On a narrow, bustling street in Mansehra in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, evening light spills between tangled electric wires and shop signs. A transgender woman adjusts her dupatta, places her phone against a wall and presses record.

For a few seconds, the world is simple: music, movement, a small performance meant for an audience somewhere beyond the street. The video lasts less than a minute.

By the time night settles over the town, it has travelled far beyond the pavement where it was filmed. The clip is downloaded, reshared, passed between strangers. Comments begin to appear — mocking first, then explicit, before becoming threatening. Messages follow in private inboxes: propositions, insults, warnings.

What began as an act of visibility becomes unsafe exposure.

For many transgender Pakistanis navigating the country’s rapidly expanding digital world, this is the fragile bargain of social media. Platforms that promise connection, income and identity also open the door to harassment, surveillance and blackmail — risks intensified by limited digital literacy and weak institutional protection.

As the world observes the International Transgender Day of Visibility on March 31, Pakistan’s historically marginalised transgender community is finding greater visibility online amid rapid digitalisation. But it comes at a cost that only a few can navigate and many were never warned about…

In a society where public space has long been hostile to transgender people, the internet once appeared to offer something radical: the chance to be seen.

But visibility, it turns out, has a price.

A NEW STAGE

Over the past decade — and particularly since the Covid-19 pandemic accelerated digital life — social media has reshaped how Pakistanis communicate, work and present themselves to the world. TikTok videos, WhatsApp groups and Facebook pages now function as informal marketplaces, entertainment channels and community spaces.

For transgender communities historically pushed to the margins of economic life and often facing violence, these platforms have opened unexpected opportunities. Malika, a 29-year-old transgender woman in Mansehra, describes social media as a gateway to both recognition and income.

“I have videos on TikTok and songs on YouTube,” she tells Eos. “I’ve connected with many people through these platforms. Many [people] in our community use TikTok to show their beauty — if you are visible, you get opportunities for functions and events.”

For performers who traditionally relied on word-of-mouth networks to secure work at weddings or celebrations, online visibility can bring new clients. Daily life itself becomes content: birthday gatherings, shared meals, small purchases that mark moments of pride.

“We share moments from our lives,” Malika explains. “If someone buys something nice — maybe gold or furniture — people show it,” she continues. “Even if a friend gives a small ring worth ten rupees, it still becomes a video.”

These glimpses of ordinary life are quietly radical. For decades, public narratives about transgender Pakistanis reduced them to narrow stereotypes — dancers at weddings, beggars at traffic signals, figures of ridicule or superstition. Social media allows them to tell different stories.

But the same exposure that attracts followers can also attract predators.

WHEN THE AUDIENCE TURNS HOSTILE

Visibility online can quickly translate into surveillance in the physical world.

“Since the use of social media increased, harassment and violence have also increased,” Malika admits. “People come to know that a beautiful transgender person lives in a particular area,” she adds. “Then they start recognising them.”

Sometimes that recognition becomes intimidation. “Some people threaten us or force us to go to parties,” Malika elaborates. “They say if we refuse, they will open fire at our homes.”

Blocking users provides little relief. “How many people can we keep blocking?”

For Katrina, a 40-year-old transgender woman in Mansehra, the dangers of online trust became painfully clear. “A friend asked me to join a video call and entertain him by undressing,” she recalls quietly. “Because I trusted him, I agreed.”

The call was secretly recorded, Katrina tells Eos. “He later sent the videos back to me on WhatsApp and threatened to make them viral.”

What began as a private interaction turned into blackmail — a reminder of how easily digital intimacy can become digital control.

THE DIGITAL LITERACY DIVIDE

These vulnerabilities are often magnified by a lack of digital literacy within parts of the community, shaped by geography and varying levels of exposure.

Sonia, a 24-year-old transgender woman who has worked with a transgender rights organisation in Mansehra, says many community members began using social media with little understanding of privacy tools or security settings. “There is hardly any privacy on Facebook,” she explains. “And on TikTok, most people don’t set privacy settings because they don’t know how these platforms work.”

Some users needed help even creating accounts. “I helped set up accounts for most of them,” Sonia tells Eos.

Without basic knowledge of account security or reporting mechanisms, users can become easy targets for impersonation, scams and harassment.

Malika remembers the shock of discovering someone had created a fake account using her name and photographs. “The account started messaging people while pretending to be me,” she says. Rumours spread quickly within the community, damaging her reputation. “I had to record a video telling everyone the account was fake,” Malika continues. “That was the only way to protect myself.”

Even then, the sense of vulnerability lingered. But, as Malika points out, the same social media also saved her life — by posting a video to tell the world that the account did not belong to her.

But not many know of the security measures and safeguards within, points out Zaini, a 32-year-old transgender woman in Rawalpindi. “I know how to use privacy settings, block accounts and report abuse — things many in smaller cities aren’t aware of yet,” she tells Eos.

This contrast reveals how digital vulnerability is shaped by geography and structural inequality.

In a big city like Rawalpindi, where people from different cities intersect, stronger community networks and peer-based learning create greater exposure to digital tools and safety practices — forming a layer of informal protection that allows users to navigate risks with more awareness.

In places such as Mansehra, interrupted education, economic marginalisation and isolation limit both access to technology and opportunities to learn, with many picking up digital skills informally and without a clear understanding of privacy or consent.

Across both settings, fear of reporting abuse persists, but the lack of accessible digital safety knowledge in smaller cities deepens vulnerability — highlighting that digital literacy is not just an individual skill but a structural necessity to ensure visibility does not come at the cost of safety.

THE COST OF PRIVACY

In theory, privacy settings could reduce these risks. In practice, they often threaten livelihoods.

“If we make our accounts private, it will affect our work,” Sonia says. “We will receive fewer event bookings.”

For performers and content creators whose income depends on public visibility, hiding from the audience is rarely an option. “Why can’t we be protected on these platforms?” asks Sonia. “Many other people have public accounts,” she continues. “Why are men not blackmailed the way we are?”

The question reveals a deeper inequality: transgender users are expected to navigate public platforms while carrying risks others rarely face. Safety and survival often pull in opposite directions.

WHEN THE INTERNET FOLLOWS

YOU HOME

For some transgender users, online harassment quickly escapes the digital realm.

Zaini says repeated threats forced her to rethink how she appears online. “I’ve had so many experiences that I’ve become cautious,” she says. “Now I use a fake account and, on TikTok, I upload videos with an emoji covering my face.”

Zaini says the situation has come to the point where she was compelled to apply for a visa abroad. “I’ve faced so much violence and abuse online that I’m seeking asylum.”

For others, digital threats have already reshaped their lives.

Saman, a 23-year-old transgender woman, says a former friend threatened to leak private photographs after they had travelled together. “He said he would post them on TikTok and Facebook,” she recalls.

The threats escalated rapidly. Saman tells Eos that the man resorted to blackmail and threatened to throw acid on her. Fear forced her to abandon her search for a job and return to Pakistan from the United Arab Emirates.

These stories illustrate a disturbing pattern: online harassment often becomes a precursor to offline danger. Screenshots reveal identities; messages reveal locations. Once that information escapes into hostile networks, intimidation can move easily from the digital space into the physical world, forcing transgender individuals to change their routines, hide their identities, or even leave their homes and communities to stay safe.

SILENCE AS SURVIVAL

Despite these risks, many transgender survivors choose not to report cybercrime.

Kami Chaudhry, a trans activist who is also a model, says she faced significant online backlash and reported it through both online mechanisms and directly to the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA) and the recently constituted National Cyber Crime Investigation Agency.

Despite multiple attempts, including office visits, there was little follow-up or meaningful assistance, Kami tells Eos. “Cyber harassment and abuse are not treated with the urgency they deserve.”

“I never even thought about filing a complaint,” Saman says. Her reasoning is blunt: “Abusers know no one will stand up for us.”

When transgender people approach authorities, she says, their complaints are often dismissed or ignored. “Even when we go after being beaten and covered in blood, no one listens,” Saman adds.

If physical violence is ignored, reporting online abuse can feel futile. For many, silence becomes a form of protection.

THE INTERNET AS DISCOVERY

But the digital world is not only a place of danger. For many transgender Pakistanis — particularly younger ones — it is also where identity begins.

Umrao Jaan, a 30-year-old transgender woman in Rawalpindi, says the internet helped her understand herself. “My journey started from the internet,” she tells Eos. “Through the internet I realised I was not alone.”

As a child, she felt isolated, unsure how to explain her identity. Online videos and discussions offered answers. “I created two Facebook accounts,” she says with a laugh. “One for family and one where I searched for information.”

Through those hidden searches, Umrao Jaan discovered communities, conversations and knowledge about gender identity and transitioning. Social media, she believes, has changed how younger transgender Pakistanis see their futures.

For her generation, the internet is not only a stage but also a classroom.

Yet Umrao Jaan also recognises the risks. “Social media has increased both vulnerability and popularity,” she says. “People know who we are and where we are.”

She remembers meeting a man on a dating app, who used fake photographs. “When I went to meet him, I realised he was someone completely different,” she says.

The encounter ended safely, but the experience revealed how quickly online interactions can become dangerous. “The abuse often shifts from online spaces to offline spaces,” she says. “After meeting people in real life, exploitation can become financial, physical or psychological.”

A STRUCTURAL PROBLEM

Digital rights advocates argue these stories reveal deeper systemic gaps.

Nighat Dad, founder of the Lahore-based Digital Rights Foundation (DRF), says even a small number of complaints from the transgender community signals significant underreporting. “Limited digital literacy makes people more vulnerable at every stage,” she explains. “For transgender communities, this risk is multiplied because survivors already face stigma and economic exclusion.”

Dad adds that these vulnerabilities are compounded by systemic gaps in how abuse is addressed online, particularly across major social media platforms.

“It is the gap between law, enforcement and survivor experience,” she continues. “Many transgender survivors fear secondary victimisation: being mocked, misgendered, judged or forced to defend their identity instead of having the abuse addressed.”

Pakistan’s cyber harassment cases continue to rise each year. Yet many transgender victims remain reluctant to report abuse due to fear of humiliation, delays or indifference from authorities.

While activists highlight the everyday vulnerabilities created by limited digital literacy and gaps in platform enforcement, policymakers point to the structural and legal shortcomings that exacerbate these risks. National Assembly member Sharmila Faruqui believes the country’s legal protections have not kept pace with its digital expansion.

One way to rectify this is through stakeholder engagement, says Faruqui. Parliamentary committees should hold consultations with transgender activists, civil society groups, digital rights experts and community leaders before drafting or amending laws, she tells Eos.

“Inclusion should mean that the experiences of transgender citizens are reflected in the language of the law, in enforcement guidelines and in oversight mechanisms,” she asserts.

Without stronger implementation and survivor-centred reporting systems, laws alone offer little protection.

THE DOUBLE-EDGED SCREEN

For transgender Pakistanis, the internet remains a space of contradictions — a fragile lifeline and a fault line at once. It is here that many first find the language to name themselves, the community to belong to and the visibility to challenge generations of erasure.

Yet the same spaces amplify harm with equal speed: a single video travels beyond control, a private exchange mutates into blackmail, a screenshot hardens into evidence against one’s own existence.

In this ecosystem, abuse is not confined to the screen; it seeps outward, collapsing the boundary between digital and physical worlds, where visibility can so quickly become vulnerability.

In a country racing toward digitalisation, safety cannot remain an afterthought. For transgender Pakistanis, the promise of visibility must not come at the cost of vulnerability. What is needed is not retreat from these platforms, but reform within them: stronger, more responsive reporting mechanisms and accessible digital safety training that equips users to navigate risk without dimming their presence.

The goal is simple yet urgent — to ensure that transgender individuals can exist online with the same ease, dignity and freedom as any other Pakistani, where expression is not shadowed by fear, but protected by design.

Zahra Naeem works in the development sector. She has studied gender studies and anthropology, and has experience in gender activism, research and advocacy

Laiba Nayyab works in the development sector and has experience of gender activism, community mobilisation and advocacy

Published in Dawn, EOS, March 29th, 2026

An earlier version of this article incorrectly listed Laiba Zainab as the co-writer. It has been updated to reflect Laiba Nayyab as the co-writer. The error is regretted.

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A couple of weeks ago, a midday poetry reading session was held at the Sind Club Library. Literary aficionados Bari Mian and Wajid Jawad read out a selection of poems, with members of the audience contributing their own favourites. In the midst of the mayhem of war, there was something restorative and moving about these two speakers, each with a small well-thumbed pocket-sized notebook bursting with paper bookmarks marking the poems to be read.

Most cultural events are held in the evenings, often extending well into the night. This was different. A couple of hours in the middle of the day. A hiatus between the business of the morning and what may well be a fraught evening. It was not a rest, a siesta, but a secret energising, a waking of the soul when many in the city were bent over desks, reconciling accounts.

Midday is seen as a powerful time of the day, when the sun is at its zenith, creating no shadow. A time of sharp clarity, intensity, perfect illumination, exposing the truth of things.

In Slavic and German folklore, Lady Midday was believed to be a spirit that haunted fields at noon, to dissuade those working in the heat. Christian monks refer to the “noonday demon” that creates restlessness and apathy, causing them to believe their work is meaningless.

From the “noonday demon” of mediaeval monks to Nietzsche’s “Great Noon”, midday has long symbolised moments of truth and reckoning

For Native Americans, midday is a time of intense energy and spiritual vigilance when the boundary between the physical and spiritual world is active. In epics such as the Mahabharata, noon is portrayed as a quiet turning point when the sun seems to pause, marking a moment for decision-making or action.

The English playwright and composer Noel Coward’s song ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’ has the stanza: “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun”, referring not to the weak English sun, but the intense sun of its colonies that could not deter the colonial enterprise. “When the white man rides, every native hides in glee/Because the simple creatures hope he will impale his solar topee on a tree/It seems such a shame when the English claim the earth/That they give rise to such hilarity and mirth.”

German priest and philosopher Romano Guardini sees midday as a pause, not from weariness, but as “a pure present when strength and energy are still at the full.” It is a time for a person to re-collect themselves, “spreading out before their heart the problems that have stirred them.”

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, in his book Thus Spake Zarathushtra, sees the “Great Noon” as the high point of humanity, the moment when we finally abandon all those “lies” — ideals, beliefs, moral principles that are the “exact opposite of the ones which would ensure man’s prosperity, his future and his great right to a future.” It is a “moment of the briefest shadow; end of the longest error.”

It is a calm like no other, a mystic intuition of truths disclosed in the midst of life. The “Great Midday” represents a stage of civilisation that has overcome its savage past but faces nihilism, or the loss of morality, values and purpose.

The term ‘High Noon’, made famous by the 1952 Western film, became an idiom for a final, dramatic showdown, a moment of confrontation, the ultimate test, an event which is likely to decide the final outcome of a situation. Jean-François Rischard, a former vice president of the World Bank, was the first to use the term in a political context in his 2002 book High Noon: 20 Global Problems, 20 Years to Solve Them. It has since become a catchphrase for describing the crises of world politics.

The English writer James Plunkett, author of End State, asks: “Why is it hard to put a finger on the political moment we’re in?” Perhaps 2026 has brought clarity as the world faces a critical time of intense superpower rivalry, a volatile period where new coalitions are replacing the old.

Plunkett notes, in the midst of banal AI-generated content, it is also a time of unusual intellectual vitality, the rise of slow well-researched journalism, that braves the scorching political heat of this midday, asking the right question: not how we can ‘buy’ a better future, but how we can envision a better world. How can we govern in poetry, not prose?

Published in Dawn, EOS, March 29th, 2026

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I wonder why we don’t have Eids like this year’s anymore.

The rush at ticket windows, shows packed till early morning, big box-office numbers — almost all of them real, to an extent — the dismissiveness of ride-hailing services as their drivers leave you stranded in the cinema lobby for hours before one of them takes pity on you… It is, suddenly, a great time for movies — at least for the next week or so!

While three Eid movies were set to debut this Eidul Fitr, one of them — Delhi Gate — bowed out in Sindh. The DCP [Digital Cinema Package], I am told, had a technical error but, as I personally witnessed, a lack of ticket sales and audience interest also played a part (I was the only one with a reservation for the one show at Karachi’s Nueplex Askari).

Delhi Gate, its director confirmed to Icon, will return to cinemas — as soon as Bullah and Aag Lagay Basti Mein’s audiences thin out. The reviews below tell you how good each film is.

Aag Lagay Basti Mein

Recently, at the end of a long discussion, an actor friend asked me the most basic of questions — one everyone knows, but only filmmakers persistently (and cynically) ask film critics: what, pray tell, is a good movie?

One could answer this in a few dozen ways (I’ve done it enough times that my eyes roll reflexively), but since this is show business, it’s better to lead with an example: Aag Lagay Basti Mein (ALBM) — it is, perhaps, as fine a specimen of a good motion picture as you’ll get.

Icon checks out the two Pakistani Eidul Fitr film releases — the Fahad Mustafa and Mahira Khan-starrer Aag Lagay Basti Mein and the Shaan Shahid-starrer Bullah — which present contrasting approaches to filmmaking. One shows attention to good storytelling. The other chooses spectacle and relies on star power

Irrespective of box-office numbers, ALBM is a smash, as we predicted in Icon a few weeks ago (Betting on Eid Again, published last month). It is a winner, not because of its expansive advertising campaign on distributor ARY Film’s sister television networks but because the filmmaker is smart enough to identify and neutralise the tripwires of narrative filmmaking.

That filmmaker is Bilal Atif Khan, one of the most promising newcomers in the recent Pakistani cinema landscape.

Bilal, who has directed and co-written the film with Naeem Ali, addresses the biggest gripes I have with our movies: forgetting the big picture, injustice to the premise, the inability to foresee structural and production pitfalls, and the absence of intelligently laid-out conflicts and resolutions.

ALBM is full of big and small conflicts — not the makeshift kind, but the character- and emotion-driven kind.

Barkat (at first played by Aashir Wajahat, then Fahad Mustafa) is a meek pacifist with a big heart, born into the wrong family: a bloodline of Sindhi dacoits. When things get tough in interior Sindh, the family migrates to Karachi and immediately learns that the city is a far bigger mugger than they ever were. While his dad (Shabbir Jan) and brother adjust — the latter snatches mobiles and purses — Barkat ends up in jail.

For Barkat, a life of crime — even one he is remotely connected to — gets a no-go from the heavens. This bedding, neatly tucked under the main narrative layer, pays off in spades later.

Before that, another key conflict enters the picture: the leading lady.

Almas (Mahira Khan) is a maid who loves to swipe left, right and centre — not on social media but anything that catches her eye: lipsticks, blushes, foundations and the odd Rs1,000 currency note.

Already divorced, she’s hardly interested when Barkat’s family comes calling with a rishta [marriage proposal]. However, her eyes pop open when she overhears that Barkat spent years in Dubai (he was in the slammer).

Almas had always dreamt of living in Dubai, so it’s an easy, romance-less ‘yes’ — until she learns the truth: the family simply wanted to be rid of Barkat. She and Barkat are sent packing right after the wedding, to a dingy, leaky, one-room house in a smelly corner of a railway colony.

They quickly learn to compromise. Barkat promises to save enough for their move to Dubai, gets a job, and the two place a savings jar titled ‘Doobai’ on their shelf. She, meanwhile, continues pilfering, without his knowledge. There’s a subtle hint here about relationships, about how, even in a marriage, things remain hidden.

ALBM bets the farm on building a unique relationship between Almas and Barkat; their romance takes a backseat to a more resilient bond of companionship and understanding.

Almas, like Barkat, has a kind heart — evident in a scene where she tries to make up with him after he takes money from their ‘Doobai’ jar to pay a neighbour’s child’s medical bills. This minor track, like most subplots in ALBM, leads to a quiet but harrowing moment of realisation that propels the film into the second half. By then, the emotional foundation — the similarities and differing worldviews — has been firmly laid by the director and co-writer.

Post-intermission, we get the kinetic turn. Barkat, realising life will never be fair, tells Almas they’re going to pull off one big robbery to set things right.

Enter — by a strange twist of fate — underworld don Marble Seth (Javed Sheikh), and his son Changezi (Tabish Hashmi), a petty young man wearing a ring with a poisonous sting.

You’re wrong if you think the story becomes predictable from here. Bilal and Naeem’s screenplay doesn’t lag. Nothing is superfluous. Every scene either builds character or plants tidbits they later cash in. Placing breadcrumbs with just enough emphasis that they register is a rarity in Pakistani cinema.

The screenplay gets perfect support from cinematographer Abid Rizvi’s wide-angle lens choices. Switching between 18 and 35mm cameras, these spherical lenses expand the frame just enough that the background and production design (credited to Team Big Bang) become as integral a character as Barkat and Almas. The wider field of view also makes the storytelling more immersive.

Unlike most Pakistani films, ALBM feels like a streamlined production whose screenplay was polished well before it went on set. That sheen reflects in the choreography of shots, leading to a lean, effective edit with nary a loose frame offsetting the narrative balance (the editors are Rasheed Khan, Salman Noorani and Bilal).

In the acting department, Tabish Hashmi is a pleasant surprise. His overweening bad guy gives him just enough leeway to become a villain worth remembering.

Javed Sheikh, too, is a surprise. During the film, I kept thinking back to a conversation I had with him, where I urged him to pursue roles that allow him to do something different (the topic of Meet the Supporting Cast, published in Icon two years ago). Marble Seth is that rare ‘different’ role — one he nails effortlessly.

Ayub Khosa and the supporting cast are just as good. Also — need one say it — Fahad Mustafa is a gem. Barkat, upon whose shoulders the narrative hangs, is a fragile, sensible, deeply conflicted human being, with a big, easily overwhelmed heart. He and Almas are as precise a representation of realistic human beings as commercial motion pictures allow.

Almas has a devilish side, but a line or two — and Mahira’s performance — reveal that her emotional barriers are rooted in hurt. This is Mahira’s most immersive and divergent role yet. Note the realistic, unflattering, mismatched make-up she wears and the slightly mangy hairdo; these small choices go a long way toward authenticating her character.

Like most women — and men — she pines for a better life that is forever out of the reach of the underprivileged. This makes their struggle more real, even when the film swivels into the fantastic — though never ludicrous — part of the story.

ALBM has only two minor shortfalls: the soundtrack is just okay, and there’s a negligible story hiccup at the very end involving Mahira and Ayub Khosa’s characters. Even so, the film easily slides into the list of the finest entertainers from Pakistani cinema.

It is a whip-smart, well-rounded film that shows you don’t need sultry item numbers or faux extravagance to tell a good story. A small, dingy house and two people will suffice if you have a clear head and the cinematic flair to make the mundane feel magical. You won’t find a better example of a good Pakistani film than this.

Bullah

In Bullah, the new action film starring Shaan Shahid — where the superstar does all the heavy lifting — the viewer is at the mercy of a warped sense of time, space and a truckload of unanswered questions.

Before we get to those questions (that get no answers), here’s the plot: Bullah (Shaan), a man who rives his SUV across Punjab farmlands, has a saviour complex. He saves a Sikh woman (Maham Mirza) from India, who is fleeing a gang of rural hoodlum rapists, then saves an infiltrator who is running from another rapist villain’s gang. Yes, almost all villains here are rapists.

The rural gang falls under Faqeera (Naeema Butt), the extravagantly stylised, brutal lord-of-lords of an agrestic mafia that mostly hurts or rapes people — the film never explains why. The modern mob in the city — whose main madman, Sahoo (Adnan Butt), also lingers in the countryside — is run by Bakshi (Saleem Sheikh).

Bullah is a man of justice who, we learn quite late in a passing line, was trained by — and later became a trainer of — US military men. The film leaves it at that.

If there is one thing Bullah is clear about, it is its adherence to the superficiality of its premise and an utter disinterest in answering even the most basic questions about its characters and story. One can almost feel the filmmakers’ shrug each time a question arises in your mind.

For every question the viewer has, Bullah has two responses: “It just is” and “Suspend your disbelief.” Mostly, it is the latter. For instance, these are the answers to some of the questions that arise in the viewer’s mind — or so one assumes from the narrative:

Q: Who is Bullah, the affluent man who walks into frames rescuing people?

A: Duh. He’s a good guy.

Q: What makes him tick?

A: He’s just like this. Why do you want to know more?

Q: What makes the villains evil? Why are they rapists?

A: They just are.

Q: Why does the film need three parallel villain tracks (Faqeera, Bakshi, Sahoo) when they never converge naturally?

A: Suspend your disbelief.

Q: Who is Sophia (Sara Loren), and why was she necessary — especially when she is never integral to the narrative?

A: The film needs glamour, and the hero needs a romantic subplot. You ask too many questions!

Writer Nasir Adeeb’s script — the screenplay is by director Shoaib Khan (Jackpot) — harks back to old Lollywood. Back then, a story made do with a simple premise and simplistic scene set-ups stitched together in the edit. The result felt rough, with too many narrative divergences — the story went here, there, everywhere before returning to the main idea at the climax. During this haphazardness, the passage of time often felt off.

In Bullah, this becomes a glaring oversight — particularly during the stretch where he meets, falls in love with and marries Sophia. One wonders: was that a dream or reality? And in either case, why is she such a passive, forsaken character, when her track naturally puts her dead centre in the plot?

The premise is still ideal for a Shaan Shahid actioner. It merges old Lollywood with new-age Hollywood, where the gandasa and lungi seamlessly give way to suits and martial arts gunplay. It’s a pity that Shaan doesn’t get to wear a lungi or wield a gandasa before donning a suit. His choice of clothes and artillery is defiantly modern, almost as if he’d do anything but step back into those roots.

The action by Azam Bhatti is mostly basic and fake. Punches land with hollow impact, bullets hit with lesser intensity, people fly and smash into things like a 2000s’ Bollywood flick. John Wick, this definitely ain’t.

It’s not all bad technically. Asrad Khan’s cinematography, though constricted to small sets and presumably quick light set-ups, is fine for the most part. The songs — especially Lajpalan’(Nik D. Gill and Miel) and Wekhi Kithay (Rehan Abbas) — are fantastic, though good music in a Shaan film is hardly a surprise.

The actors are professionals in every sense of the word. Adnan Butt and Saleem Sheikh growl, smirk and threaten as convincingly as their one-line characterisations allow. Naeema Butt is the standout, carving a major villain from a bland, superficially imagined character that meets a truly tragic end, screenwriting-wise (it is a bad cop-out).

Bullah would be a royal mess if Shaan weren’t holding the narrative and screen together with herculean might. Infusing emotion and conviction into Bullah, one sees him adjusting to the story’s pitfalls while adding small grounding touches on the fly.

Leaving make-up kits unpacked like Robert Redford (who was famous for his near non-use of make-up), Shaan could have used a touch-up or two in several scenes. The same can’t be said for Sara Loren, whose overdone “beauty” seems like a by-product of cosmetic surgery. While Shaan definitely looks older than usual, his performance is still top-notch (again, the same cannot be said for Loren).

However, one pattern needs addressing: after Waar, Yalghaar, O21, Zarrar and now Bullah, the covert-military man-saviour character has run dry. For Shaan, it is time to put it to rest, unless there is a genuinely unique story worth telling.

A better version of Bullah is buried within its janky exterior. Had editor Adeeb Khan and scriptwriter Nasir Adeeb asked themselves the basic questions mentioned above, found believable reasons for the story’s conflicts, and cut the superfluous tracks (Bakshi, Sahoo and the Sikh girl’s tracks are expendable), Bullah’s roar might have shaken the box office. Right now, it is a whimper.

At the end of the day, the choice between ALBM and Bullah is the choice between story and (something resembling) spectacle. Both films are still running in theatres and, given the gloom and doom of real life, I would strongly suggest you head to the cinema — if only to watch ALBM.

Rated “U”, Aag Lagay Basti Mein is an ARY Films’ release. Bullah, rated “PG” for fake blood, violence and adult themes, is an HKC release

The writer is Icon’s primary film reviewer

Published in Dawn, ICON, March 29th, 2026

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