“Main bara ho kar pita banna chahta huu’n” (“When I grow up, I want to become a pita”). Pita is the Hindi word for father. The speaker was eight-year-old Faisal, a friend of my younger brother. In the 70s and 80s, Pakistanis had ready access to Indian films through VHS tapes and VCRs, and Bollywood’s influence seeped into everyday life. For children like Faisal, speaking Hindi words felt natural and Indian culture aspirational. Pakistanis performed Bollywood-style dances at weddings, and our school bus blared the latest soundtracks.

Today, the tables have turned. Social media is awash with reels about Indian mothers who, after binge-watching Pakistani dramas, have begun using Urdu and Islamic vocabulary in everyday speech. Commenters joke that Abboo has replaced Pita-ji and Assalam Alaikum has edged out Namaste. Exasperated sons complain that their mothers now casually say Masha’Allah and Insha’Allah. For decades, Pakistani audiences absorbed Indian popular culture; now Pakistani television is shaping the vocabulary and cultural preferences of viewers across the border.

Driving this trend is Dar-e-Nijaat, a recent ARY Digital and Three’s Entertainment production that has become one of the most popular Pakistani dramas of the year. The series draws a sharp distinction between faith and religiosity through two contrasting characters, offering a nuanced counterpoint to familiar stereotypes about Islam.

Zamil is a young man from a wealthy family whose identity crisis leads him toward an increasingly rigid interpretation of religion. In contrast stands Abu Bakar, the middle-class son of a single mother, whose faith is expressed through conduct rather than ideology. He prays and recites the Qur’an, but practices his faith mainly through everyday acts of compassion: devotion to his mother, patience with his wife, kindness toward neighbors, and respect for women and elders.

These dramas are succeeding not by rejecting Bollywood’s cinematic language but by adopting it.

—Sahar Ali

The serial is particularly striking in its portrayal of marriage and morality. When Abu Bakar learns of his wife Zaryab’s premarital relationship with Zamil, he responds with empathy, not condemnation. As she struggles with guilt, repentance, and emotional turmoil, he helps rebuild her confidence. With patience and tenderness, he guides her toward dar-e-nijaat, the door to salvation. For audiences accustomed to seeing Muslim men through the lenses of extremism, repression, or domestic violence, Abu Bakar offers a radically different image: a man whose faith deepens his capacity for compassion. That portrayal may prove one of the series’ most effective forms of soft diplomacy.

Evidence of its growing influence is everywhere. In one popular Instagram reel, creator Anshika gushes: “Pakistan walo’n ne gulam bana liya humei’N. Abu Bakar se pyaar ho jaey ga mujhe, mein ne kabhi socha nahi’n tha!” (“Pakistanis have enslaved us. I had never imagined that I would fall in love with Abu Bakar.”) Named after Islam’s first caliph and imbued with qualities associated with him, the protagonist appears to reflect writer Umera Ahmed’s broader project: using storytelling to shape perceptions and win hearts across borders.

Yet the series’ ability to challenge stereotypes about Islam is not the reason for its popularity in India and its diasporas. Language is the main attraction. For Hindi-speaking audiences, Pakistani dramas occupy a linguistic sweet spot: Urdu is easily understood yet distinctive enough to feel culturally refreshing, and its appeal lies in its poetic vocabulary. Writing on the digital platform Medium, cultural commentator Krati Gupta calls language the “top reason” for Pakistani dramas’ popularity in India: “The beautiful fusion of Hindi and Urdu is a pleasant murmur to our ears. I became an ardent fan of the language when I heard words like ‘toofan-e-badtameezi’ and ‘jaam-e-mohabbat’.”

Pakistani dramas also benefit from a distinctive formula. They remain largely family-friendly, cultivating emotional intimacy between romantic leads without the explicit content increasingly common in Bollywood films and much of India’s streaming entertainment. That restraint feels refreshing and generates, as one Indian content creator put it, an “alag level ka nasha” (a next-level addiction).

The rise of streaming has also transformed the regional media landscape. For decades, South Asian television, film, and music existed in Bollywood’s giant shadow. Satellite television and streaming platforms have begun to level that terrain, placing Pakistani dramas in direct competition with Hindi cinema.

What is particularly fascinating is that these dramas are succeeding not by rejecting Bollywood’s cinematic language but by adopting it. In Dar-e-Nijaat, director Saqib Khan and cinematographer Zaib Rao use sweeping drone shots over mustard fields, romantic ballads, and idyllic sequences filmed in Baku to evoke the visual grammar of Bollywood classics such as Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge and more recent films like Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani.

And so we come full circle. In an Instagram reel titled Pakistani Drama Fever, teenager SeHajj is exasperated by his mother’s growing preference for Urdu after binge-watching Pakistani serials. After a series of exchanges peppered with Urdu, he asks her for money. “I don’t have any,” she replies. “Abboo se le lo” (“Get it from your father”). Moments later, SeHajj accidentally addresses his father as Abboo before catching himself. The journey from Faisal’s Pita to SeHajj’s Abboo reflects the changing tide of cultural influence in South Asia.

Sahar Ali lives and works in Austin where she supports scholarship in South Asian languages and cultures at the University of Texas at Austin.