Love, Drama, and the Modi Bhakts: My Wife's Cross-Border Romance with Pakistani Serials

 

Love, Drama, and the Modi Bhakts: My Wife's Cross-Border Romance with Pakistani Serials

Ah, the sweet irony of life. My wife, a proud member of a Sanghi family, spends her evenings engrossed in—wait for it—Pakistani dramas. Yes, the very Pakistan that her extended family’s WhatsApp university tells us is the root of all evil. It’s not just a guilty pleasure; it’s a full-blown love affair—one episode at a time.

And who can blame her? As she puts it, these dramas connect her with her emotions in a way that no over-the-top, logic-defying Indian serial ever could. Let’s face it: if you’ve survived the infinite reincarnations and plastic surgeries of Indian soap protagonists, you'd want a dose of reality too. Pakistani dramas, with their grounded storytelling and relatable characters, are a breath of fresh air. They don't have someone’s ghost conspiring with a reincarnated daughter-in-law to take over a family business. Instead, they offer a slice of everyday life—ironically, a life not too different from our own.

Before 1947, there wasn’t an “India” and “Pakistan.” There was just a land of shared history, traditions, and cuisines. The same folk songs that Punjabis sing at weddings echo across the border. The same spices that make our food irresistible grace the dishes served in Lahore and Amritsar alike. Even our festivals tell the same stories—Lohri, Basant, and Eid are celebrated with the same fervor on both sides, just with different accents.

The cities of pre-partition Punjab—Lahore, Amritsar, and Multan—were cultural hubs, not geopolitical pawns. These cities shared poets, scholars, and traders who never thought their homeland would be divided with a line drawn hastily on a map. Saadat Hasan Manto, the literary icon, perfectly captured the absurdity of partition when he wrote stories that mirrored the pain, the confusion, and the unbreakable human connections that survived the bloodshed.

When my wife watches these dramas, it’s as though she’s reclaiming a part of that history—a history that many in her family have conveniently forgotten or ignored in favor of rhetoric. The stories on screen are not just about Pakistan; they’re about us. They are about the shared humanity that politicians and propagandists have worked so hard to erase.

The irony runs even deeper. Politicians on both sides love to fan the flames of division while borrowing liberally from each other’s cultural playbooks. Bollywood’s classic Mughal-e-Azam borrowed Urdu poetry and Pakistani ghazals, while Pakistani dramas borrow music from India’s golden era. Who’s really fooling whom here? The truth is, whether it’s the soulful notes of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan or the timeless poetry of Gulzar, art from both sides reflects the same soul—a soul that refuses to be shackled by borders.

Even the way we argue is similar. Pakistanis and Indians can both turn a simple dinner table discussion into a full-blown debate about cricket, politics, or which biryani reigns supreme. (Spoiler alert: It's always the biryani your mom makes.)

For North Indians, especially Punjabis, partition wasn’t just a geopolitical event—it was a personal tragedy. Families were ripped apart overnight. Homes turned into foreign territories. Yet, despite this, we’ve clung to our shared roots. The traditional Punjabi juttis made in Pakistan are still a staple in Indian weddings. The recipes passed down from grandmothers who lived on the “other side” remain treasures in our kitchens.

Meanwhile, those in the South, untouched by the same historical trauma, often struggle to understand why Punjabis and North Indians feel so connected to their neighbors across the border. For them, Pakistan is just a country on the news. For us, it’s the land of our ancestors, a part of our identity that no line on a map can erase.

Now let’s address the elephant in the room—the blatant hypocrisy of it all. While Modi and his Gujarati comrades stoke anti-Pakistan sentiments during elections, their business dealings tell a different story. Sindhi traders and Karachi businessmen remain close economic allies, even as cricket matches are weaponized to fuel nationalist fervor.

And here we are, gullible voters, letting them divide us with slogans while they count their profits. Meanwhile, my wife is doing the one thing they don’t want us to do: connecting with Pakistanis, one heartfelt drama at a time.

Perhaps it’s time we take a page from her book. Instead of letting politicians keep us divided, we should focus on what unites us. Imagine a world where Punjabis, divided by borders, reunite through shared history and culture. Imagine a “United Punjab,” where the songs, stories, and traditions of Lahore and Amritsar blend seamlessly once more. It may sound like a dream, but Germany’s reunification once sounded like a dream too—and look how well that turned out.

In this age of social media, where we can connect with anyone, anywhere, maybe it’s time to rebuild those broken bridges. Let’s stop letting divisive politics dictate our relationships. Let’s celebrate our shared history, traditions, and humanity. Who knows? Maybe someday, when my wife watches her beloved Pakistani dramas, she won’t just be indulging in nostalgia but witnessing the rebirth of a cultural union that should never have been torn apart in the first place.