Says lazy formula filmmaking and refusal to modernise led to the collapse of Pakistani cinema
In a gripping, nostalgic, and at times shocking tell-all interview, legendary television director Kazim Pasha pulled back the curtain on the hidden realities of Pakistan’s entertainment history. Leaving no stone unturned, the veteran director detailed the extreme pressures of the “Golden Era” of PTV (Pakistan Television), creative warfare with state censors, psychological tricks used on actors, and the backstage antics that almost forced him to leave the industry entirely.
The conversation took an explosive turn when Pasha revealed that the gruelling on-set antics of megastar Adnan Siddiqui once pushed him to the brink of permanent retirement. “Adnan Siddiqui troubled me deeply during one particular serial, and to be honest, I almost quit production after that,” Pasha confessed candidly.
The veteran director detailed how a single casting choice escalated into a nightmare, involving everything from airline tickets to specific domestic demands before the cameras could even roll.
“First, he asked for a ticket for his assistant to travel with him. Then he said his three daughters would come along, making that three more tickets. Finally, he insisted their nanny must come too, bringing it to a total of five extra tickets!” Pasha revealed.
The ballooning demands became a source of immense stress on set, to the point where co-star Sajid Hasan jokingly questioned the production’s budget. “Sajid Hasan turned to me and said, ‘Brother, are you planning to bankrupt us and send us out looking for work?’ But I told him, ‘he is an artist, he is the great Adnan Siddiqui, and we have cast him as our hero.'”
The nightmare continued during the shooting at actor Aijaz Aslam’s bungalow, where Siddiqui’s stubbornness disrupted the rigid schedule directors expected. “He used to trouble me so much that I would literally just leave the set and walk away,” Pasha admitted. “He would say things like, ‘I am feeling hungry, I am going to eat at that specific place, and until I get back, I won’t start work.’ Or he would demand something specific, and if it weren’t brought to him, he’d say, ‘I won’t shoot today.'”
Pasha’s critique was devoid of malice; he quickly softened the blow with fatherly warmth: “Despite all of this, he has a very deep attachment to my daughters. He is a truly lovely, endearing human being. And through it all, he has never once shown even a shred of disrespect or bad manners toward me. Never.”
Talking about casting women in television during the late 70s and 80s was an uphill battle due to deep-seated conservative norms. Pasha detailed the immense effort it took to discover stars like Laila Zuberi and convince their respective families that the PTV environment was safe and dignified.
Once on set, however, Pasha was known for his “tough love” approach. He shared a legendary behind-the-scenes anecdote regarding actress Sadia Imam during an incredibly difficult shoot, right after veteran actor Qurban Jillani had tragically passed away mid-production. Sadia was struggling to deliver an authentic crying scene.
“She just wasn’t able to cry authentically,” Pasha recounted. “I told my staff, ‘Keep the cameras ready, I am going downstairs, and then watch the show.’ I went down and intentionally created an environment of extreme harshness and anger. When she genuinely broke down from the psychological pressure, I signalled the cameras to roll.”
Pasha’s uncompromising direction extended to the biggest stars in the country. For his blockbuster serial Kashkol, he took a massive gamble by casting silver-screen icon Syed Kamal in an unconventional TV role, which required diplomacy to manage the film star’s ego within rigid television boundaries.
He also applied this rigorous standard to technical filmmaking. Long before the era of CGI and green screens, Pasha directed a high-stakes historical project about the PNS Ghazi submarine. He coordinated actual underwater filming and authentic naval sequences, risking his life and state equipment to capture jaw-dropping realism.
Analysing the industry at large, Pasha blamed the collapse of Pakistani cinema (Lollywood) on lazy formula filmmaking and a refusal to modernise, which ultimately allowed PTV to become the country’s primary cultural storyteller.
Shifting to his roots, Pasha shared how he accidentally entered the media. He was originally a secure, white-collar employee at the State Bank of Pakistan. “Back then, television didn’t even exist when I started with Radio Pakistan. The base pay we used to get was maybe Rs1 to 15, and checks were made for 15 people at a time to be cashed at the State Bank.”
Like many of his contemporaries, Pasha originally wanted to be an actor. However, watching his mentor, the great Qasim Jalali, command a set completely changed his trajectory. “To be honest, most of the directors and producers of my era originally came to become actors. I thought the same initially. But I give full credit to Qasim Jalali sahib. When I watched him work and direct, my passion shifted entirely toward direction.”
Pasha characterised old PTV as a strict, prestigious university that drilled discipline and flawless language pronunciation into its talent. Beyond dramas, Pasha was a cultural custodian, fondly recalling directing live, spiritually charged Qawwali broadcasts featuring the legendary Ghulam Farid Sabri (of the Sabri Brothers).
One of the most intense segments of the interview covered the production of the iconic, gritty serial Jangloos. The show’s raw depiction of rural feudalism and societal corruption rattled the highest levels of government. “Jangloos was a mirror to society, and because it hit exactly where it hurt, the National Assembly got involved. There were immense pressures to ban it, but we stood our ground because the truth had to be told.”
Pasha explained that under strict state censorship, directors had to outsmart the establishment. Instead of blatant rebellion, he used clever subtext, metaphors, and sharp dialogue to expose societal rot without giving censors a legal reason to cut the footage.
When looking at today’s industry, Pasha praised the acting methodologies of stars like Sajid Hasan and Adnan Jilani, who could read between the lines of a script. He also expressed immense pride in his family, crediting his wife as the silent pillar who kept their home running during his gruelling 20-hour shifts, and his daughter, Nida Yasir, who has become a titan of modern Pakistani daytime television.
Concluding the interview, Pasha looked back on his life not with regret, but with the profound peace of a man who chose identity and respect over money. “I am the gardener who planted the seeds, and today, those seeds have become massive, shading trees. To see them thrive is my greatest legacy.”