record of controversies isn’t confined to the inappropriate words that come out of his mouth. He has faced several cases, including on charges of promoting online gambling applications, hurting religious sentiments and the unlawful custody of a lion cub. The first two cases are still ongoing, while he was sentenced to a year of community service in the lion cub case.

And yet, within weeks of his latest controversy, he was sitting in a podcast studio with a microphone in front of him and a well-known host lending him credibility. That is the problem here — not just what he does, but that people with platforms keep lending him theirs.

It makes sense to have him on if we take views into account. Rajab has one of the larger fan followings in Pakistan — well over nine million subscribers on YouTube and a further three million on Instagram — and that following is precisely what makes him bookable. But where should interviewers draw the line in the race for views?

Rajab is entitled to say what he likes on his own channels and his audience is entitled to judge him for it, but inviting someone with a documented history of offensive remarks onto a podcast isn’t an exercise in free speech; it’s a business move.

The host gains outrage-driven views. The guest gains legitimacy and, probably, a new audience. The target of the remark — in this case, Saleem— gains nothing but a fresh insult delivered in front of a larger audience.

This is what can make platforming worse than trolling itself. A notorious purveyor of the attention economy posting into the void reaches his (often) like-minded audience. The same person seated across from a recognised host reaches everyone the host reaches.

Every time a broadcaster or podcaster treats this behaviour as unremarkable, it normalises it. Listeners learn that a man can joke about child sexual abuse, rack up court cases, body shame women and face no meaningful consequences and actually be rewarded by sitting down for an interview where he isn’t even taken to task for his atrocious views.

That is the lesson being taught, whether the host intends it or not.

The fix is not complicated: hosts can not feature these people, producers can ask basic questions about a guest’s recent record and when a remark like “gol matol” is made about an actor on air, the host can say that it was unacceptable. At the very least.

Silence, in this context, can be considered endorsement.

Rajab will keep being Rajab; that much is predictable. What shouldn’t be normalised is the queue of people with platforms waiting to hand him yet another microphone.

The modified Tesla Roadster — and yes, it’s still called that even when airborne — has thrusters pushing out “ultra high-pressure air” to propel the vehicle into the air. During a demonstration, it was also seen doing a flip and landing after flying off a ramp.

It’s possible that Musk has finally found us a way to escape rush hour traffic on University Road — with advance apologies to all the motorcyclists and pedestrians who will get pelted with debris getting kicked up by the jets. Netizens were quick to find other ways the car could come in handy.

One user suggested one of the first cars should go to Indian director Rohit Shetty, to sustainably satisfy his desire to flip cars.

Another pointed out that Musk hadn’t done anything special and Bollywood had been launching cars off the ground for years.

There were some genuine concerns raised, like who would be crazy enough to insure a car for which the inventor said “success is not guaranteed” but that “it will probably work”.

Someone was concerned about what traffic might look like in the age of flying cars.

But in the face of all the naysayers, there were some who were just happy to see their favourite video game come to life.

To be honest, we’re not sold on the idea. Can you imagine a time when you don’t need to look both ways before crossing the road and instead need to look up too? If you’re looking for ways to get around — especially with skyrocketing fuel prices — go read our list of inexpensive commute options here.

Now that episodes 7 and 8 have aired on Wednesday and Thursday, the drama has everyone firmly in its thrall, with netizens unable to stop talking about it.

The performances — especially Wahaj Ali’s portrayal of Baala’s grief and Mahira Khan’s conflicted Bilqees Bano aka Billo — are being called career-defining, but there’s a lot more to the story than the actors. It’s the drama’s uncompromising look at casteism and honour that has sparked a deeper discussion online.

Baala’s wife, Zarina, played by Amar Khan has raked in overwhelming praise.

Some called her a “breakout star”.

While others empathised with her character on a deeper level.

The story has turned brutal in the last two episodes. Episode 7 ended with the railway crossing shootout, where Baala’s brother Aslam (Achi) is killed and Baala’s world falls apart. Episode 8 then shows his transformation into the hardened Baala Gujrati, a man shaped by loss and tied to the gangster Phajja, played masterfully by Sohail Ahmed.

Ali’s shift from raw grief — a brother unable to perform the last rites — to cold resolve has left viewers stunned.

This user said Baala’s character was written for Ali.

Mahira’s controversial Billo has viewers confused, as she has the ability to be both the victim and the oppressor.

What makes the show more than melodrama is how it handles caste. The divide between Shah (sovereign or master) and Miraasi (generational musicians) drives every betrayal. Billo’s in-laws use her past not for morality, but to protect their bloodline. Baala spends his whole life trying to escape the shackles of his lineage. Fans of the show can’t stop raving about these details.

Some compared the story to Emily Brontë’s classic Wuthering Heights, as it involves elements of class-based discrimination and unrequited love.

Viewers also pointed out how religious piety is used to humiliate rather than forgive — as seen when Billo, a faithful wife and obedient daughter-in-law, is kicked out of her own home by her father-in-law over a ‘mistake’ (falling for Baala) made when she was a teenager.

Some fans pointed out how revenge, blinded by hate, can turn fatal quickly and Mitti De Baway has depicted it well.

In the end, Mitti De Baway is more than just a revenge story — it holds up a mirror to society and asks hard questions about caste, honour and hypocrisy. With strong performances, directed by Syed Wajahat Hussain, and bold writing by Faiza Iftikhar, the drama has started a conversation that is clearly not dying down anytime soon.

The stills, released as part of the magazine’s December 2026 issue, confirm that the finale jumps 17 years ahead of Part Two.

Of course, we see Zendaya’s Chani back in her stillsuit in the Arrakis desert, a return to the world she once called home.

We also see Timothée Chalamet, who plays Paul Atreides, and Anya Taylor-Joy, who plays his psychic sister Alia, together — with the latter wearing a full white head and body covering.

Netizens couldn’t help but notice that Taylor-Joy’s outfit bears a striking resemblance to traditional Muslim women’s garb. Meanwhile, Chalamet’s shaved head and clothes reminded people of how some Muslim men dress after returning from Hajj.

One user on X joked, “Me and my wife after iftar waiting for her to finish namaz so we can have chai.”

This netizen is getting Pakistani director vibes.

So is this one.

Another remarked it looked like a “standard jummah photo in a Pakistani household”.

One said, “Mashallah Anya sister,” because it really does look like a form of a hijab.

The latest reaction is not the first time Taylor-Joy’s Dune wardrobe has sparked jokes online. In February 2024, her outfit for the Dune: Part Two premiere in London — a flowing white gown that covered her from head to toe — drew a very different kind of reaction.

Many Muslim fans pointed out that while the actor was being praised by the mainstream media for her unique look, the very same modest styles worn by Muslim women — hijabs, niqabs and burqas — are often met with suspicion or worse.

Some critics even argued the moment was a textbook case of appropriation: white celebrities being celebrated for wearing what women of colour and religious minorities are penalised for.

Some also pointed out that Frank Herbert’s original Dune novel was heavily influenced by Islamic history and culture, yet the films have largely removed those influences, while only keeping the visuals.

So while netizens are currently poking fun at Alia’s all-white look, the bigger conversation about the movies’ departure from the source material is far from new.

But then someone says something which makes your dil ki tarkan faster and if you think we made a mistake there, let us present our lead offender of the evening: US-based comedian Hasan Minhaj.

In an interview last week, he said he likes to order daal with extra “dharka”.

Yeah, we were confused too, we thought we’d misheard the guy, but then he doubled down: “D-H-A-R-K-A, dharka, it’s the fried onions you put on the top,” he told Food & Wine magazine.

We actually don’t have words, so we’re just going to let the comments from under the post do the talking for us.

One user wondered what it must be like to be the waiter who had to decipher what Minhaj was talking about when he asked for dharka, especially with no context.

Another was nicer about the whole thing, saying it was sweet of the California-based comedian to try and connect with his culture like this. They explained that tadka was, in fact, tempering, not just fried onions.

Others said they wanted Minhaj’s confidence, even comparing him to someone — or something — else that kept making mistakes with huge amounts of unearned confidence.

One comedian from India even challenged Minhaj’s desi credentials saying he might as well be white if he’s having ‘dharka’ with his daal.

We don’t know about onions, but this person in the comments was right when they said something definitely got fried.

This other user was asking the right question: Do the aunties know yet?

Seeing how everyone thinks he needs to fix his ways, we hope Minhaj has learnt his lesson. If he has and he’s ever in Karachi, we’d love to take him out for some daal with extra tadka.

The incident occurred at Al-Khair School in the city’s Afridi Abad neighbourhood.

Several Pakistani celebrities took to social media to express their grief and offer their condolences to the families of the victims.

Actor Dananeer Mobeen, who has roots both in Islamabad and Peshawar, shared the heartbreaking news on her Instagram story, saying, “Peshawar bleeds again.”

Actor Danish Taimoor offered his condolences to the families in a heartfelt note on Instagram.

“No words can describe the pain of losing innocent children in such a tragic incident. My heart goes out to all the families who have lost their loved ones. I can’t even imagine the pain and grief they must be going through,” he wrote.

Cricket star Shaheen Shah Afridi called the roof collapse “very tragic”. He also offered prayers for the deceased and condolences to the grieving families.

Actor Nadia Afgan called the incident “incredibly sad”.

What makes this accident even harder to bear is that it is not an isolated one. It comes barely a month after a similar tragedy occurred at a school in Karachi. In fact, these two structural collapses at educational institutions are just two of many that Pakistan has witnessed over the past year.

According to a statement from the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA), the accused took Rs550,000 to secure employment for Aijaz’s brother and over Rs7 million for her education. Police say the money came from the family selling land and jewellery.

Hearing the story, Pakistanis online took a moment to think about what has gone wrong in our society. Some said lack of hope results in victims of crime not even imagining getting justice in this country.

Others called for action against scammers and fraudulent admission agents like the one accused of taking Aijaz’s money.

Users brought up how students like Aijaz — whose father was a shopkeeper — faced difficulties navigating the foreign admissions process, especially because they had little to no help from their universities. This, they said, pushed them into the hands of predatory agents and consultants.

One user on Instagram, quoting a story posted by actor Mani asking why young people wanted to leave Pakistan, asked why people would want to stay.

Another on X said the fact that there was nothing to stay for, coupled with the shrinking availability of routes out, created a “market in hope”.

After the case gained national attention, Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif has taken notice of Aijaz’s death and directed the police to apprehend the accused. Minister of State for Interior and Narcotics Control Tallal Chaudhry reached out to the FIA with similar instructions.

The news of his arrest prompted a wave of reactions across Indian and Pakistani social media, which couldn’t help but draw comparisons between the situations of the Indian actor and PTI founder Imran Khan, who has been imprisoned since August 2023.

The Bollywood star seemed to take the arrest in his stride as he took a selfie from inside the police van and posted it on Instagram with the caption: “Apparently I’m going for a drive.”

Within minutes of the news breaking, social media erupted — not over the charges, but over the headline. Many jokingly pointed out the commonality in the names of the two prominent personalities from India and Pakistan.

Even the Bollywood actor seemed to be in on the joke in his Instagram comments.

From now on, if you’re chanting “Release Imran Khan”, you’ve got to specify the country, like this user from X did.

As did this netizen from Pakistan.

This user just wants both of them out.

Others pulled in yet another Imran Khan — the Pakistani singer-songwriter and rapper, who shot to global fame with his song ‘Amplifier’ — into the meme fest.

This user is wondering if the singer — who was born in the Netherlands — should be worried.

The Indian actor’s arrest also spawned a flood of memes, many of them linked to his debut movie Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na.

For some context: in the movie, the main character, Jai Singh Rathore (played by Imran Khan the actor), has to complete three conditions to prove he is a true ‘warrior’ from his father’s side of the family and one of those conditions is that he should get arrested.

This user used a scene from the movie, showing Bollywood actors Naseeruddin Shah and Ratna Pathak Shah (who played Jai’s parents), to draw the parallel between reel and real life.

In the movie, Jai also has a long-standing (fr)enmity with the local police officer (played by Indian actor Paresh Rawal). This X user made sure to remind people of that.

Later, Jai heroically rides on a horse after leaving prison, so, of course, this user made use of it.

In a fresh wave of protests, the Indian youth-led CJP is demanding the resignation of the chief election commissioner over allegations of manipulating voters’ lists.

The demonstrations, centred in New Delhi, have expanded to other cities like Bengaluru and Mumbai. Indian authorities have responded by detaining protesters, shutting down major railway lines and even temporarily suspending mobile internet in parts of the capital.

The protests have also drawn support from Bollywood, with actor Imran Khan among several people detained in Mumbai on Saturday, while actors Vijay Varma and Huma Qureshi have also publicly expressed solidarity with the protesters.

These dramas, in their own ways, have given us women who feel like people rather than plot points. Mahira Khan’s Bilqees Bano is a strong-headed grey character who’s calling (sometimes literally) the shots. Durefishan Saleem’s Zaryab, while going through a painful break-up, is wholly aware she’s making all the wrong choices. Dananeer Mobeen’s Hurmat is on her way to finding herself. Yes, these characters have flaws. But they also have agency and stories worth telling.

Then there’s Gulbahar and its women.

Expectations were high from this Sanam Saeed-Emmad Irfani starrer, especially after the two actors won the hearts of fans with their portrayal of a dysfunctional couple in last year’s Kafeel.

The rest of the cast also comprises big names such as Shahood Alvi, Sabahat Bukhari and Saife Hassan along with rising talent Komal Meer. Its writer, Aliya Bukhari, has written hits like Mere Qatil Mere Dildar and Dil-e-Muztar and Khamoshi. Plus, the fact that industry veteran Mehreen Jabbar is the one directing it just took the anticipation to another level after Gulbahar’s teasers first aired last month.

Eight episodes in, though, it doesn’t seem to be connecting with the audience. The reason, honestly, isn’t hard to find: the story revolves around a man and his two wives and whether they can learn to love each other as they are.

The premise understandably feels quite regressive and the problem, unfortunately, can only be traced back to its women characters. Yes, patriarchy has made them what they are, but at some point, one has to ask: why do the women in Gulbahar seem to be doing all the wrong things?

Let’s break down what exactly is wrong with each of them — and what they should be doing instead.

Sara

Sara (played by Saeed) has been married to Sheharyar (played by Irfani) for 12 years and, by all accounts, they’re happy together.

In Sara’s first scene in the drama, we see her working on model boats. It’s a small detail but looks promising because in Pakistani dramas, stay-at-home wives are rarely shown as people who have real, interesting hobbies.

However, we soon find out there isn’t much to it. Sara, as it turns out, can’t have children and adoption is out of the question because her husband’s family doesn’t approve of it. So that becomes her whole identity in the story.

Sara’s sister-in-law, Shehnaz, keeps issuing unsolicited doom-and-gloom warnings about the dangers of growing old without children and she humours this toxic woman every single time.

Sara tells her objectively insufferable sister-in-law, calmly but firmly, that she will never allow Sheharyar to marry a second time. It isn’t exactly a moment of defiance because we know what’s coming. We know she’ll break under the psychological weight of societal expectations. And break, she does.

In the eighth episode, Sara gets her husband married to another woman. In fact, she arranges it. This self-possessed, educated and skilled woman gives in and actually believes that by getting her husband married to a seemingly innocuous person, the three of them will get a child and live happily together.

It’s as absurd as it sounds.

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, in the coming episodes, we’re going to see this reasonable woman turn into a jealous, insecure wife. How is this leading lady material?

What Sara should be doing is drawing boundaries. She should tell her sister-in-law that marriage is not a business that requires a successor to continue. Also, Sara and Sheharyar need to do this together. Their bond seems strong enough to survive this.

Sara is an educated woman. If she doesn’t want to have a career, she can volunteer. There are many ways to give back to the community, especially children. At this point, anything would be better than serving tea to Shehnaz.

Sara deserves a story where she’s allowed to say no, mean it and not suffer any consequences for it. It’s 2026 (actually we’re nearing the end of it) and we need to stop writing stories that tell women who can’t have children that their worth is measured by and limited to their wombs.

Diya

Diya (played by Meer) starts off as what is the closest to a strongly opinionated woman in Gulbahar. She is young and ambitious and has big plans for her future, primarily because she wants to be able to afford basic necessities for her parents. Diya is in a relationship with her cousin Azar (played by Sheikh Sabahat), but she’s in no hurry to get married. Diya also lives in the same neighbourhood as Sara and the two share a sisterly bond.

In addition to lack of money, Diya has another adversary: her phuppo, Samina, who is also Azar’s mother.

For reasons that will be disclosed later, Samina hates Diya. A lot. She doesn’t want her son to marry her and she’s pretty vocal and public about it.

To her credit, Diya stands her ground when Samina goes off the wall at a family gathering and severs her relationship with Azar — all to protect her self respect.

Commendable, right?

It doesn’t last long. Soon after her break up, Diya is orphaned. A fatal gas explosion claims her parents’ lives, stripping away her entire support system and reason to live.

This unimaginable grief could’ve been used to propel Diya’s story forward. The drama decided to go the other way. She’s grieving, vulnerable and financially desperate. So all the grown-ups around her decide that there’s but one solution to all her problems: marriage.

Sara wants to take care of Diya but can’t keep her at home because there’s no concrete relation between them.

Soon enough, the drama positions Diya as the obvious candidate for Sheryar’s second wife — not because she wants this, but because she needs protection. So, essentially, Sara decides Diya isn’t a threat and would agree to a loveless marriage where she’d produce heirs.

What’s wrong with Diya isn’t Diya herself. It’s the narrative that has decided a grieving young woman is the solution to another woman’s infertility.

If Sara is being limited to her womb, Diya — a young woman with potential — is being written as a vessel, a means to an end. Her phuppo’s hatred compounds her isolation, leaving her completely vulnerable to financial and emotional distress. But a woman’s vulnerability should not be a plot device.

What Diya should be doing is finding her own footing, her own future — without being folded into a marriage that’s not hers to begin with. She doesn’t need Azar and she certainly doesn’t need Sheharyar. Are we really telling young women that the best thing they can do with their lives, if they’re alone, is get married?

Diya deserves a story where she is not the answer to someone else’s problem.

Shehnaz Aapa

Shehnaz aapa (played by Bukhari) is Sara’s sister-in-law. It wouldn’t be entirely wrong to say that she’s the one causing most of the issues in Gulbahar. The only depth to her character is that she lost her son Uzair as a single parent and now her sole purpose in life is to scare, deride and pester her sister-in-law for living a childless life — while nonchalantly sipping on tea that her sister-in-law prepares for her.

That’s pretty much it. This is Shehnaz’s whole personality in the drama so far.

Shehnaz unabashedly pushes for Sheharyar’s second marriage, in front of his wife, under the garb of care and concern. She exploits inheritance as an excuse to get her brother remarried and eventually succeeds.

What’s wrong with Shehnaz is that she has internalised a system that measures women’s worth by their husbands’ legacies and their sons’ futures — and she now enforces that system on the next generation. She’s not a cartoon villain; she’s worse: she’s realistic. Shehnaz is the aunty who asks wholly intrusive questions at weddings. Had her son been alive and old enough to get married, she would’ve been the mother-in-law who treats her daughter-in-law as an incubator.

It’s usually difficult to chart an alternative path for a villain, because they’re supposed to be bad, but the writer has made Shehnaz grey. We see Shehnaz comforting Sara as she makes the difficult decision to green light Sheharyar and Diya’s marriage. So maybe there’s a tiny bit of (grossly out-of-touch) kindness there somewhere deep, deep, deep down.

What Shehnaz should be doing is finding a hobby. While she’s at it, she should probably do an online course on what healthy boundaries are. Maybe she should try out painting boats with Sara, instead of ruining her life.

Shehnaz’s inane obsession with bloodlines is her own problem to manage and it shouldn’t be a mandate for someone else’s life.

Samina Phuppo

Last but not least, there’s Samina phuppo (played by Mazhar) — the keeper of grudges and the enforcer of relentless cruelty.

Case in point: after Diya loses both her parents in a single, devastating moment, Samina can’t find a single word of kindness to say to this young woman. The sudden and tragic loss of her brother doesn’t move her. The sight of her orphaned niece does not stir compassion.

Samina has no redeeming qualities.

Instead, she continues her campaign of hostility, adding to Diya’s isolation and leaving her even more vulnerable to the very arrangement the drama is building towards.

We learn the reason for Samina’s unyielding toxicity in the second episode during a conversation with her husband, Mansoor (played by Alvi). Mansoor, it is revealed, wanted to marry Diya’s khala when his marriage with Samina wasn’t working out.

Mansoor’s unfulfilled desire seems to be the root of Samina’s hatred towards Diya — even though the poor girl wasn’t even born at the time. This is also why she doesn’t want her son Azar to marry Diya.

It doesn’t make sense, but that’s the only depth we get in Samina’s character.

What’s wrong with Samina? Everything. She has no arc and no complexity beyond this single, reductive motivation. She exists purely as a pressure point, a force that pushes Diya towards the only option the narrative has left her: becoming Sheharyar’s second wife.

The drama uses Samina as a blunt instrument. A mere device. She is the reason Diya cannot stay where she is. She is the reason Diya needs rescuing.

Samina, despite being the antagonist, can definitely do better. She could have complicated feelings about her brother’s death. She could be wrestling with her own failures, her own disappointments, the knowledge that her husband wished to marry someone else while in a relationship with her.

Or she could, at minimum, have a single scene where she is not simply monstrous. Samina comes across as a caricature of a villain. Even her dialogue delivery is one dimensional.

The real problem with Gulbahar

The real problem with the women of Gulbahar is that it reduces them to a worn-out South Asian saying: aurat he aurat ki dushman hai (a woman is a woman’s enemy).

Shehnaz is oppressing Sara. Sara has unjustly pushed Diya into a loveless and transactional marriage. Samina is oppressing Diya. Diya may intentionally or inadvertently become the reason Sara suffers.

It’s a mess.

The drama has assembled a cast of women who are, in one way or another, complicit in their own diminishment and the storyline isn’t moving towards a point where even one of them would say: enough.

The men in this story are completely useless. Sheharyar can’t stand up to his nosy sister. Mansoor lets (and sometimes enables) Samina’s machinations. Azar is a whiny young man who pines for, but can’t support, a headstrong woman. They’re all spectators.

Jabbar has described the drama as an exploration of “love, jealousy and possessiveness,” asking whether love can exist between more than two people. It’s a fascinating question. But it’s being asked about a woman who has been given no alternative but to surrender her marriage to another woman, who herself is beleaguered by her own circumstances.

There’s still time. Perhaps Sara will realise the error of her ways. Perhaps Diya will leave Sheharyar and go back to her studies. Perhaps the two leading women of Gulbahar will discover that their worth was never in their wombs to begin with.

However, based on what we have seen so far, that would be a surprise. Unfortunately, Pakistani television, for all its craft, talent and recent progressiveness in narratives, rarely surprises us when it comes to what it expects from its women.

The Amazon founder recently claimed that artificial intelligence (AI) could generate enough productivity gains to allow people to support a family on a three-day workweek or permit a household to live comfortably on a single income.

Speaking to Fox News on Wednesday, Bezos put forward the seemingly contrary claim that AI, rather than contributing to mass unemployment, would instead create a labour shortage because people simply wouldn’t need to work as much to make ends meet.

“Some people will also decide, you know what? I can support my family by working three days a week,” he said.

“That’s what productivity in the economy means. It’s going to actually be difficult to hire people because the productivity in the economy is going to make it so that if people don’t want to work two jobs, they won’t have to,” he continued.

The tech billionaire, who at one point was also the richest man on the planet, offered up this gem at a moment when the future of thousands of workers employed by his own company appears quite fraught.

While Bezos was busy painting a pretty picture of a utopian future where people (which people, exactly?) wouldn’t have to work too much, his own company slashed about 1,000 white collar jobs this past week, according to Reuters — a continuation of the cuts that have rendered 30,000 employees jobless since last year.

Ironically, Amazon CEO Andy Jassy took home $40.1 million in 2024, a 37 per cent wage hike compared to the previous year.

Bezos hasn’t explicitly stated these cuts are related to technology-related changes. He instead attributed his company’s layoffs to ‘over-hiring’ during the pandemic rather than the technology he now champions.

Amazon is just one of many companies in tech restructuring their employee roster, with AI becoming a favoured justification for these efforts. AI has been cited in more than 180,000 corporate layoffs in the United States since May 2023, with over 112,000 occurring in 2026 by itself.

And blue collar jobs are as much at risk as white collar jobs. Certain industries have seen line workers being compensated a token amount to allow AI to record their day-to-day actions so that their workflows can be used to train specialised AI models that will eventually make their jobs redundant. It’s already happening in Pakistan and India.

Unsurprisingly, the internet’s reaction to Bezos’s three-day workweek prophecy was less than charitable.

Netizens pointed out the dramatic difference between a billionaire’s thought experiment and the lived reality of workers being automated out of their livelihoods.

Some noted that a three-day week might not exactly be a choice granted by prosperity, but rather all the work employers have left for humans to do.

Others observed that Bezos’ own warehouse and delivery staff have long fought for fair wages and humane conditions, making his uncharacteristic concern for work-life balance ring somewhat hollow.

One user on X referenced Amazon’s tightly monitored warehouse shifts, where even bathroom breaks are reportedly tracked.

Someone pointed out the foolish optimism in hoping for a three-day workweek, rightly noting that employers are more likely to use AI to pressure employees to raise output while continually suppressing wages.

Another pointed out how, if employers wished to compensate workers adequately, they would already be doing it.

This user used the example of Amazon workers’ financial struggles to caution against believing Bezos’ claims.

This one wants people to know that billionaires always want ‘just a little bit more’ from their employees before they ‘give back’.

And this meme sums up all the questions we have about Bezos’ unfortunate claims.

The irony is sharpest when you consider how Amazon treats the workers it already has.

In 2024, an 18-month Senate investigation found the company prioritised speed over worker safety and manipulated injury records to make its warehouses appear safer than they actually are.

Granted, technology has reshaped work before, but productivity alone doesn’t guarantee that everyone benefits.

Without a fairer way of sharing the gains, we could end up with an economy that produces enormous wealth while many people struggle to get by. While some may be able to take four days off a week, others — especially daily wagers — may struggle to find jobs even if they are willing to work seven days a week.

And until that changes, the three-day workweek will remain the carrot in the billionaire’s hand even as he pushes to make his workforce redundant in the name of cost-savings.

Very early in the drama, we learn that Zaryab has been accepted to Harvard University. It’s the kind of opportunity people spend years working towards, the kind that can alter the trajectory of one’s life. And yet Zaryab is prepared to give it up because Zamil hasn’t gotten in.

At the time, it tells us everything we need to know about their relationship. Zaryab has made Zamil so central to her existence that even Harvard becomes negotiable, which is why, after everything that happens between them, the most interesting ending for Zaryab was never another man — it would have been finally choosing herself.

Instead, Dar-e-Nijaat appears to take us down a road Pakistani television knows perhaps a little too well: a woman is hurt by one man and healed through marriage to another. Perhaps this is where the problem lies. Guys, it’s 2026 — there’s more to life than a marriage and a guy becoming a woman’s saviour.

This isn’t about whether Abu Bakr (played by Sheheryar Munawar) is a good man. In fact, his goodness almost makes the point more obvious. He’s kind, decent and emotionally stable and he also deserves better, especially when he visibly doesn’t want to get into this mess.

What if Zaryab had simply gone back to Harvard?

Imagine, for a moment, a different version of Dar-e-Nijaat. Zaryab doesn’t immediately move from the wreckage of one relationship to a marriage.

Instead, she goes back to university. She finishes the education she almost sacrificed for a man — who ultimately decided she wasn’t good enough for him. She sits in classrooms that broaden her perspective. She learns, grows and sees a world different to the one where she had made Zamil the centre of her universe.

She makes friends who have never witnessed the worst period of her life. She studies. She travels. She discovers cities and books and people and versions of herself that have absolutely nothing to do with being somebody’s rejected lover or wife.

Maybe, eventually, she falls in love again — or maybe she doesn’t. Both would’ve been perfectly acceptable endings. I’m very much aware this isn’t how Dar-e-Nijaat will conclude and that there’s a high chance she will go back to Harvard, but I keep wondering why she couldn’t make that choice on her own?

Why did she need a man as a saviour to help her do that?

Marriage isn’t a rehabilitation centre

Pakistani dramas have long had a peculiar relationship with marriage. It’s romance, redemption, social acceptance, character development and happy ending all rolled into one convenient nikkah scene.

A difficult daughter? Get her married. A traumatised woman? Find her a good husband. A woman recovering from a toxic relationship? Introduce a kinder man. A woman who has made mistakes? Marriage can apparently wipe the slate clean. It’s viewed as a rehabilitation centre of sorts.

But in 2026, this narrative does more harm than good — especially when television and dramas have the power to shape minds and narratives. It makes people believe that the solution to any problem is marriage.

There’s indeed something comforting about the idea that after experiencing cruelty, a person might encounter kindness and love, but that doesn’t have to arrive in the form of a husband; and healing certainly shouldn’t depend on one either.

What makes Zaryab’s story particularly frustrating is that the drama had already given her an alternative vocabulary for fulfilment: education, ambition, independence and a world beyond the relationship that consumed her.

Harvard isn’t simply a university in this story. It represents the life Zaryab repeatedly places second to Zamil and that’s why returning to it could’ve meant so much.

Let women save themselves sometimes

Umera Ahmed has done a brilliant job writing Dar-e-Nijaat and I’m hooked but I wish our dramas showed a woman could be her own saviour too — that she could work on her own growth, development and healing without a man and marriage in the picture.

None of this is an argument against marriage. Marriage can be companionship. It can be joyful and healing and transformative. A loving partner can absolutely help someone through difficult periods of their life but there’s a difference between healing within a marriage and using marriage as the healing. The latter places an enormous burden on both people and reinforces an idea our television has repeated for generations: that no matter how educated, wealthy, ambitious or capable a woman is, the final resolution of her story must somehow involve becoming a wife.

Zaryab could’ve healed in so many ways. She could’ve gone back to Harvard, built a career or travelled alone for the first time. She could’ve spent a year learning who she was without Zamil. She could’ve sought professional help and confronted why she was once willing to sacrifice something as significant as Harvard for a relationship. She could’ve become deeply spiritual independently — without a husband being her inspiration. She could’ve found purpose, and eventually her real self.

And then, if love ever found her again, she could’ve chosen it from a place of wholeness rather than hopelessness.

Like Durefishan Saleem, who plays Zaryab in the drama, posted on Instagram herself: “My sister said she low-key wants Zaryab to go back to Harvard, start vlogging, casually flip her hair, get even richer, lean into her girl gang, and travel the world and honestly, in an ideal world, without the dramatic license, I kind of want exactly the same for her.”

Most of those who consume her work are middle-class Pakistani women, and sometimes men, looking for relatable romantic fiction, and Umera Ahmed understands their desires, fantasies and fears very well. There is also the fact that she is an effective storyteller who knows how to create emotional hooks that keep audiences engaged.

Romantic fiction, of course, is not a uniquely Pakistani affliction. It has long been a mainstay of fiction consumption around the world, making romance a multi-billion-dollar industry that outsells every other genre in the book market.

Pakistan has its own long history of popular romantic fiction, beginning with the rise of digests in the 60s and 70s. They had a vast readership, and names like Razia Butt, Teen Aurtein Teen Kahaniyaan, Suspense Digest, Khawateen and Shua remain familiar to many Pakistanis of a certain generation. But these narratives moved from a hugely popular print culture into the absolute mainstream once Pakistani television went commercial with the proliferation of private channels, after decades in which television had been dominated by the state, and editorial control remained largely in the hands of the more “serious-minded”.

As digest sales began to dwindle in the 90s, editors discovered that inserting a religious segment with historical anecdotes, quotations from scripture and scholarly advice augmented circulation tremendously. Once this logic was fully internalised by the publishing industry, romance with a side of Islam became a bona fide genre.

Of course, Naseem Hijazi and those of his ilk had already done this before, but while Hijazi’s focus was on the grand historical conquerors of Islam and the ladies who swooned over them, the women who carried this genre forward, such as Bano Qudsia, then Umera and Nimra Ahmed, brought this dynamic into a mostly domestic sphere.

A little bit like her spiritual mentor, Bano Qudsia, Umera Ahmed’s specialty is bringing these Islamic fantasies to luxury domains. She presents seemingly modern setups — young brilliant students going to top colleges, studying for difficult exams, driving luxury cars, living in sprawling mansions — but the core assumptions and values the drama propagates remain defiantly middle-class and conservative.

We see the enticement of that other way of life, the audience is even encouraged to indulge in it for a good many episodes, but the indulgence is kept in check by appropriately timed warnings about the fates of those who have strayed from the righteous path, and by the moral arc of the universe bending towards Islam, so that the author can never be accused of identifying with or secretly fantasising about that corrupt version of the good life that she has placed in front of our eyes for so many episodes. To be sure, her intent in showing it to us is not because it is more colourful, interesting and fun, but so that we can recognise it and shun it if we ever happen to come across it in real life.

But while Umera Ahmed’s moral point of view may be recognisably middle class, her heroes never are. The middle class is the audience and the moral viewpoint, but never the hero’s ultimate condition. He is either already rich or becomes rich, or is so exceptionally talented that ordinary financial life ceases to apply to him. Zaroon, Salar and Abu Bakar are spectacularly successful. Tabish becomes obscenely wealthy but Jami, the deadbeat husband from Kafeel, is the villain because his is the opposite trajectory — he is a rich man who becomes poor — and Zamil, the insecure boyfriend from Dar-e-Nijaat, falls from grace because he fails to be as successful as his Harvard-graduate nemesis, Abu Bakar.

These dramas speak to viewers by getting into their inner worlds: their class yearnings, academic aspirations and fears that decent people are overlooked. It then gives those people exceptional status, exceptional wealth or a way out of ordinary financial woes. But all that wealth does not ultimately corrupt them, and if it does, it is just a temporary condition. These dramas flatter middle-class values while each one of its main characters escapes the middle-class material life.

This is best symbolised by Abu Bakar still driving around in the beat-up old car his mother gave him upon graduation. He can afford, and in fact does have, a much better car in material terms, but when he drives the old one, the one with sentimental value, he embodies the perfect amalgamation of the material and the spiritual. This is also the case with the idealised heroine of Aap Ki Izzat, Beena, who doesn’t care about all the wealth Tabish has accumulated; what she wants is his love, but that claim seems to carry greater weight when she speaks it in a mansion with a dozen rooms.

This fiction validates the middle class for what it believes by having those values acted out by characters who no longer have to live as the middle class. Your way of life is validated while allowing you to escape your own material reality for the duration of the fantasy.

Umera Ahmed’s women are even more instructive in this regard.

The heroine often starts out seeming smart and ambitious. Either she is born wealthy, stylish and desirable, like Falak Sher from Shehr-e-Zaat, Imama from Peer-e-Kaamil, or Zaryaab from Dar-e-Nijaat or she comes into wealth like Kashaf from Zindagi Gulzar Hai and Beena from Aap ki Izaat. These women are not introduced to us as dull domestic creatures with no lives outside marital aspirations, but as they get deeply entangled with a man, their professional lives begin to disappear. 

Take Kashaf. We spend so much time establishing how bright and ambitious she is, how hard she has worked, how important her career is to her, but then she gets married and suddenly everything is about whether she is a good wife, whether she can stop being jealous, whether she can trust Zaroon, whether she can cook properly, or whether she has emotionally matured enough to sustain the marriage. She still has a job but nobody ever seems to be interested in it, including herself.

Imama’s case is perhaps even stranger. She becomes an eye doctor, but then in Aab-e-Hayat, the sequel to the smash hit Peer-e-Kaamil, her profession becomes completely incidental to her life and personality, while Salar’s career becomes one of the central concerns of the book. The men are given work that absorbs and defines them, creates crises for them, gives them status and can become the defining feature of the plot. The women may have impressive qualifications, but those are mainly for show, to confer status and desirability upon them until they can catch the eye of the perfect man.

It is much like Pakistani rishta culture’s obsession with the doctor bahu who is a catch to show off and a perfect home health aide for her in-laws’ everyday concerns, but few are willing to let her continue professionally with the kind of help and support that a career as demanding as medicine requires. 

Zeba in Kafeel teaches but derives no evident pleasure from any part of her work. It’s just a means to an end because her husband is unable to perform his God-given duty, ie to earn. 

Then there is Zaryab from Dar-e-Nijaat, a straight-A student who is so smart and hardworking that she leaves her boyfriend, Zamil, in the dust by getting into Harvard Business School, but upon experiencing heartbreak at his hands, she leaves her first semester at university midway and proceeds to never have a fleeting thought about her interrupted studies.

That’s the kind of heroine Umera Ahmed asks us to admire — a perfect showpiece with the right qualifications, but not smart or ambitious enough to want a real career, or love her work and intellectual endeavours so much they sustain her at points of extreme stress. 

This message, that women’s qualifications are only for show, is not a harmless one in Pakistan, where women’s extremely low rate of participation in the workforce is a major concern for the country’s economy. We produce girls who do brilliantly in school and university and then our society, and oftentimes the girls themselves, treat long-term professional success as optional.

Another one of Umera Ahmed’s tropes is the rich woman who discovers religion. This is another fantasy she returns to that gives the middle-class viewer a very specific kind of satisfaction. The modern rich woman seems to have everything: money, beauty, freedom, glamour and social status, but she is unhappy. Something is missing. And what is missing, conveniently, is the thing the audience feels it already possesses — spiritual elevation.

So the rich woman may have the life you envy, but actually she needs something from you. You are poorer, less glamorous, perhaps less free, but spiritually you are ahead of her.

As long as the rich continue to struggle to attain the spiritual light we already possess, they can be rich without us feeling resentful about it.  Their money may buy them mansions, cars, foreign degrees and beautiful lives, but sooner or later they will discover that none of it is enough. And once they have admitted that, perhaps our own lack of glamour, romance and money stings a little less.

This is why Umera Ahmed’s popularity is unlikely to wane any time soon. Giving audiences conservative fantasies at a time when the world around them is changing rapidly serves as a security blanket for those who are unable to keep pace.

In the real world, women may be divorcing more often now with relatively less social stigma; many may be out there building careers, social media may have created stars who derive their main power from bucking old social norms, but here on mainstream television, we can still pretend like the world is not changing beyond comprehension.

Artists from all walks of life have been trying to push back, but it’s an ongoing uphill battle. Now things have reached a point where even Pope Leo XIV is weighing in.

On Friday, in a post on X, the pontiff urged the public to recognise the threat AI poses to artists and culture.

“In this era of artificial intelligence, it is becoming urgent to distinguish human art from what machines produce,” the pope wrote.

“There is an ontological difference, even before an aesthetic one, between art and what a machine can generate through statistical calculation based on millions of images created by others. Algorithms lack the spark of humanity. For this reason, the Church wishes to renew an alliance with artists and cultural institutions to safeguard our humanity,” he added.

While the pope has spoken out against AI before, this is the first time he has called on the Church to formally ally with artists against it.

Netizens, meanwhile, seized the moment to show off their creativity — with humour, and hopefully without the aid of AI.

This user on X is ready for the “crusade on AI”.

One user tried to paraphrase the message, in case anybody has doubts.

This one’s ready to “launch” if the pope says so.

When an X user asked the pope if their usage of AI to illustrate their children’s books makes them bad, they got a definitive reply:

Jokes aside, the content of the pope’s words carries real weight. He isn’t simply dismissing AI as a gimmick; he’s raising a deeper question about what makes human expression distinct and if that difference is worth protecting.

For artists who have spent years watching their work being fed into training models, recognition from one of the world’s most influential figures may feel like a small but meaningful victory.

No, we’re not kidding.

The Indian Army’s Chinar Corps — a formation tasked with providing security in India-occupied Kashmir — announced on Wednesday that they had eliminated Mohammad Asif, a former Pakistani special forces soldier.

Lo and behold, Lt Gen Chaudhry held a press conference the next day with a very special guest: retired Havaldar Mohammad Asif of the elite Special Services Group.

Naturally, netizens applauded the military spokesperson for owning the narrative, refuting propaganda and having some fun at the same time.

Asif, who also seemed to find the situation a bit funny, said he had received calls the night before telling him he had been martyred at the hands of Indian forces.

Users on X felt there was a little bit of Bollywood movie magic in the Indian claims, with a number of them believing the entire operation was done to give filmmaker Aditya Dhar a script for a third Dhurandhar film.

One user even joked that this was all the work of artificial intelligence.

One theory was that Asif had a secret “evil twin” who had been taken out by Indian forces.

One post even captioned a picture of Lt Gen Chaudhry and his guest as a “press conference from heaven”.

Unfortunately, as ridiculous as it is for India to have falsely claimed to have killed — and subsequently recovered the body of — a former Pakistani soldier, it is not surprising in the slightest.

In 2021, Indian authorities took another ‘Pakistani asset’ into custody — a balloon resembling an aircraft from Pakistan’s national airline.

And in 2015 and 2016, Indian police arrested two ‘Pakistani agents’ for espionage — the agents in question being pigeons who had made the grave mistake of crossing the border.

“Iss umar mein yeh sab (doing this at this age)?“ asked one troll, while others weighed in on how the unborn baby deserved “younger, more energetic” parents while some prophesied that Khan wouldn’t live long enough to see her baby have babies.

Media coverage has been equally atrocious, with one channel featuring “medical specialists” who referred to Khan as an “old woman”. 

We don’t judge older dads

Of course, such a sexist, ageist response is not a uniquely Pakistani phenomenon. Anne Hathaway was picked apart online after announcing she was pregnant at 43. Kourtney Kardashian, pregnant at 44, and Naomi Campbell, who became a mother at 50 through surrogacy, were also criticised heavily online.

I personally am a fan of how Sienna Miller handled criticism around her pregnancy announcement at 43. When people called her “irresponsible,” she hit back saying: “There’s a whole load of noise and people have a lot to say, and it’s incredibly gendered and unbelievably misogynistic and anti-feminist. If your body is capable of it, have the baby”. She went on to say, “We don’t judge men who are having kids in their 80s. Why on earth is there any sort of narrative?”

Miller was, of course, referring to a host of celebrity dads such as Al Pacino, who became a father at 83, and Robert De Niro, who welcomed a child at 79. The public’s response to these literal senior citizens joining the new dad club was mostly eye rolling and jokes about their virility with some commending them for still having “it”.

There was certainly no online mob with pitchforks accusing these men of behaving irresponsibly by bringing into the world a child they probably won’t see graduate college.

You don’t have to be a celebrity to have your age become the central part of your pregnancy journey. The women I spoke to for this story have been on the receiving end of stigmatising comments as a result of getting pregnant in their forties. 

For instance, Shehnaz — a 40-something-year-old acquaintance whose name has been changed to protect her anonymity — told me, “Instead of congratulating me, people around me asked: ‘What are you thinking? Have you gone crazy?’” Yet, for Shehnaz and every other woman I spoke to, becoming a mother — irrespective of their age — was the best thing to happen to them, and they would do it all over again. 

“It’s good that women are having kids at whatever age they want. Who are we to say when the cut off should be to have a baby? You do worry who will take care of them when you get older but life is unpredictable. My baby was Allah’s gift. She was meant to come to this world,” said Shehnaz.

Ironically, the fulfilment and excitement that all these mothers described to me is something I first heard from Mahira Khan herself.

Seven years ago, I interviewed Khan while she was promoting Superstar in Houston, Texas. I was in my first trimester with my first child. Noticing that my energy was flagging as we all stood around waiting for the event to begin, Khan asked if I was doing okay. When I told her I was fine, just fatigued because I was early in my pregnancy, she hugged me, then hugged me again. Then, holding me close, she told me, “This is the best thing… there is nothing better in the world than being a mother”. 

That day — in the throes of first trimester exhaustion — I couldn’t match her enthusiasm because I didn’t know what was coming for me. But today, six years and two kids later, I couldn’t agree more.

“Geriatric” moms

Webster’s Dictionary defines geriatric as “of or relating to the process of growing old and the medical care of old people”. Naturally, what then comes to mind is a withered, sickly person hobbling into a clinic with a cane. Yet, geriatric is the term the medical establishment deployed for a long, long time when talking about pregnant women over 35. 

According to Texas-based OB-GYN, Dr Sidra Yunus, doctors have recently begun moving toward the slightly more palatable term “advanced maternal age”.

“Geriatric pregnancy is an outdated and unnecessarily stigmatising term,” says Dr Yunus. “While it still appears in older medical literature, it is not the language I use with patients.” 

While the age of 35 as the cut-off for when a woman becomes “old” might feel arbitrary given how different every woman and their aging process is, apparently, the age was set as the threshold due to evidence indicating declining fertility and rising genetic abnormalities after that age. More on that later but, for now, the point being that labels — even when used in a neutral, medical context — matter. 

Take the case of a friend, who, speaking on the condition of anonymity, told me she would cringe every time her doctor referred to her as geriatric.

“I remember being sort of stunned the first time [the doctor] casually referred to me as one of his ‘geriatric’ patients,” she said. “I was only 35 and, in my mind, I did not feel or even look old. But every time I heard it, the implication felt like ‘I’m too old to be carrying this baby, I’m too old to care for this baby.’”

Biology 101

Labels and trolls aside, one thing is clearer now than ever: there is no perfect age to become a mother. Today more than at any point in history, motherhood in one’s forties is becoming closer to the norm than the exception. According to the CDC, the number of babies born to American women 40 and older jumped a whopping 193 per cent from 1990 to 2023. This means that in 2023, for the first time ever, more American babies were born to women 40 and older than to teenagers.

“Forty is the new 30,” Dr Joanne Stone, director of Maternal Fetal Medicine at New York’s Mount Sinai Hospital, recently joked to CBS News. “Everybody’s older. If you have somebody that’s 28, it’s like a teen pregnancy.”

Of course, women are still beholden to biology. And pregnancy later in life comes with its share of risks.

“With advanced maternal age patients, the first [concern] is the ability to become pregnant and have a live birth. With a woman’s own eggs, fertility declines considerably in the mid-40s because both the number and chromosomal quality of the remaining eggs decline. The risks of miscarriage and chromosomal abnormalities therefore increase. Also, with the increasing age I tend to see more medical comorbidities: obesity, diabetes, autoimmune conditions, hypertension,” says Dr Yunus.

Unlike men, who are able to produce sperm throughout most of their lifespan, women are born with all the eggs we will ever have. At birth, a woman has about one to two million. By puberty, that number drops to between 300,000 and 500,000. And, by 37, it has dramatically fallen to around 25,000, according to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG). 

The decrease in the number of eggs is not the only obstacle to getting pregnant. Egg quality declines too. For instance, having 100 eggs doesn’t mean all 100 will be viable. This is why the odds of getting pregnant without fertility treatment after the age of 40 drops sharply, according to the ACOG. Still, spontaneous and unplanned pregnancy after 40 is possible.

What are you waiting for?

Globally, women have more choice today than our mothers and, certainly, our grandmothers did. That choice has resulted in a cultural and lifestyle shift. We are choosing to stay in school longer. We are then spending years after that building our careers. And because we are focused on school and work in our 20s and 30s, we might be marrying later.

I can only use myself as an example. Despite subconsciously being aware of a ticking biological clock, no part of me wanted a child in my 20s. Even after I got married, there were things I wanted to do for myself, including travelling and grad school. After graduating from law school, I worked in Big Law, where 60-hour workweeks were the expectation. I remember walking into the bathroom at work once and finding a more senior attorney crying. She’d just learned she was pregnant and knew that it meant she’d be knocked back at least a year on the seven-year partnership track. And that was exactly what happened — after returning from maternity leave, she was passed over for promotion while her male counterpart made partner.

Another factor contributing to the rise in maternal age is the accessibility of birth control and fertility treatments like IVF, donor eggs and the practice of freezing one’s eggs, which all have collectively made pregnancy in one’s 40s possible for many more women.

As but one anecdotal example, my husband, who is an anesthesiologist, recently did an epidural for a 63-year-old who was using a donor egg to have a second child after her first son passed away. 

One friend who chose to freeze her eggs in her early 30s put the practice best: “I could either let desperation take over and marry the wrong person in my 20s just so I could have kids. Or, I could freeze my eggs, hope the right guy would come along, and then bring a baby into the world on my own terms,” she said. “I am 45 now and my body definitely aches after a day of chasing down a preschooler. But what I might lack in energy, I make up for in patience and emotional stability.”

According to Dr Sadia Durrani, a Texas-based OB-GYN, there is a stigma around being pregnant at 40+, but it is less pronounced than it used to be.

“Some women may feel self-conscious about being an ‘older mom’, particularly because of comments from family, friends, or even strangers,” says Dr Durrani. “There can be assumptions that the pregnancy was unexpected, that because the woman is ‘too old’ she will be significantly more tired or less able to keep up. I also think there is an emotional side that sometimes gets overlooked: a woman can be medically healthy and still feel that society is telling her that she is ‘too old’ to be starting or expanding her family. That stigma can be more significant than the medical issue itself.”

So why the backlash?

I’m 38 and still attending friends’ baby showers. This year alone, I’ve been invited to three for women over 40. Not once did I worry about the mom-to-be’s age or whether she’d live long enough to see her grandchildren, which is why I am still struggling to understand why — despite talking to several physicians and older moms for this story — there is this inevitable backlash when a woman over 40 (celebrity or otherwise) announces she’s pregnant.

If the data is telling us that pregnancy after 40 is the new normal, then why is our reaction to an older mom still so hostile? Why does the age of a 40-something pregnant woman become the headline? And why, in Pakistan and the Pakistani diaspora, does that hostility feel even louder?

Part of the answer, I think, is simple math. In Pakistan, women are still marrying and having children young. Unlike Western mothers, the average age of a first-time mother in Pakistan is 22. That means a lot of Pakistani women in their 40s aren’t planning their baby showers. They’re planning their daughter or son’s wedding and, by 45, they might even be nanis or dadis. 

So, for 41-year-old Mahira Khan with a teenage son to announce a pregnancy means she is going against a script that is internalised by Pakistani women since girlhood. Indeed, Khan, who had her first child at 25, followed that script at one point.

And because age is something Pakistani women are taught to lie about or conceal and because divorce and remarrying still carry a lot of stigma amongst Pakistanis, Khan announcing she’s pregnant with her second husband triggers a lot of our collective mental cultural baggage. Simply put: people feel threatened by a woman who refuses to lie about her age, has spoken candidly about being a single parent, and is now living proof that a person can and should have a second chance at both love and parenthood — no matter their age.

There’s also the fact that in Pakistani culture, a woman’s body — even her life — is never really her own. A pregnant woman in her 40s makes us uncomfortable because she it’s proof she is not celibate. And that’s apparently intolerable and unfathomable in a culture where a woman past a certain age is expected to drop joy from her life and instead spend her time arranging marriages instead of having a romantic life of her own. 

All this means that, for Pakistani women, the window in which to produce a child is predetermined not just by our biology but by our society. 

Get married at 24 and within the first year of marriage, you can expect to be asked the inevitable, “Khush khabri kab suna rahi ho (when will you give us good news)?” By year two, you can expect to be asked if everything is ‘normal’ followed by the suggestion that maybe you should see a doctor. Having one child means you’ll very quickly be told: “Ek bachay ko akela mat chorro” i.e. give them a sibling. But, should a child turn up in your 40s? Well then, the commentary sounds like Mahira Khan’s comment section: “iss umar mein (at this age)?” 

Meanwhile, male counterparts — no matter how geriatric they may be — get to keep finding new sources of joy in  the shape of a second, younger wife who brings forth children no matter the uncle’s age. 

Bollywood movie Badhaai Ho addresses this cultural stigma. In the movie, when a middle-aged woman (Neena Gupta) with grown sons gets pregnant, her sons are mortified while her relatives, friends, and neighbors collectively lose their mind gossiping and mocking the situation. 

So while in the West the “geriatric” label lives mostly in the doctors’ office, in Pakistan it permeates society. 

Seven years ago, Mahira Khan hugged a very tired, pregnant me and said there was nothing better in the world than being a mother. She didn’t add “if you’re the right age”. Now, she is about to find out all over again, at 41, whether she was right. I’m betting she was.

And to the people in her comments asking “iss umar mein?” I’d offer a simpler answer: yes, at this age. At any age her body and her life allow. The only thing that feels truly old here is the question.

On Thursday, she sat down with Parishae Adnan — the CEO of fashion house Aamir Adnan who just got back to Pakistan after closing a show during New York Fashion Week — for her show Rise & Shine. One pressing question Khan had for the designer was whether her parents were okay with the way she dressed going to the gym.

Yeah, the internet made quick work of Khan and her views, with Parishae firing a shot herself by posting a reel of the interaction. Her face shows just how uncomfortable she was with the host’s line of questioning.

Khan can be heard asking how Parishae convinced her parents to let her wear what she does and her co-host Zohaib Hassan even makes a remark about her body — the designer responded to that in a separate video.

Others joined in too, with influencer Zoya Zaidi doing an impression of Khan and her questions on the show, constantly shifting her point from parents to society and back.

Another social media creator, Aisha Yousuf, pointed out how there was so much for the hosts to ask Parishae about her work and her journey but they could only seem to focus on what she wore and log kya kahen ge (what will people say)?

Ramsha Waseem, known for her comedic skits, acted like the person who had the most difficult job in this entire situation: Khan’s PR manager who told her to talk about the designer’s “clothes” — the joke being that she meant the clothes the designer makes, not the ones she wears.

Telling her not to accept fault over her comments or apologise, the ‘manager’ said her client should double down and say she was trying to protect society’s morals because “we have enough loud men and misogynistic women who will support you”.

In her caption, she said, “No matter how successful a Pakistani woman becomes, there will always be someone waiting to reduce her to her clothes, her age, her relationships or the choices she makes.”

But while all these other creators were calling out Khan, Yashal Shahid had a more solution-oriented approach which she described as “kambalon se dumbbellon tak (form blankets to dumbbells)”.

She demonstrated her idea to the audience, lifting weights while draped completely in a blanket, because apparently that’s what you need to do nowadays if you don’t want to be asked about your clothes on national television.

Jokes aside, Khan’s questions and the attitude behind them are unfortunate, especially when they come from a woman who has built a career herself.

Treating women differently and focusing on their personal choices rather than celebrating their achievements — which, in this case, was a win for the entire Pakistani fashion industry — will only push us back to a point where women are no longer comfortable being themselves and building themselves up in public.

During an appearance on Samaa TV’s talk show Gup Shab on Tuesday, the actor complained about how women these days ‘quickly’ recover and heal from the process of divorce. In her opinion, this destigmatisation of divorce is leading to societal ‘ruin’.

Those who are aware of Faisal’s commentary on marriage know all too well how she enjoys making outdated (bordering on insidious) statements on marriage and women’s role in society. In fact, it’s become her brand.

Just months after advocating for more unchecked power for mothers-in-law, the actor sparked controversy in April by advising wives to remain ‘calm’ if their husbands are unfaithful.

Marriage, therefore, inevitably came up on Gup Shab as host Vasay Chaudhry pulled up a quote from Faisal’s vast portfolio of problematic views on the topic. The gist of that statement is that Faisal believes divorce rates are higher these days because “women compete with their husbands”.

Instead of taking this as an opportunity to reflect on the inanity of her words, Faisal chose to double down.

“Look, my mother, our elders used to say such things and I am a big supporter of this. And if today’s girls and today’s people don’t understand this, then it’s their perception. It’s not mine. This is mine,” she said, justifying her toxic narrative.

With a slight raise of her brows, Faisal went on to reiterate that a woman can’t compete with a man, cheekily adding this comment would go viral again.

As the audience clapped (yes, unfortunately this exchange appeared to be met with jovial approval), Chaudhry highlighted how divorce rates seem to be increasing by the year in Pakistan. This shifted the conversation towards how people view divorce differently now.

While there’s still a lot more progress to be made when it comes to the acceptance of divorced women in our society, they aren’t subjected to as much ostracisation as they used to be. For everyone reading: that’s a good thing.

Faisal, however, doesn’t view this as something good. In fact, she seems to want people to be miserable.

“Earlier, people would mourn for two to three months as a result of a divorce in the family. People would say in distress, ‘What has happened to our family? This shouldn’t have happened.’ The father couldn’t raise his head. The daughter, I mean, it was difficult [for her],” she said.

As if this wasn’t ridiculous enough, Faisal spoke of how some women even go for vacations after a divorce — as if wanting to heal from a tumultuous experience is a crime.

Perhaps what Faisal doesn’t realise is that as someone who’s made a name for herself as an enforcer of the most patriarchal and archaic views of marriage, she is not a likely candidate for anyone to go discuss their marital woes, or announce their divorce to. She thinks people aren’t sad after a divorce anymore, but maybe no one is going and weeping in her living room because they know exactly what kind of nonsense she’ll be spouting. That she believes she knows exactly what people who’ve been divorced are feeling or not is evidence of this.

When a marriage ends, people are inevitably sad. However, people also realise that ending a marriage is better than living a life of misery.

It goes without saying that Faisal’s views on women and marriage are harmful, especially in Pakistani society where divorce is still heavily stigmatised. That stigma, of course, disproportionately falls on the shoulders of women.

For many women, leaving a marriage means more than the end of a relationship. In a society where divorced women, to this day, are treated differently and, to a large extent, blamed for failing to fulfil societal expectations, divorce is not an easy choice to make.

Ostracisation from people who think just like Faisal isn’t something limited to media commentary — it’s very much a reality for divorced women.

Therefore, when people like Faisal imply that Pakistani women are cavalier about making the choice to end a marriage, they’re not making a comment rooted in facts — they’re just perpetrating pernicious stereotypes.

The fact that women no longer have to contend with as much moral policing after going through divorce should be considered progress.

Isn’t it a good thing that the fathers (or the family, in general) of divorced daughters no longer have to feel ashamed?

Why is Faisal offended by something that is positive and kind?

Granted, in the past divorce rates were lower but that was mainly due to heavy social stigma, women’s financial dependence, and it not being as easy to navigate the legal system. Many women faced abuse — physical, emotional and even financial — but not everyone had the means or support to seek a divorce because, much like Faisal, many people actually believed that women weren’t equal to men and that these issues could be overlooked. Just because a woman is trapped in a marriage does not mean it’s a happy one.

Bringing back these views, or blasting them from a position of privilege that Faisal possesses, is extremely harmful, especially amid an active femicide in Pakistan. Just last month, 45-year-old Hina Javed was found dead in the bathroom of her apartment in Rawalpindi. Her husband, Faisal Asghar, and an accomplice have been arrested in connection with her murder.

Considering how obsessed Pakistan is with marriage as a nation, it’s not unusual to come across controversial views. However, there is a line between being opinionated and spewing vitriol. Faisal, as her record suggests, always goes for vitriol. She couches her damaging views on marriage and women as education that was passed down to her by her elders, but that excuse no longer works — not when a woman with her resources, money and privilege has access to both exposure and information.

Faisal’s assertion that women’s independence is the reason behind societal ruin is almost criminal, especially in a country where a wife can be murdered for not “serving a hot meal”.

Quoting a post from the BBC News Punjabi about women in Punjab increasingly using scooters to get around and organising scooter rallies in different cities to promote better mobility for other women, Chaudhry said “Most of the girls are horrible drivers”. He said encouraging them to drive themselves around was akin to “putting their and others’ lives in danger”.

Naturally, X was having absolutely none of his nonsense, with users expressing a mix of shock and disgust at the blatant misogyny.

Netizens asked Chaudhry if he had the numbers to back his claims — or if he was just pushing a TikTok conspiracy.

People asked him if he thought men riding bikes in Pakistan — who generally consider turn signals to be entirely optional —were good drivers.

A couple of users pointed out why it was important for women to be able to drive independently, especially in a place like Pakistan.

Users asked why, if he felt women weren’t great drivers, Chaudhry didn’t advocate for better driving training instead of telling women to stay off the road.

One user, however, had a slightly different suggestion.

The truth is, the former minister’s misogyny ignores the realities women face in Pakistan — both on the road and at home. Being able to drive scooters, especially during organised rallies, gives them a way to prove they can live their lives without patriarchal dependence.

And as the girls interviewed by the BBC will tell you, even when they can drive around, they keep getting stared at, chased and hit by men on bikes who might be more deserving of Chaudhry’s — and everyone else’s — criticism.

In one scene from the film — which is touted as a celebration of the South Asian diaspora in the US — Maya (played by Never Have I Ever’s Maitreyi Ramakrishnan) tells another girl “guys throw themselves at you like you’re the last flight out of Kabul”.

Naturally, netizens were shocked and appalled. Some even had to take a moment to come to terms with what they’d heard.

A lot of the criticism was directed at Hasan Minhaj, the prominent South Asian comedian who produced the film and was one of the screenwriters. There was also some shade cast at director Lena Khan.

Best of the Best is the story of a young girl joining the Bollywood-fusion dance team at her university. Speaking to Variety, Khan said South Asian representation in Hollywood was often limited to nerdy side characters and comic relief. “We can be proud of things that we do as South Asians,” she said.

One user said the whole thing was “distasteful, disgraceful and downright wrong”.

Others said Netflix should acknowledge the offence caused by the joke and apologise to Afghans.

For those in need of a lesson in recent South Asian history, the US withdrew from Afghanistan in 2021, ending nearly two decades of continued military presence in the country.

The climax of the withdrawal came in mid-August, when Kabul fell to the Taliban and evacuation flights operated by foreign forces became a last hope for many thousands of Afghan civilians.

At the time, videos circulated of desperate crowds surrounding and running alongside military aircraft, including one video in which people tried to cling on to a US jet as it took off from Kabul. Several people were seen falling from the aircraft as it climbed and authorities confirmed seven people had died.

The 13th instalment of the hit ARY Digital drama, which aired on Saturday, prompted strong reactions and discussions over hypocrisy from viewers, following a major plot twist.

Here’s a quick recap of what happened: after years of dating, and even briefly living with his long-time girlfriend and childhood sweetheart Zaryab, played by Dur-e-Fishan Saleem, Zamil — a narcissistic man who has rediscovered religion portrayed by Nameer Khan — ends up marrying an unknown woman from a madressah. And he doesn’t even bother letting Zaryab know.

The break-up, however, isn’t the story here. It’s what Zamil tells Zaryab when she finally shows up at his doorstep, looking for answers.

As an understandably emotional Zaryab confronts Zamil about his decision to abruptly end their relationship in such a cruel manner, he tells her she isn’t fit to be the wife of a good Muslim man.

“The time I spent with you was my era of ignorance. I’ve left all that and to move ahead I needed a life partner who’d help me in my religion. Someone who is pious, pure and innocent,” Zamil says.

“I think God has accepted my repentance and given her to me as a result,” he adds, before telling Zaryab she needs to find someone “like herself” if she wants to get married.

Zaryab then asks him if only a man has the right to repent and Zamil, visibly frustrated, dodges the question by listing the qualities he wants in a pious wife and how Zaryab doesn’t fulfil his newfound standards.

After the episode aired, many were left impressed by Saleem’s portrayal of Zaryab, a heartbroken woman who, at one point, was willing to let go of her admission to Harvard University, just to placate and comfort Zamil, who couldn’t get in himself.

At the same time, the blatant hypocrisy in Zamil’s views on religion and marriage didn’t escape the notice of the show’s fans.

One user on X called Dare-e-Nijat a “masterpiece” by writer Umera Ahmed.

“Zamil is basically [a] representation of [the] average Pakistani man: khud jo marzi karo, lekin biwi hamesha naik, shareef aur parda-daar chahiye (doing whatever they feel like, but always want a wife who is pious, virtuous and keeps herself covered up). Hypocrisy is just too real,” the user added.

Another pointed out how the drama highlights the importance of not losing one’s humility when you believe you have found religion.

Another user commented how the episode could serve as an unfortunate reminder for all women who have been in relationships with narcissists.

One user straight up called Zamil a red flag.

Directed by Saqib Khan, Dar-e-Nijaat features an ensemble cast, including Sheheryar Munawar, Romaisa Khan, Sahar Hashmi, Sania Saeed, Saba Hamid and Nadia Afgan.

The development came to light when another digital creator, Muhammad Ahsan, in a reel on Friday, criticised an Instagram account identified as M*.

Images independently viewed the account before writing this piece. It shows a mix of AI-generated content: videos of M appearing to kick and assault deepfakes of male and female celebrities — including actor Hania Aamir, as well as other local and international celebrities — alongside separate videos depicting him dancing with and embracing deepfakes of certain celebrities.

In his reel, Ahsan shows a blurred-out clip posted by M where a deepfake of him is seen hitting a deepfake of actor Hania Aamir.

Ahsan said that this wasn’t the only such clip and there were many others on the account that showed M’s deepfake behaving inappropriately, hitting and degrading other actors, influencers and content creators.

Ahsan also showed comments allegedly posted under these videos of other men cheering M on and saying his videos are a “very good use of AI”, though many comments posted over the past 24 hours reflect growing anger and calls for action to be taken against the digital creator.

Ahsan claimed female celebrities were in danger because of people like M and those who support and condone his behaviour, and asked people to report such content wherever they saw it.

Images reached out to M regarding the comments made about his content, but has yet to receive a response.

In Ahsan’s own comment section, female celebrities expressed their anger and called for action.

Mahira Khan said nobody should be surprised at the prevalence of violence against women in Pakistan if this was the mindset people had when it came to female celebrities.

Kinza Hashmi tagged authorities from Punjab, Sindh and Islamabad to bring the matter to their attention and urge them to act.

Actor Tamkenat Mansoor similarly said making such content should be illegal if it isn’t already and that these videos were symptomatic of a society where men think it is okay to abuse ‘popular’ women. The comment section, she said, “proves that so many of these men are just an opportunity away from violating a woman.”

Actor Zara Tareen called on people who have seen M’s videos to identify him, report him to the authorities and file a complaint with the police so that he can face the consequences of his actions.

Cases like this test the limits of existing law. Pakistan’s Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act (PECA) doesn’t contain provisions written specifically for AI-generated content, but courts and police have applied existing sections — including Section 20 (online defamation) and Section 21 (modesty/non-consensual images) — to prosecute deepfake cases involving public figures.

The lack of dedicated provisions in PECA dealing with deepfake cases means outcomes vary depending on how specific cases are framed. Last year, the Punjab police registered charges under PECA and the Pakistan Penal Code’s defamation provisions over AI-generated deepfake videos of Punjab Chief Minister Maryam Nawaz.

AI-generated abuse targeting women specifically is a documented, worsening global problem. UN Women estimates that between 16 and 58 per cent of women worldwide have experienced some form of digital abuse, and that 90 to 95 per cent of deepfake videos circulating online are sexualised images of women.

*Name withheld.

But that’s exactly what happened in the 15th and 16th episodes of Hum TV’s hit drama Aap Ki Izzat starring Ahsan Khan and Urwa Hocane in leading roles.

For those unaware, Aap Ki Izzat’s plot revolves around a 14-year marriage that breaks down due to emotional neglect, and the loss of mutual respect.

In the episodes aired on Friday and Saturday, the wife Beena, played by Hocane, finally confronts her husband Tabish, portrayed by Khan, and unleashes years of pent-up pain and anguish.

From calling him out his religious hypocrisy, to pointing out years of emotional neglect and abuse, Beena says it all.

Soon after the episode aired, several fellow celebrities took to social media to laud the performances — Hocane’s in particular, as she portrayed Beena’s vulnerability with diligence and care.

Hocane’s husband, Farhan Saeed, was one of the first to praise his wife’s monologue:

Mawra Hocane also shared her admiration for her sister’s performance:

“Such powerful dialogue delivery yet so subtle and precise,” wrote Sonya Husyn.

Zhalay Sarhadi, Yumna Zaidi, Zara Noor Abbas and Ayesha Omar also shared their admiration for their fellow actors in their Instagram stories:

Beyond the applause, Aap Ki Izzat has done something more important; it has started a conversation. Directed by Saife Hasan and penned by Umera Ahmed, the drama has shed light on the quiet struggles that many couples face behind closed doors, sparking discussions about respect, dignity as well the courage it takes to speak up.

Judging by the praise Aap Ki Izzat is receiving, it’s clear that Hocane and Khan haven’t just delivered powerful performances — they’ve given a voice to stories that too often go unheard.

And in doing so, they’ve reminded us all why storytelling matters.

Well, it’s finally out — and people have really strong feelings about it.

Titled ‘Dil,’ the first song features overnight Pakistani sensations Afusic and Ali Soomro of ‘Pal Pal’ fame and newcomer Zoha Waseem, who shot to viral fame last year with ‘Majboor’.

The heart of ‘Dil’ beats with its catchy catchphrase, “Jeenay ka maza hai Dil de ke (the joy of living is in giving your heart).” The track opens with Afusic appearing seemingly untethered — at one point even floating in the air — while lamenting the experience of falling in love.

In the second half of the song, Waseem mesmerises with her signature soothing vocals, which have the potential to become the next viral hit for Instagram and TikTok reels.

Directed by Kamal Khan, the song delivers an intentionally retro-inspired visual feast. While Nu.WAV is all about showcasing the next generation of artists, the video for ‘Dil’ plays with an ironic contrast — with old-school televisions and purple neon lights. It perfectly showcases the tunes of modern love (and heartbreak) played through a vintage lens.

As expected, the internet had thoughts. Many seemed to be equating Nu.Wav with Coke Studio instead of treating it as a separate platform with a separate sound.

One X user bemoaned that for Pakistanis, everything from cricket to Coke Studio is now ruined.

Another user had a cheeky remark about the Gen-Z spirit of Nu.WAV.

Suffice it to say, ‘Dil’ hasn’t really been able to win the hearts of Coke Studio fans yet.

But Nu.WAV has a lot in store as the inaugural edition features a diverse line-up, including names like Asim Azhar, Hasan Raheem, Maanu, Sabaat Batin, Shae Gill, Young Stunners, Izz Chughtai and Aaryan SDQ, presenting well-known artists with fresh voices who are redefining Pakistan’s current music scene.

The in-store service, which has been live since January, was launched to “help make its footwear more accessible to those living with leg limb difference — by offering customers the option of purchasing only their required shoe,” according to the German-based sportswear company.

The service allows amputees to purchase only one required footwear at half price. However, Adidas has set off a firestorm of criticism online after featuring Shalev Biton, an Israeli soldier who lost his leg during the 2021 onslaught on Gaza, in one of its campaign videos.

Palestinian-American writer and activist Susan Abulhawa pointed out how Israel is responsible for creating the highest number of child amputees per capita in modern history in Gaza.

“I hope good people of the world let Adidas know they made a toxic decision to cheer genocide. May it poison their brand forever,” she wrote.

Many, including Pakistani writer and columnist Fatima Bhutto, called for a boycott of the company.

“More than 5,000 traumatic limb amputations have been estimated since October 2023, as a result of Israeli attacks carried out by soldiers like the one Adidas chose to model for them,” wrote Spanish-Moroccan sports journalist Leyla Hamed.

This isn’t the first time the company has attracted controversy over its connections to Israel. In 2024, Adidas issued an apology to Bella Hadid, the Palestinian-American model, after she threatened legal action over a controversial ad campaign inspired by the 1972 Munich Olympics.

The United Nations reported in July that since the events of October 7, 2023, Israel is responsible for killing at least 20,179 children and injuring 44,143 children in the Occupied Palestinian Territory, including East Jerusalem.

For anyone reading this who hasn’t yet had the displeasure of witnessing Tamasha Ghar deteriorate into Pakistan’s archetypal Pidarshahana Ghar or Patriarchal House, let me walk you through the rage that birthed this article.

It all started in the late hours of August 29, when a fight broke out between two contestants — Hamza Joher and Dr Sikandar Zaman Khan (popularly known as Dr Zee Khan).

Fights are common in — and even part and parcel of — reality television competitions like Tamasha and Bigg Boss which operate under the Big Brother format, so that was not the concerning part. What stood out was Joher’s apparent hatred for women.

Hatred is a strong word, and I do not use it lightly. In fact, I feel upset using it to describe the politics of a man who had so far appeared progressive, often talking about how much he misses his wife while living in the Tamasha Ghar. Misogyny is all around us, but when it comes from (supposedly) Nice Men™, it pierces more sharply.

The fight started when Joher heard from another contestant that Dr Zee accused him of making inappropriate comments about women. Joher instantly rushed to the wardrobe area where Dr Zee was, getting in his face and demanding to know what he was being accused of saying. What followed was a repetitive, circular exchange, with Joher demanding clarification on his alleged remarks and Dr Zee insisting that Joher recall what he had said in Pashto while they were in the bathroom.

The confrontation quickly intensified with Joher threatening Dr Zee with physical violence over what he perceived was character assassination. At that point, two other contestants intervened, resulting in the altercation shifting to the central lounge area where it pulled more people into its fold. A few minutes later, Dr Zee finally revealed the misogynistic comments Joher had made about the clothing choices and bodies of Tamasha’s women.

Dr Zee’s repetition of those comments was muted in the episode broadcast, presumably because they were too problematic to air on national television, so we don’t know exactly what he said. However, viewers have since analysed what might have been said based on his lip movements and the context shared in the uncensored parts, and the online consensus is that Joher criticised the “revealing dressing” of women on the show, along with making crude, derogatory remarks about the size of someone’s hips.

Somewhere in between, the same Joher who had so far aggressively been asserting that he was being defamed by Dr Zee ended up blurting out, “What’s wrong with what I said?”

Him slut-shaming women was thus reduced to only half the problem; that he did not see anything wrong with it became the other half.

Throughout all of this, he glared at Dr Zee with a rage that felt frightening to many of us watching from the other side of the screen. That rage persisted, despite him being the one in the wrong, which made it all the scarier, and also eerily familiar owing to its hyper-masculine undertones similar to what we see a lot of men in our society exhibiting.

That rage was ignored by the Badshah Salamat (King of the House), Adnan Siddiqui. Instead, he chose to reprimand Dr Zee. His crime? Informing the women around him of what was going on. Or, in the words of the Badshah Salamat himself, breaking the “bro code”.

The day after this confrontation happened, Siddiqui visited the house like he does every day to personally interact with (read: lecture) the contestants. He appeared to be on a mission to publicly humiliate Dr Zee, as he started off by employing a disciplinary tactic seen in schools, forcing Dr Zee to repeatedly stand up and then sit down in front of his assembled housemates.

Then segueing into a discussion on the fight, Siddiqui remarked, “Let me ask you a question, man to man. We tend to say a lot of things like these to each other, right? Do we discuss that [in front of women]… if they are inappropriate? Man to man? There is something known as the ‘bro code’.”

Okay, Adnan, way to publicly confess your covert misogyny. In what came to me as a pleasant surprise, Dr Zee attempted to politely disrupt Siddiqui’s patriarchal line of questioning by declaring that it was Joher who broke the bro code, not him. By so doing, Khan prioritised an ethical reframing of the traditionally misogynistic bro code as something that should push men to become better versions of themselves. That reframed version would obviously not include them engaging in locker-room talk.

Siddiqui, however, didn’t seem to be interested in reframing a problematic social phenomena. His concern was with establishing secrecy around any such conversations that may take place in the future, instead of fostering a culture where there is no room left for these comments to begin with, and he made this quite clear in his subsequent cross-questioning.

He also expressed disapproval over some women not swallowing the blatant disrespect silently. “I am surprised about the way some women became part of the conversation,” he said in reference to the only two women — film star Laila and Rabia Javaid Sheikh — who called out Joher the previous day. He followed it up by saying, “Unko mauqa mil gaya (they got an opportunity).”

The suggestion that the women gained “an opportunity” by being spoken about in that vulgar way reeks of deeply-ingrained misogyny, as if this was some sinister ploy to further their supposedly malicious gameplay, and not a very human and natural reaction to finding out that they were being objectified and demeaned by someone they had no choice but to continuously share physical space with.

Perhaps anticipating public backlash over this, he concluded the tribunal with an acknowledgement of Joher’s fault in passing such comments and advising him to leave these matters to the production management moving forward.

The brief nature of this criticism, coupled with how diluted it was in comparison to what the others received relegated it to being nothing more than a token. And while Tamasha can now claim that they did indeed condemn Joher’s wrongdoing, the fact that this surface-level condemnation was wrapped up in a load of retrogressive, male chauvinist rhetoric by an industry veteran makes me wonder: when will the tamasha of Pakistani men invoking patriarchal concepts like the ‘bro code’ come to an end?

The star posted a story on Instagram on Tuesday saying she has a seven-month-old baby herself and can’t find words to describe what she felt when she came across the news.

Aziz said the only thing she could think to ask was how anyone can do this to a child.

“Why, how and when did some men in Pakistan become so deeply disturbed that they feel entitled to take their frustrations out on women around them? And now, I have to include infants and toddlers in that sentence too.”

The star said she was “disgusted to my core”.

The incident, which the complainant said happened at his house while his wife had gone out to work, left the little girl injured. The suspect is said to have fled as soon as the complainant’s wife returned home.

Aziz said she couldn’t even begin to talk about sex education when people in Pakistan lacked basic awareness of consent, boundaries, safety and respect.

She said she loved Pakistan; it was her home and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the world, but that did not mean she would stay silent about the country’s problems.

She said she wanted to see a country where her children were protected by a functioning system and not just her vigilance as a mother. “A Pakistan where predators are afraid of the law, not where parents are afraid for their children.

“If my children are not safe here, then what am I supposed to do with all this love for my country?”

Sonya Hussaiyn had a similar outlook on the system when she reacted to the incident, saying “Qayamat (the Day of Judgement) will explain why its arrival was necessary”.

“Shame on the system that continues to fail its people,” Hussaiyn said.

This latest incident comes after a string of violent incidents against girls in Pakistan. Just last week, police in Haripur recovered the body of a five-year-old who had been raped and killed.

Earlier in August, police arrested a teenager suspected of raping a toddler in Karachi.

According to a report from child protection NGO Sahil, 1,914 cases of child abuse were reported across the country between January and June 2026, including as many as 1,015 cases of child sexual abuse, 558 cases of abduction, 101 cases of missing children and 35 cases of child marriages.

On Friday, Mahira Khan posted a message on her Instagram page saying people were murdered every day in Pakistan, “by negligence”, “by power”, “by misogyny” and “by silence”.

Khan asked how many more deaths the country would have to face and “when did it get so bad?” She said she felt sick to her stomach and hopeless to the core in light of recent events and that she “can’t stop crying looking at the news every day”.

The actor said she “can’t even begin to imagine the pain of those who have been directly affected” by a slew of tragedies, but soon all the innocent victims will become “just another hashtag” and “we will all move on”.

This wasn’t just about the fire at Pims and its 14 tiny victims, Khan remembered the mother of the 18-month-old girl in Karachi who was raped and murdered on August 4 and the family of Mir Raza Ali, the 25-year-old Karachi businessman who was found murdered in July.

She also mentioned the parents of Hina Javed, who was found murdered in her Rawalpindi apartment on Aug 20 with signs of torture on her body and the father of a five-year-old girl, whose body was found dumped in a well on Monday after she was raped.

“Who cares who is responsible? How does it even matter, when nobody has ever been held responsible?”

She prayed for a day her children can see a better Pakistan, quoting a line from Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s Hum Dekehenge: “Jab zulm-o-sitam ke koh-e-giraan/Ruii ki tarah urrh jaein gey (When the mountains of tyranny and oppression will blow away like cotton fluff).”

Actor Bushra Ansari also posted a reel on Instagram saying Pakistanis were seeing many tragedies nowadays, including the death of babies at Pims due to “negligence”.

“That happened and the ones going through that grief, who knows what they’re thinking. Someone [lost] a child they had after trying for years, somebody lost twins… it’s a great, unimaginable loss.”

Ansari said she wasn’t here to talk about that, but rather the conduct of Federal Health Minister Mustafa Kamal, who was “shaking them off”.

“This is not the way to talk to these people,” the actor said.

“For God’s sake, think of how you’re behaving. Nobody’s saying you started the fire. It’s just that there’s an institution under [your ministry]. People will complain about it [to you] and they’re distressed… and you’re scolding them?”

She urged the minister to do the job he gets paid for or “keep your head down and listen to people’s complaints”.

Khaled Anam, another industry veteran, similarly admonished authorities. He said pleading the authorities to take action or fix anything was “akin to playing the flute for a buffalo”.

Anam quoted the late columnist Ardeshir Cowasjee, saying “You cannot shame the shameless” and said it was futile to expect those responsible to accept blame and leave their posts.

“Please don’t expect anything to happen. Committees will be formed, findings published, notices taken and announcements made that ‘Oh, we gave a budget of so many crores.’”

Anam said all his expectations — and those of society — were from God now. He prayed for everyone responsible for the Pims tragedy to be held accountable.

Naimal Khawar said she “angry, furious, scared and heartbroken” after seeing yet another story that “makes me wonder whether our children and women are safe anywhere anymore”.

“How many more mothers have to lose their children? How many more girls have to suffer before enough is enough?” the actor asked in an Instagram story.

Khawar said her heart was “with the families who lost their newborns at Pims, with Hina Javed and with every woman and girl who has faced unimaginable violence”.

Like Anam, she also prayed for God to deliver justice to those who had been wronged.

Visuals of rescue personnel entering the building through broken windows and aggrieved parents crying for children they hadn’t even gotten the chance to name flooded TV screens as an air of intense grief descended over the country.

Celebrities joined the nation in its mourning, with Zhalay Sarhadi sharing a post about a father who had been blessed with a son, only to lose the child in the inferno.

Sarhadi said she had no words to offer except her prayers for the parents who were faced with an unimaginable loss.

Areeba Habib shared a poetic message to the children’s mothers who spent their pregnancies looking out for their unborn kids, only to lose them in a fire. “Some fires begin with a spark. Others begin when someone fails to care,” she wrote.

Mehwish Hayat said she was “struggling to process” the many tragedies hitting Pakistan, adding that the fire at Pims was “yet another heartbreaking reminder of how deeply disturbing things had become”.

She said the hospital where the children died was supposed to be the place they were safest.

Hayat asked how many more women and children had to die before people would get answers, accountability and safety for society’s most vulnerable.

Romaisa Khan struck an even harsher tone, saying the country was “bleeding”. She cited recent cases of murder and rape as further failures of the system.

“Women aren’t safe in their homes. Children aren’t safe. People disappear and are found dead. Even babies aren’t safe inside hospitals. How did we get here?” she asked.

The actor said we couldn’t go on like this, moving on after every loss. She demanded justice and accountability for every woman, child and family failed by the system.

Sharing Khan’s post on his story, music producer Umair mourned the loss of 14 lives “that never even got the chance to begin” and said the deaths should never have happened.

Ushna Shah said she was keeping the bereaved parents close to her heart and called the incident “preventable”.

Mohammed Ahmed said the children who had died on Wednesday would be forgotten soon, just like all the other children who had been killed by the system’s indifference and forgotten after a period of outrage.

“Why is no one ever punished? Why does nobody ask questions? Think of the mothers whose babies burned to death.”

Ahmed implored the authorities to open their eyes and make those responsible face accountability.

Ayesha Omar said Pakistanis were now waking up to horrific news on a daily basis and there was a “systemic failure” in every department. “What is this crazy negligence,” she asked.

She prayed for the families of the young victims to have justice and strength.

Sheheryar Munawar and Bilal Abbas didn’t have any words to express their feelings, sharing broken heart emojis.

A spokesperson from Pims told Dawn on Wednesday that the ward had 15 children in it, one of whom was rescued by a doctor.

In the aftermath of the fire, the federal health secretary has been removed from his post and Health Minister Mustafa Kamal has vowed to bring those responsible to justice with a transparent investigation.