The streets of Lyari have always embodied contradiction. They are the birthplace of world-class footballers and fiercely poetic rappers, yet they also bear the scars of an era dominated by gang warfare and state neglect. Today, however, those same streets are being reconstructed—not in Karachi, but on sanitized Bollywood soundstages, stripped of their grit, salt air, and lived reality.
The recent social media frenzy around a new wave of Bollywood “action thrillers” has reached a fever pitch, not because of their artistic merit, but because of their audacious decision to transform deeply internal Pakistani histories into spectacles of Indian nationalist fantasy.
The trailer for the latest trending film is a case study in cinematic distortion. It features recognizable real-life figures such as the late SSP Chaudhary Aslam and the infamous Rehman Dakait, yet introduces a jarring fictional twist: an undercover Indian RAW agent portrayed as the true architect of operations in the heart of Karachi. This creative liberty has ignited widespread backlash, exposing the widening cracks in South Asian cinematic diplomacy.
Critics and viewers alike have condemned what they describe as a form of “cinematic colonization” of history. By inserting an Indian savior into a brutal, localized conflict, the film erases the sacrifices of Pakistani law enforcement officers and civilians who endured and survived those dark years.
Even more troubling is the way such films serve a broader and more dangerous propaganda agenda. Pakistan is repeatedly depicted as a global epicenter of terrorism, while Balochistan is reduced to a caricature of chaos and insurgency.
The Baloch people—holders of a rich, ancient, and complex cultural identity—are flattened into a monolithic group of “anti-national” militants. By portraying Balochistan as a lawless frontier of terror, Bollywood is not merely selling tickets; it is reinforcing a geopolitical narrative that legitimizes external interference and dehumanizes an entire province.
This represents a painful departure from an earlier era. There was a time when the border functioned as a cultural sieve rather than a wall of hostility. Pakistani households, including my own, grew up on the gravitas of Dilip Kumar and the romantic sweep of 1970s Bollywood.
We didn’t see “the enemy” on screen—we saw shared language, shared grief, and shared humanity. The voices of Mohammad Rafi and Kishore Kumar filled our homes because they spoke a universal language of longing and love.
Even in the 1990s, as films like Border or Gadar leaned into nationalist fervor following the Babri Masjid tragedy, the antagonism still felt exaggerated and theatrical—more “filmy” than doctrinal. What was missing was the systematic vilification of an entire country, faith, or people.
That shift came later, as Bollywood increasingly repositioned itself as a megaphone for ultra-nationalist ideologies. The era of Amar Akbar Anthony, which celebrated a syncretic India rooted in coexistence, has been eclipsed by a rigid Hindutva narrative. In this cinematic universe, the “other” is no longer a nuanced character but a crude caricature.
The villain is almost invariably Pakistani—visibly marked by religious symbolism: kohl-rimmed eyes, stylized Urdu diction, and the omnipresent prayer cap. These are not characters; they are visual shorthand designed to provoke fear and political loyalty.
This climate has placed India’s Muslim superstars in an impossible bind. Icons like the three Khans now walk a razor’s edge, under constant pressure to publicly perform patriotism. A missed tweet during a military standoff or a neutral stance can quickly invite accusations of being “anti-national,” followed by orchestrated boycotts.
The result is a chilling atmosphere in which the “acceptable Muslim” must repeatedly apologize for his identity or prove his loyalty through roles that often reinforce the very propaganda weaponized against him.
The greatest casualty of this trend is art itself. When an industry prioritizes propaganda over creativity, the rot is inevitable. Timeless films like Mughal-e-Azam or Sholay endured because they were masterful stories, not ideological sermons.
Today’s formulaic, high-decibel action spectacles are losing resonance even among Indian audiences, many of whom are increasingly turning to the fresher, more grounded storytelling emerging from South Indian cinema.
As long as Bollywood remains obsessed with narrating a hostile, distorted version of its neighbor, it will continue to hemorrhage both credibility and soul. Until then, many of us will retreat to the evergreen melodies of an earlier age, waiting for the moment when the silver screen once again reflects truth, complexity, and shared humanity—rather than the demands of a political script.
