y self-imposed social media detox, offset by a whimsical commitment to be more productive, has lasted more than two years. Other than occasional relapses fixed by midnight cheat hours, I claim some immunity to the influence of the influencers, many of whom lack informed insight. Most are downright problematic.

This abstinence comes with a price though. Existing and thriving outside social media schemas can sometimes make one realise that they are on the periphery of surplus information, that gives people false confidence, but also critical information, both regurgitated at dinner tables and in group chats. Also, one misses out on the most recent social cause of designer-activists.

I was introduced to Barzakh in one such reel of a mother-son duo, with their amateur, mostly crass drama reviews. “I will not watch Barzakh again,” Amma (mother) declared after having watched the second episode. I paused the short video right there.

Backlash against Barzakh is being led by city-dwelling Urdu-English speaking elites with access to foreign content. They take issue with “…LGBTQ agenda, normalised pre-marital sex and themes promoting sexual grooming.”

Among morality plays and glamourised toxicity Barzakh offers an alternative. There’s more to Pakistan’s most popular art form than gasping heroines and well-dressed misogynists. A lot more. The monotony is sometimes broken by a creed of filmmakers not afraid to bet on a slow horse. Barzakh is one of the rare feats that are indifferent to the critic’s opinion. It announces its presence not like a popular theatrical number crawling for attention, but in a somber way, without desperation. You take it in as you go.

Asim Abbas isn’t new to the process. This series makes him worthy of a higher status. His mastery as a writer and a director shows that whoever dons both hats must do justice to either.

This balancing act relies heavily on the professional actor. The series leaves a lasting reminder of how fallible human storytellers and stories are, and how courageous it is to come to terms with fallibility in art. Abbas is no stranger to taboos either, having tackled them in Churails.

Where films like Zindagi Tamasha are deemed offensive, it is no surprise that Barzakh is making some people uncomfortable. While Pakistani audiences consume foreign content, morality based criticism is usually reserved for local filmmakers and actors.

Nothing about the other themes of the series – gender violence, mental health, draconian tribalism, neo-liberal capitalism and indigenous communities, class mobility and breaking familial ties – touched these high priests of media morality.

Barzakh – the blur between finality and temporal existence – is played out in the magical realism of Mahtab Mahal’s past and present. The worlds of the living and the dead coexist. There are women who prefer the supernatural world of the fairies and nonconforming Mahtabs who are violently pushed into it. The ominous pink sky and the promise of love’s resurrection are surreal.

Of the many strengths of the series, casting stands out. Salman Shahid’s depiction of desperation, denial and wrath as a betrayed brother and a desperate lover confronted by the mortality of his love embodies King Lear’s imbecility. It’s beautiful to watch. Jabbar, egotistical, moralistic and bitter refuses to be a side act to his influential brother. His brother’s tale of tragic love is wrapped in his own loss of innocence.

The intensity of familial bitterness is balanced by the younger actor’s placidity. Fawad Khan’s desperate polemics against the estranged father seem staged but a little less disingenuous than the narrator and the catalyst, Sanam Saeed. Both of them have definite strong moments, skilfully embodying the existential angst of the series. Khan’s character pulls off as a strong-willed father dealing with his own tragedy. The shy second son, Saifullah, does the heavy lifting of nursing the scars left by his father as he comes to terms with his own conflict. Young actors, Khushhal Khan and Anika Zulfikar come through. As the plot retrospects towards the original sin, the two young actors are convincing in their irreconcilable bitterness. There are no surprising twists in the plot. However, there are plenty of what-just-happened moments.

Barzakh’s symbolism isn’t subtle. It’s evocative; even crude. And can one talk about colours? True to magical realism’s visceral reality, the color pink is an omen; a she; a fairy; a godmother; a woman hopelessly in love and a dove on a man’s shoulder. There is something truly magical about Barzakh’s resistance: how much agency does an individual have in a regressive society that, while stoic in its struggle, is struggling to come to terms with its dark past.

I found myself in a rabbit hole of never-ending pop ups of short videos, many by anonymous users and media personalities and mediocre celebrities mentioning a moral obligation to shun ‘foreign agenda.’ These people also reprimanded the leading actors for their irresponsibility in choosing this project. Nothing of the other themes of the series – gender violence, mental health, draconian tribalism, neo-liberal capitalism and indigenous communities, class mobility and breaking familial ties – touched these high priests of media morality.

The writer is a US-based freelancer. She can be reached at sikandar.sarah@gmail.com