Parizaad is a Pakistani drama adapted from the eponymous novel, written by Hashim Nadeem. The show revolves around a dark-skinned boy named Parizaad. He is ridiculed and disregarded by other people, primarily because of his appearance and his unusual name and humble roots. The series began airing on Hum TV in July of this year and, with eight episodes released, the story is still in its early phases. The show-runners are still introducing new characters and setting up story arcs. So, assessing it on the merits of its plot may prove difficult (at least for people who haven’t read the novel), but nothing stops us from assessing it on the merits of the episodes released thus far.

One could take multiple approaches and apply different perspectives to this story and still be able to make sense of it, like the corruption of culture, discrimination based on skin colour and gender, class differences, love and hate, trust and betrayal, friends and foes, etc. I’d like to talk about something that struck me as new for a Hum TV serial: the “second introduction” of an enslaved man.

Parizaad is born to a poor family in a humble corner of the city. With already three mouths to feed, a fourth child doesn’t have much of a choice but to pick up whatever he can, from wherever he can. He spends his days as an insignificant part of his family, never regarded as someone to be taken seriously. At school, he is bullied for his unusual name. And as he grows up, first his mother and then his father pass away, leaving him to his two brothers, their wives and his lonesome sister. The show keeps reminding us, time and again, that Parizaad will always end up alone, not only because of how others treat him but also because of how he treats himself.

He feels inferior and a slave to his circumstances. He has a strange name that he is mocked for, dark skin that makes people think he isn’t beautiful, no friends that he can turn to for support and a family that does not consider him worth their time. His clothes are so old and out of fashion that he is the only one seen wearing such attire. And he is a hopeless romantic with an unrequited love to boot. Ahmed Ali Akbar (the actor who plays Parizaad) does a fantastic job at portraying to the viewer the insecurity of his character by affecting droopy shoulders, hands that reflexively contort to his back and a gaze that shifts to avoid looking others in the eye. When he is afraid of the person he is facing, his furtive glances reveal his fear.

Parizaad has a hidden talent. His potential lies in his words, his poetry. As Parizaad’s wise friend, Ahmad Nasaaz (played by Adeel Afzal), says, “One’s face is one’s first introduction. One’s second and actual introduction is a person’s words. Perfect your second introduction. Perfect it so that people forget your first introduction.” Parizaad is not just a story about how society discriminates against some people; it also shows us that the downtrodden should recognise their strengths and make peace with their weaknesses, because the alternative is suffering, loneliness and ultimately death.

But what does it mean to have a second introduction? And what does that have to do with the underlying philosophy of Parizaad? A second introduction accompanies a person’s first introduction. It reflects personality, character, intellect and wisdom. For artists it may be their passion and yearning for inspiration, for mathematicians it is creating and comprehending axioms, for scientists it is the childlike curiosity; for poets it’s the voice of the oppressed stemming from their successful or, in the case of Parizaad, unsuccessful lives. It is this voice that Parizaad possesses and that others recognise in him. They call it out by many different names but, ultimately, he must embrace it as his strength.

It is this voice that he must hone to the highest degree of excellence and then embrace as his secondary introduction. But, to do so he must first make peace with his perpetual inferiority. This struggle, in my opinion, is the underlying philosophy of the show. It was made prominent in the first scene of the series, in which, on a rainy and dreary day, when Parizaad was born, children were seen playing with a boat in a muddy puddle. The boat didn’t melt away because it wasn’t made of paper, but it was still in the midst of a storm, navigating the mud-filled waters. This boat is a symbol for Parizaad himself, and the storm that engulfs it are his weaknesses: his inferiority. To live to see the sunshine, the boat must stay afloat and not let the pebbles rupture its hull. Recognising that the boat will not melt away and that it isn’t made of paper is the challenge that he must face. At the end of his voyage await one of two outcomes: the safety of the shore or the dark bed beneath the water.

These duelling fates are foreshadowed multiple times in the series; when Nasaaz tells him that he has a fire in him, when Shaukey tells him that he is superior to him, when Mr Noman offers him a blank cheque for his poetry, when Lubna tells him that he has more depth to him than anyone else, etc. Parizaad isn’t able to recognise that even in his circumstances, someone of his appearance and someone of his class could become greater than himself. But in his various encounters with the world, he keeps growing and taking small steps towards this goal. The viewers are shown glimpses of the protagonist’s hidden potential and the ultimate end of the story when Parizaad writes a poem as a complimentary piece to Othello, or when he sells his poetry to help his sister out. But, with every lesson he learns, and every rung he climbs, Parizaad comes back to square one of his internal conflict, feeling sorry for himself, being anxious and feeling like a loser.

I don’t know if the story of Parizaad will be a happy one or turn out to be a tragedy, but I do know that for the “innocent offspring of fairies” only tragedy awaits. More people should watch Parizaad. Who knows, maybe it will help you recognise the philosopher, the scientist, the writer or even the poet in you. And if not something profound, it might help you make peace with your own weaknesses, because demanding that no one point out your flaws or hiding from the ones who do is a fool’s errand; nothing noble exists here, but to go on the journey, because reconciling with one’s demons is what heroes do.

The writer is a student of psychology at BNU