Indian soaps, a hit in Pakistan, are cultural factors to reckon with
Hindi films uniting India and Pakistan is the stuff of cliches. But the influence of Indian soaps in Pakistan is a newer phenomenon. The converse was true in the ’80s when video cassettes of Pakistani soaps like Dhoop Kinare and Tanhaiyaan were widely watched and considered to be more sophisticated than Hum Log and Buniyaad. But the times have changed and the top three most-watched channels in Pakistan are all Indian—Star Plus leading the pack with an estimated channel share of 21 per cent. In contrast, in May ’10, the most watched Pakistani channel PTV Home had a share of 4.2 per cent.
The popularity in Pakistan of Indian soaps, with strong Hindu motifs, is not as odd as it seems. The content of soaps and films, like parliamentary elections, operates on the principle of the Largest One Takes All (LOTA). This means, the content of films and soaps disproportionately reflect the ‘culture’ of the largest single block of viewers (even if a minority) often to the exclusion of a fragmented majority. To understand why, think of a country with eight groups—each comprising 10 per cent and one with 20 per cent of the population. If each group watched soaps that only reflected their culture, a soap producer would rather reflect only the culture of the largest group (guaranteeing 20 per cent viewership) rather than all groups in their correct proportion (10 per cent viewership 80 per cent of the time).
India, the largest Hindi-speaking country, thus, almost becomes the sole producer of films and soaps in the language. Mumbai and Delhi continue to be the largest markets for films; hence an overdose of Mumbai cops and Punjabi belles. In TV on the other hand, the emergence of tier II and III cities as key advertising markets in last the 15 years means the content of soaps reflects the culture of the largest group of consumers in these cities. The milieu of the soaps is, therefore, upper class, upper caste, traditional (by metro standards) and Hindu by religion and culture. Recent themes are to do with child marriage and female infanticide, a distant reality in Mumbai and Delhi, but still in the consciousness of smaller cities. The wholly unfair principle of LOTA forces Pakistani women to watch tier-II Indian, ‘Hindu’ content simply because it reflects the culture of the largest group (Hindu, upper caste) within the largest market of the largest country that produces Hindi/Urdu soaps.
After Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, saris are back at la-di-da Lahore parties and weddings. But the ‘Banarasi’ sari shops that dot the laburnum-lined Liberty Market are not just a subversion of Bhutto and Zia’s attempt at the sartorial regimentation of Pakistan. They are symbolic of a deeper irony, the powerlessness of state-dictated ideologies over market forces. Thanks to LOTA, Pakistan, whose state ideology spurned all that was Indian, certainly Hindu, is increasingly being influenced by a Hindu revivalist mass culture. The lota principle also dictates that the popular culture of India, which officially promotes diversity, be almost entirely shorn of Islamic influence. The large number of Muslims in undivided India ensured that popular culture had Islamic motifs. The trend persisted in the immediate aftermath of Partition. But the 150 million Muslims are no longer the single largest block of viewers for either soaps or films. The death of the Muslim social, the removal of film credit titles in Urdu and even the disappearance of the obligatory Muslim best friend are all thanks to LOTA.
The billiards room of the Lahore Gymkhana is like an ivory tower amid the vast onslaught of popular Indian kitsch. Here well-heeled, silver-haired, Old Spice-scented men recite Urdu poetry and tell Punjabi jokes. An old man born in Delhi was reciting a Faiz qitaa, made popular on both sides of the border by Nayyara Noor in the Pakistani TV serial Dhoop Kinare. Raat yun dil mein teri khoyi hui yaad aayi, Jaise viraane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaaye, jaise sahraon mein hole se chale baad-e-nasim, jaise bimaar ko bevajah karar aa jaye’. Translated by Vikram Seth as ‘Last night your faded memory came to me. As in the wilderness spring comes quietly. As, slowly, in the desert, moves the breeze. As, to a sick man, without cause, comes peace’.
He must have been referring to India for he then hugged me and, paraphrasing a current peace initiative, said, ‘Hum aman ki asha rakhte hain’. Perhaps 60 years ago, he would have said, ‘Hum aman ki ummeed rakhte hain’. Sixty years hence, he might say, ‘Hum shanti ki asha rakhte hain’.