Talking about Pakistani movies as Eid nears has now become an annual tradition one must revisit, whether one likes it or not. With the way things are, this tradition isn’t likely to change for at least a decade or so, especially if you take into account that even this year, three heavy-hitters — Aag Lagay Basti Mein (ALBM), Bullah and Delhi Gate — are set to hit cinemas on Eidul Fitr.

The first is set to redefine and upgrade an old genre. The second is a straggler, which has much to prove. And the third’s success could help raise the bar for Eidul Fitr and consequently reinforce Pakistani filmmakers’ belief that only one of the two Eids can save the country’s film industry.

When Icon last carried a story on Eid releases, almost around this time last year, it was, for the most part, chaos as usual. Fifteen films — a stupefying number — opened across 96 screens; the rush highlighted the nervous, panicked state of mind of the film industry. Surely, many thought at the time, one of them would work.

Five Pakistani films — The Martial Artist, Kabeer, Ishq-i-Lahore, Qulfee and Lambi Judaai — fought off a slew of Hollywood titles (including Snow White and A Minecraft Movie), as well as Indonesian horror releases (a very popular alternative), not to mention Indo-Punjabi fare — like Carry On Jatta 3 — that become eligible for cinematic release throughout Pakistan.

With producers reluctant to release major titles on other feasible dates during the year, the Eid load often leads to skirmishes. Distributors pressure cinema owners for more primetime show slots, although both parties know all too well that less-than-stellar titles will slip off the marquee by the third day of Eid.

By then, the damage is already done. Wallets have been emptied, cinema owners lament not showing more of the films that audiences gravitated towards, and distributors of Indo-Punjabi films — Wali Films and Distribution Club — justifiably regret missing out on opportunities to do great business.

Film production may be down worldwide but the situation is downright critical in Pakistan. With the Pakistani under-production slate nearly exhausted, it seems the two Eids will continue to be every filmmaker’s only safe spot to release their films

Last year, Eidul Fitr didn’t have a great turnout, with all Pakistani films flopping disastrously. The year before had just one hit: Daghabaaz Dil, which grossed nearly 11 crore rupees domestically and went on to become the highest-grossing film of 2024.

Historically, the bigger hits are always released on Eidul Azha, perhaps because Ramazan doesn’t allow for strong marketing campaigns. Just last year, Deemak did around 18 crore rupees in business, while Love Guru grossed over 60 crore rupees; apparently, three-quarters of the latter’s business came from local cinemas, and both films were Eidul Azha releases.

The Big Three On Eidul Fitr

However, this year, the ‘Eid of big financial returns’ will arrive early, thanks largely to ALBM, the high-octane, high-stakes crime drama starring Fahad Mustafa and Mahira Khan.

With nearly 45 days to go, at the time of writing, ALBM, an ARY Films release, is already deep into its promotional campaign, with its teaser trailer running non-stop on ARY’s channels since January 3. In comparison, Love Guru only had 33 days for its entire campaign.

In an era of fleeting attention spans, a blitz of teasers and trailers is the way to go. It is an old practice, one that helped grow Bollywood internationally. In the early days of satellite television, trailers used to run for months, ad nauseam. In most parts of the world, the unending barrage still exists, especially if the distributor has a network sibling (eg Disney and its channels).

It is my estimation that this caper film, about the less-than-fortunate who dream of going to ‘Doobai’ by robbing the nasty rich, will bag 50 crore rupees domestically at the very least.

ALBM has a clear 65-day run with few competing releases before Eidul Azha. With little international rush because of awards season — the first Eid will take place a few days before the Academy Awards — the chances are that cinemas will let the film simmer on low heat until bigger and better fare comes their way.

Bullah (an HKC release) and Delhi Gate (Empire Productions) do not have that advantage. Bullah is a Shaan Shahid-starrer directed by Shoaib Khan (Jackpot). The film elevates Lollywood’s gandasa culture with John Wick’s bullets and Animal’s penchant for bloody, dead-body pile-ups (one can also see Animal’s influence in ALBM).

Delhi Gate, on the other hand, is the last of the pre-Covid-19 stragglers. It is a romantic actioner directed by Nadeem Cheema (Dorr, Jeo Sar Utha Ke), starring Yasser Khan and Shamoon Abbasi. Not to mention that, as of now, both seem to have limited promotional budgets.

A Lack of Promotion

Investing in extensive promotion is a non-negotiable expense if filmmakers want audiences to turn up. Internationally, marketing spends are at least twice a film’s production budget. In Pakistan, the buck stops anywhere between 10 and 30 percent of production costs.

There is a deluded belief that paying bloggers or advertising on social media platforms will fill cinema seats. Our filmmakers are also afflicted with the dangerous conviction that films, by their own virtue, have the power to pull people from their homes and deposit them into cinema seats. Both schools of thought are a risky gamble.

On the Hollywood front, one can bow down to the Almighty in prayer because a Dr Strange in the Multiverse of Madness-like situation will not develop this year.

For those not in the know, here is a quick flashback: when Dr Strange came out on Eidul Fitr 2022, cinema owners, chasing big bucks, allocated what was considered an unjust and excessive number of shows to the film due to the audience’s demands.

That allocation sparked a very public outcry and brief legal action from the makers of Parday Mein Rehnay Do, Dum Mastam and Chakkar (the fourth film in that Eid line-up was Ghabrana Nahin Hain, produced by the owners of Nueplex Cinemas).

The argument was as old as time, figuratively speaking.

With the exception of Wali Films and HKC — the two main importers of foreign films, along with Distribution Club — all distributors argue that Pakistani films only shine on Eid, so it’s only fair to give them every bit of space available then. Big Hollywood films (smaller Hollywood fare is fine due to some warped logic) and Indo-Punjabi films, therefore, should be kicked out of the playing field for a week or so.

That is an inane argument, given that foreign releases singlehandedly sustain the entire film business for the rest of the year. Using their assistance to prop up the business and then conveniently pushing them out to ‘support Pakistani cinema’ is a deeply self-serving approach.

A better alternative would be to produce films that can sustain themselves. But herein lies the problem. Who is making those films? Or, for that matter, who is making films at all?

Film production is down worldwide but the situation is critical in Pakistan. With pre-Covid-19 fare nearly exhausted with Delhi Gate and a few new productions underway, it seems that the two Eids will remain every filmmaker’s safe release window.

Looking Towards Eidul Azha

Even now, the Eidul Azha slate is filling up. Khan Tumhara, Bilal Ashraf’s co-production with distributor Hum Films, will be the film to beat in the coming months. The film stars Bilal Ashraf and Maya Ali and is directed by Mohammed Ehtashamuddin.

Its main competitor will be the Farhan Saeed-starrer Luv Di Saun, directed by Imran Malik (Azaadi) and produced by Irfan Malik, who also heads ARY Films.

There is some probability that the family entertainer Mango Jatt, starring Faysal Quraishi and Hareem Farooq, will complete post-production by then. Produced by Farooq, it is indie director Abu Aleeha’s most expensive, and perhaps most commercial, film to date. Another last-minute addition may be Nabeel Qureshi and Fizza Ali Meerza’s hush-hush project starring Fahad Mustafa and Mehwish Hayat, according to rumours.

Ergo, the Eid release rush shows no signs of slowing down.

Looking Back

At times, today’s reality echoes my youth. From the late 1990s to the early multiplex era, Pakistani films — at least those that made a difference — were released only on one of the Eids.

Examples include Bulandi (the debuts of Shaan Shahid and Reema), Jeeva (Babar Ali and Resham’s debuts), Kurriyon Ko Daalay Daana, Choorriyaan, Tere Pyar Mein, Mujhay Chaand Chahiye, Yeh Dil Aap Ka Hua and Majajan.

However, back then, the year-round release chain wasn’t as sparse as it is today. Yes, most films had disastrous runs — but, then again, the worldwide success rate has always been low.

Globally, the film industry’s success rate typically hovers between seven percent and 10 percent. The US releases around 500 films and China 800, producing roughly 50 and 80 hits (a 10 percent success rate) respectively. India’s strike rate is considerably lower. There, over 2,000 films were released last year, but only 41 were hits, with 37 crossing the INR 100 crore mark. This two percent success rate is the same as Pakistan’s last year. Nevertheless, in Pakistan, where only 14 films were released, two hits a year feels downright catastrophic.

In Need of Quality

It doesn’t have to be that way. Pakistan still has massive potential if the right films are made. Contrary to popular belief, cinemas still pull in crowds. Almost every major international release in 2025 — F1, Mission: Impossible: Final Reckoning, Jurassic World: Rebirth — made tens of crores.

Since distributor HKC doesn’t provide numbers, returns are estimated at 20 to 35 crore rupees per title. Superman, Fantastic Four: First Steps, Avatar: Fire and Ash and The Conjuring: The Last Rites, amongst others, weren’t slouches either. Indo-Punjabi films, meanwhile, average between five and seven crore rupees but when they click, their box office returns can be phenomenal. Carry on Jatta 3, for example, grossed 33 crore rupees in Pakistan after its initial release (it was re-released in 2025 and grossed another three or so crore rupees). Sardaarji 3, starring Diljit Dosanjh and Hania Aamir, made upwards of 63 crore rupees domestically, according to sources.

True story: this writer could only find Mission: Impossible tickets at four in the morning back in May. After its initial run ended, the film was re-released and still drew crowds. The 4am incident repeated itself in August, typically a non-performing month, when the anime Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba – The Movie: Infinity Castle sold out nearly all 16 shows at Nueplex Askari on August 14.

The only show available was again at 4am, in Japanese! Two-and-a-half hours later, about 400 people — half of them exiting the English-dubbed version — walked out of cinemas. Demon Slayer ran for over six weeks nationwide, and its success was no fluke.

Jujutsu Kaisen 0, Suzume, Demon Slayer: To The Hashira Training, One Piece Film: Red and Chainsaw Man — The Movie: Reze Arc all saw varying levels of success. The Conjuring: The Last Rites had 184 shows across Pakistan on its third day of release, which was Sunday, when footfall typically drops. In comparison, a typical Pakistani film receives 20 to 40 shows per day nationwide.

Compare that with Love Guru’s 60 shows on Eid, and the contrast is a stark wake-up call. It isn’t the audience that has forsaken us. From the low quality of our films to the audience’s subliminal conditioning that good films only arrive on Eid, the fault lies with filmmakers and distributors.

The Way Forward?

However, there is an easy way to course-correct. With the two Eids falling in March and May and a general lack of high-quality international releases over the next year or two, summer holidays could turn out to be the best bet for a cinematic resurgence.

Ali Zafar proved that the formula works with Teefa in Trouble; the film was released in July between the two Eids. Ho Mann Jahan, an ARY Films release, opened on the first of January and struck gold. Bachaana, the only Valentine’s Day release in recent memory, also did quite well. It’s a pity that none of these scheduling strategies were repeated.

However, all hope may not yet be lost. There are whispers that Humayun Saeed’s flagship franchise Jawani Phir Nahin Ani 3 (JPNA 3) will be a non-Eid release. Until that is confirmed, that sigh of relief remains a pipe dream.

And who knows, given the vagaries of production schedules, JPNA 3 may still end up releasing on Eid, and Icon may well be running another one of these Eid features in 2027.

The writer is Icon’s film reviewer

Published in Dawn, ICON, February 8th, 2026

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Coming Down from the Mountain
By Mahmood Ali Ayub
Excel Book Writing
ISBN:  979-8-89972-543-2
121pp.

Autobiographies often depend not only on the life lived but on the vantage point from which they are told.

In Coming Down from the Mountain, economist and international civil servant Mahmood Ali Ayub offers a calm and orderly account of his journey from the high valleys of Kurram Agency to a career spanning Latin America, Africa, the Middle East and Europe. It is a memoir distinguished less by dramatic revelation than by clarity, decency and a cosmopolitan outlook, although this composure also limits its emotional and literary depth.

Ayub’s childhood in Kurram, a region now associated with turbulence more than tranquillity, is recounted with understated warmth. His father’s posting as consul general to Mashhad introduced him early to the rhythms of diplomatic life and the wider world. From Burn Hall to Aitchison, Edwardes College and finally St Andrews University in Scotland, his education forms the first quiet arc of the memoir.

He recalls, without embellishment, his youthful attraction to Marxism, his clashes with conservative professors and the protest in Aberdeen where John Lennon famously paid bail for student demonstrators. These episodes add texture and political energy, though the memoir does not probe how these leftist convictions evolved after he joined the World Bank — an omission characteristic of the book’s broader reluctance to explore inner conflicts.

From Kurram Valley to the World Bank’s corridors, a Pakistani internationalist retraces a global journey marked by discipline, cultural curiosity and quiet decency

The memoir’s structure is strictly chronological, a method with both strengths and limitations. The early chapters, rich with family history, schooling and the beginnings of intellectual formation, are among the more engaging ones, because they reveal a young man unsure of where life would lead. His brief entry into Pakistan’s Foreign Service (he was placed second in the CSS exam) and his equally swift decision to leave it for Yale University provide tantalising glimpses of alternative paths. Yet the narrative moves on without lingering on the emotional or ideological implications of these choices.

The central section of the book, spanning nearly half its length, chronicles Ayub’s decades at the World Bank. Here, the memoir achieves extraordinary geographical breadth: Bolivia, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Senegal, The Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Cape Verde, Egypt, Yemen and Turkey all serve as stages in his long professional odyssey.

Ayub writes with clarity and without jargon, making development economics accessible to general readers. His portraits of bureaucratic cultures, Algeria’s rigidity, Senegal’s political stability, Guinea-Bissau’s institutional fragility, and Egypt’s languid administrative rhythm are observant without being judgmental. His admiration for his colleagues, local officials and ordinary people is constant, contributing to the memoir’s tone of respectful engagement.

But the very orderliness of this middle section also reveals the memoir’s structural weakness. Each chapter follows a similar pattern: arrival at a new posting, meetings with ministers and presidents, reflections on economic challenges, cultural discoveries, and travel anecdotes. The repetition creates a sense of professional routine rather than narrative progression.

There is little escalation, no central tension pulling the story forward, and minimal exploration of the author’s evolving worldview. For readers seeking the emotional arc or thematic development typical of contemporary memoirs, this central portion may feel more like a collection of reports rather than a unified story.

The book gains warmth and depth through the presence of Mansoora Hassan, the author’s late wife, an artist whose exhibitions and collaborations accompanied the couple’s global movements. Her conceptual video art after 9/11, her partnership with Moroccan sociologist Fatima Mernissi and her instinctive cultural sensitivity add a contrasting texture — more lyrical, more imaginative, more attuned to the arts than the institutional world of the World Bank. These interludes offer some of the book’s most memorable passages, revealing a partnership sustained by intellectual curiosity and mutual respect.

It is in the final chapters, however, that the memoir’s emotional core emerges, though filtered through the same restraint that governs the whole work. Chapter 12, ‘Life After Tragedy’, recounts the loss of the author’s young son and, years later, of his wife. These are devastating blows, yet Ayub narrates them with remarkable composure.

The brevity and emotional reserve reflect a personality shaped by discipline and faith, but they also limit the reader’s access to the deeper terrain of grief, resilience and personal transformation. A memoir’s conclusion typically offers the most introspective engagement with fate and meaning; here, the author maintains a dignified distance. The prose is steady, sincere and honourable, but one wishes for more of the internal reckoning that would reveal the human cost behind the composed surface.

Following these tragedies, Ayub describes how he turned to literature and produced Tragedy and Defiance, a study of Sylvia Plath, Forugh Farrokhzad and Parveen Shakir. This moment, where personal loss meets literary exploration, could have been the memoir’s emotional centrepiece. But the transition is treated lightly, leaving unexplored the powerful question of how grief reorients one’s intellectual life.

The final chapter, ‘Final Thoughts’, closes the text with gratitude, humility and a reaffirmation of family values. It is a gentle and courteous ending, though closer in tone to a retirement reflection than a culminating literary insight. The overarching metaphor of the ‘mountain’, evoked in the title, never fully crystallises into a thematic spine.

For all its limitations, Coming Down from the Mountain remains a memoir of remarkable scope. Its greatest value lies in documenting the life of a Pakistani internationalist whose career coincided with the major debates over development in the late 20th century. In an age of noisy self-expression, Ayub’s composure and modesty feel almost old-fashioned, qualities that may resonate with readers tired of sensationalism.

The book’s strengths are clarity, sincerity, cultural breadth and the quiet authority of lived experiences. Its weaknesses — structural repetition, emotional reticence and lack of thematic depth — keep it from achieving the narrative richness of great memoirs. Yet, taken on its own terms, Ayub’s story is moving in its simplicity.

The boy who left a remote mountain valley, travelled through continents, institutions and cultures without losing his sense of grace. His life, recounted without vanity, offers a portrait of a Pakistani global citizen whose decency and steadiness deserve acknowledgement.

The reviewer is a retired diplomat living in Washington DC. For more information, please visit his website: www.javedamir.com

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, February 8th, 2026

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The Barred Window
By Sammar Shabir
Liberty Publishing
ISBN: 978-6277626730
310pp.

Every now and then, a debut author comes along with a story that is both deeply personal and reflective of an entire society’s tensions. Sammar Shabir seems to be exactly such an author, using the intimate lens of a family drama to explore memory, repression, rebellion and the cost of silence amid political upheaval in The Barred Window. For a first novel, it is ambitious and layered, balancing the innocence of childhood with the stark violence in Pakistan’s Swat Valley in the mid-2000s.

At its heart, the book is about confinement and the yearning for freedom. The barred window itself, central to the story and the characters’ obsessions, becomes a symbol of limitation and possibility: what is visible, what is barred, and what remains hidden. The barred window is situated in the servants’ quarter to the west, specifically at the very end of a secluded room built along the estate’s boundary wall, and it’s the only way to look outside the estate into the valley.

Through this lens, the novel wrestles with themes of patriarchy, the suffocation of feudal household traditions, political unrest and the fragility of female desire for autonomy. There is also a generational undertone: grandmothers, mothers, daughters and cousins all navigate their own relationships with power, obedience and resistance.

The diary entries interwoven into the narrative broaden the novel’s scope, linking private frustrations with systemic dysfunctions. Here, the personal collides with the political: women restricted in their choices, militant violence encroaching from outside and the family’s struggle to maintain an illusion of safety within the walls of their estate.

Set in Swat during the rise of militant violence in the region in the mid-2000s, a debut novel wrestles with themes of patriarchy, the suffocation of feudal household traditions and political unrest in a coming-of-age story

The novel begins with Marleen, the narrator, recalling her cousin Naima, enigmatic and restless, whose obsession with the barred window drives much of the story. The cousins spend their summer exploring the servants’ quarters, conjuring imagined adventures, and puzzling over mysterious clues, particularly a carved ant that hints at secrets buried in their family history.

As the plot unfolds, the barred window becomes more than a literal fixture. Through it, they glimpse scenes of insurgency and curfews outside their estate, exposing them to a dangerous world from which they have been carefully shielded.

Their father, Babajan, a respected politician and patriarch, attempts to keep the household safe, but the rising tide of militancy creeps ever closer. Early in the book, Babajan is introduced as Marleen’s father and Naima as his niece (the daughter of his sibling). But it is later revealed that he is also Naima’s biological father. Naima is the child born out of Zenab’s pregnancy, which Babajan acknowledges when he says “I won’t deny it” during a confrontation.

Meanwhile, Naima stumbles upon their grandmother’s old notes about ant colonies and a cryptic ‘Queen Ant Key’, which she believes connects to the barred window. This mystery ties the girls’ curiosity to the intellectual rebellion of women in the family’s past.

As the novel shifts between present events, family history and diary entries, the reader is invited to see how personal quests — for knowledge, freedom and recognition — intersect with the broader story of Swat at a time of upheaval.

Naima is the heart of the novel, fiery, aloof, curious to the point of recklessness. She embodies defiance against the imposed rules of both her family and society. Her glassy grey eyes, described often, become a symbol of seeing beyond surfaces, of searching for truths others would rather leave buried.

Marleen, in contrast, is accommodating, careful and deeply aware of how to navigate family and societal expectations. If Naima embodies rebellion, Marleen represents survival through compliance, yet she too is haunted by the mysteries the barred window conceals.

Babajan, who has political acumen, is painted with affection, generosity and fatherly concern, yet he is also constrained by his role as a patriarch. He attempts diplomacy in a world that allows little room for it. The household’s matriarchs, mothers and grandmothers are given voices mostly through memories and diary entries. They reflect an intellectual and emotional undercurrent of dissatisfaction, hinting at the lives they might have led had their freedom not been curtailed.

The novel’s greatest strength lies in its atmosphere: the eerie tension of being both inside and outside conflict, the claustrophobia of a house bound by tradition and the longing gaze through a barred window at possibilities just beyond reach. The interplay of history and myth (especially through the ant colony metaphor) is clever and adds texture.

At times, however, the pacing stumbles. The layering of diary entries, political commentary and domestic details occasionally slows the momentum. Certain characters, such as Zahida the servant, feel overdrawn, compared to the tighter focus needed on Naima and Marleen’s dynamic. Yet, these are forgivable lapses in what is, overall, an interesting debut.

For a first novel, Shabir shows remarkable control. The prose is straightforward, avoiding unnecessary flourish, yet it carries moments of haunting imagery, such as the description of Naima’s eyes or the Swat Valley at dusk. The alternating perspectives of narratives and diary entries demonstrate ambition, though they could have been woven in more seamlessly.

What stands out most is the author’s ability to make the barred window more than an object: it becomes a potent metaphor. It is both a prison and a telescope; a reminder of entrapment and a portal to imagination. The ‘Queen Ant Key’, with its nod to matriarchal order, challenges patriarchal systems not by direct confrontation but by offering an alternative vision.

The title, The Barred Window, is almost deceptively simple. But if the book is read carefully, the reader will realise that it operates on multiple levels. It is the literal site of the girls’ adventure, the symbolic barrier between childhood and the world’s horrors, and the metaphorical cage of patriarchy and politics. The barred window also positions the readers: peering into a household, seeing fragments, but never fully stepping outside. The ants — busy, ordered and matriarchal — serve as a counter-symbol, suggesting that alternative systems of living are possible, if only the bars could be undone.

Ultimately, The Barred Window is a thought-provoking debut. It combines coming-of-age storytelling with political allegory, weaving family drama into the larger narrative of Swat’s troubled years. While its structure is not flawless, its richness and depth make it worth discussing at a book club. For readers of South Asian literature and for those who enjoy novels where personal memory collides with historical upheaval, it marks a promising start.

The reviewer is a content lead at a communications agency.

She can be reached at sara.amj@hotmail.co.uk

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, February 8th, 2026

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