Sardaar Ji 3 review: bridging borders but missing depth
Another twist in this cinematic cum political tale is that long before the recently mounting tensions between the two arch-rivals India and Pakistan, the government of Pakistan had banned the screening of Indian films in the country, but as a unique case has permitted this cinema venture to be released in the country's theatres and cinemas. That is a timely and prudent move by our decision makers on diplomatic and geopolitical fronts and will definitely cement further the ties between Pakistan and the East Punjab [Indian] and its people, especially the Sikh community.
I have always valued and loved the fact that art and culture transcend the political divides, also between Pakistan and India, and hence music and entertainment of both countries are cherished by the people on either side of the border. As the Punjabi diaspora is globally present and has exercised a great impact on broader-spectrum culture, the modern-day Punjabi films, plays and music are considered beyond the restraints of regional and political boundaries.
Linking its roots to the previous two parts, Sardar Ji 3 continues the eccentric saga of the beloved ghost-hunting character Jaggi, portrayed by Diljit Dosanjh. This time, Jaggi finds himself entangled in a bizarre cross-border tale involving supernatural elements, mistaken identities, and an unlikely romance. This time the ghost is bigger and more horrible, and later on, it appears to belong to the dead body of the twin brother of the villain who has hired the psychic pair for getting their castle free from this weird and unearthly presence. It is unbelievable that for many years, the villain has kept the body of his brother inside the castle without any special procedure or treatment in a simple wooden-box. Set against a backdrop of fantasy and farce, the film attempts to blend comedy, action, and fantasy with a touch of patriotic sentiment. The plot weaves in a new twist through the character of a cute girl, which becomes the centre of both the romantic and political drama. However, despite the fresh setting, the storyline remains structurally similar to the earlier installments, leaning heavily on familiar tropes — bumbling heroes, exaggerated and even comic villains, and a chaotic narrative full of comic misunderstandings.
Thematically, Sardaar Ji 3 appears to aim at promoting righteousness and relationship setting aside financial gains and pragmatism. It tries to wrap its message in humour and whimsy, hoping to soften complex realities through cinematic exaggeration. However, this intention is undermined by its lack of depth and over-reliance on slapstick humour. While the film hints at themes like love beyond borders, the absurdity and loud comedy often dilute the emotional and moral potential of the story.
Another theme is the internal conflict of identity and legacy — Jaggi tackles the burden of his own exaggerated legend. The movie plays with the idea of living up to a larger-than-life image, which ironically mirrors Diljit's own struggle as an actor stuck in a repetitive on-screen persona. Despite some visually engaging moments and high-energy sequences, Sardaar Ji 3 lacks the narrative maturity and character development needed to transform it from a noisy comedy into a meaningful cinematic experience. In the end, it becomes more about gags than growth — both for the character and the actor portraying him.
The plot and script were expected to blend humour, drama, and romance, typical of the Sardar Ji franchise, but this time, the viewers were caught unaware by a loosely woven horror thread in the general fabric of comedy. It would not be unjust to say that the amalgamation of both the mutually diverging elements — humour and horror — unfortunately proved to be counterproductive and marred the individualistic impacts of each of the genres. Moreover, we come across a very sombre and didactic aspect of human life — the evil deeds always bring forth evil outcomes — portrayed through the episode of the ghost in the castle and the people connected to his family and friends or accomplices. However, the teasing feature is that this grave story is confined to 5-10 minutes of dialogues/scenes sunk into the overall atmosphere of the sitcom. It seems that a major twist and climax of the story is just an insignificant incident in its scheme.
It would be grimly unjust not to admire and relate dynamic appearance, awesome dressing style and confident acting of Hania. The songs picturised on her have oodles of her charm, while her performance hypnotises the audience, as do the stunning landscapes. Hania's dimples, screen presence, the song lyrics, dance steps, and melodies make watching the songs a treat for Pakistani audiences. The only but significant professional lapse in her performance was her poor command over Punjabi dialogue delivery that made the director take help from technology and dubbing in places where needed.
Diljit Dosanjh seems to have reached a creative plateau with his repetitive performance. While his star power remains undeniable and his international fan-base continues to grow, the film exposes a deeper issue — his inability to break free from the repetitive mould he has built over the past decade. Diljit appears to be a prisoner of his own peculiar style, recycling the same brand of slapstick comedy, exaggerated absurdities, and over-the-top antics that once felt charming but now border on monotonous. The comic timing, facial expressions, and character delivery all seem like déjà vu for audiences who have followed him since the original Sardaar Ji.
Despite commercial success in some overseas markets, the film feels creatively stale. There is little evolution in the narrative style or performance depth. What was once viewed as a unique blend of rural charm and urban wit has now become a predictable caricature. The clownish energy, which may have been endearing in the early years, now feels forced — almost as if Diljit is trying to meet the expectations of a role that no longer fits him naturally.
The broader disappointment lies in the fact that Diljit has the talent and the presence to redefine Punjabi cinema, but Sardaar Ji 3 suggests he's stuck in a comfort zone. Instead of exploring new emotional ranges or bolder themes, he seems content repeating a formula that's well past its prime. As the global Punjabi film industry develops further and audiences become more discerning, actors like Diljit will need to take creative risks or risk becoming parodies of their former selves. Stardom is a gift — but it can become a burden when it resists reinvention.
Switching to Neeru Bajwa, who plays the role of a ghost/witch named Pinky, we must say that she reprises her presence in the series with grace and seasoned charm, she has also done justice to her role with a few scattered deviations and lapses. Playing the role of a strong-willed and magnanimous female or feminine creature, she adds emotional balance to the otherwise chaotic and comedy-driven storyline. Her character acts as both a counterforce and a reality check to Diljit Dosanjh's over-the-top antics, grounding the narrative in moments of sincerity. While the film largely revolves around supernatural fun and cross-border humour, Neeru brings depth through her expressions and mature screen presence. Though her role isn't the central arc this time, her contribution adds a layer of continuity and credibility to the franchise. Her final understanding and decision to get aside, sacrifice her overwhelming love, and to bring Noor and Jaggi together adds to the positive emotional flow that runs through the theme of the film.
Winding up, the film is just like a confection — sweet, effervescent, and unpretentious. It embraces its genre tropes joyfully, yet beneath that lies little narrative heft. Performatively, it struggles on Diljit's enduring appeal and music‑infused humour, which often rescues the experience. The insertion of Sikh spiritual text attempts emotional depth but highlights the film's tonal fragility. Meanwhile, its political entanglement inadvertently performs a cultural critique: the torn space where art and diplomacy collide.
Muttahir Ahmed Khan is an author, literary critic and educationist, and can be reached at muttahirahmedkhan@gmail.com
All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer
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Express Tribune
a day ago
- Express Tribune
Sardaar Ji 3 review: bridging borders but missing depth
After undergoing various socio-political and cultural controversies, and ups and downs, the new Indian film Sardar Ji-3, has been released globally except its parent country India. This leaves 1.5 billion film lovers deprived of enjoying this comedy feast starring Diljit Dosanjh, one of the most prominent and celebrated stars of India. Interestingly, the reason for this deprivation is that the film's female lead happens to be the famous Pakistani actress Hania Amir. Other stars in the cast include Neeru Bajwa, Manav Vij, Gulshan Grover, Jasmin Bajwa, Nasir Chinyoti (also Pakistani), Sammy Jonas Heaney, Daniel Khawar, Sapna Pabbi, and Monica Sharma. The project has been directed by Amar Hundal and produced by Gunbir Sigh Sidhu and Manmord Sidhu, while Rakesh Dhawan, Dheeraj Rattan and Manila Rattan teamed up as screenwriters. Another twist in this cinematic cum political tale is that long before the recently mounting tensions between the two arch-rivals India and Pakistan, the government of Pakistan had banned the screening of Indian films in the country, but as a unique case has permitted this cinema venture to be released in the country's theatres and cinemas. That is a timely and prudent move by our decision makers on diplomatic and geopolitical fronts and will definitely cement further the ties between Pakistan and the East Punjab [Indian] and its people, especially the Sikh community. I have always valued and loved the fact that art and culture transcend the political divides, also between Pakistan and India, and hence music and entertainment of both countries are cherished by the people on either side of the border. As the Punjabi diaspora is globally present and has exercised a great impact on broader-spectrum culture, the modern-day Punjabi films, plays and music are considered beyond the restraints of regional and political boundaries. Linking its roots to the previous two parts, Sardar Ji 3 continues the eccentric saga of the beloved ghost-hunting character Jaggi, portrayed by Diljit Dosanjh. This time, Jaggi finds himself entangled in a bizarre cross-border tale involving supernatural elements, mistaken identities, and an unlikely romance. This time the ghost is bigger and more horrible, and later on, it appears to belong to the dead body of the twin brother of the villain who has hired the psychic pair for getting their castle free from this weird and unearthly presence. It is unbelievable that for many years, the villain has kept the body of his brother inside the castle without any special procedure or treatment in a simple wooden-box. Set against a backdrop of fantasy and farce, the film attempts to blend comedy, action, and fantasy with a touch of patriotic sentiment. The plot weaves in a new twist through the character of a cute girl, which becomes the centre of both the romantic and political drama. However, despite the fresh setting, the storyline remains structurally similar to the earlier installments, leaning heavily on familiar tropes — bumbling heroes, exaggerated and even comic villains, and a chaotic narrative full of comic misunderstandings. Thematically, Sardaar Ji 3 appears to aim at promoting righteousness and relationship setting aside financial gains and pragmatism. It tries to wrap its message in humour and whimsy, hoping to soften complex realities through cinematic exaggeration. However, this intention is undermined by its lack of depth and over-reliance on slapstick humour. While the film hints at themes like love beyond borders, the absurdity and loud comedy often dilute the emotional and moral potential of the story. Another theme is the internal conflict of identity and legacy — Jaggi tackles the burden of his own exaggerated legend. The movie plays with the idea of living up to a larger-than-life image, which ironically mirrors Diljit's own struggle as an actor stuck in a repetitive on-screen persona. Despite some visually engaging moments and high-energy sequences, Sardaar Ji 3 lacks the narrative maturity and character development needed to transform it from a noisy comedy into a meaningful cinematic experience. In the end, it becomes more about gags than growth — both for the character and the actor portraying him. The plot and script were expected to blend humour, drama, and romance, typical of the Sardar Ji franchise, but this time, the viewers were caught unaware by a loosely woven horror thread in the general fabric of comedy. It would not be unjust to say that the amalgamation of both the mutually diverging elements — humour and horror — unfortunately proved to be counterproductive and marred the individualistic impacts of each of the genres. Moreover, we come across a very sombre and didactic aspect of human life — the evil deeds always bring forth evil outcomes — portrayed through the episode of the ghost in the castle and the people connected to his family and friends or accomplices. However, the teasing feature is that this grave story is confined to 5-10 minutes of dialogues/scenes sunk into the overall atmosphere of the sitcom. It seems that a major twist and climax of the story is just an insignificant incident in its scheme. It would be grimly unjust not to admire and relate dynamic appearance, awesome dressing style and confident acting of Hania. The songs picturised on her have oodles of her charm, while her performance hypnotises the audience, as do the stunning landscapes. Hania's dimples, screen presence, the song lyrics, dance steps, and melodies make watching the songs a treat for Pakistani audiences. The only but significant professional lapse in her performance was her poor command over Punjabi dialogue delivery that made the director take help from technology and dubbing in places where needed. Diljit Dosanjh seems to have reached a creative plateau with his repetitive performance. While his star power remains undeniable and his international fan-base continues to grow, the film exposes a deeper issue — his inability to break free from the repetitive mould he has built over the past decade. Diljit appears to be a prisoner of his own peculiar style, recycling the same brand of slapstick comedy, exaggerated absurdities, and over-the-top antics that once felt charming but now border on monotonous. The comic timing, facial expressions, and character delivery all seem like déjà vu for audiences who have followed him since the original Sardaar Ji. Despite commercial success in some overseas markets, the film feels creatively stale. There is little evolution in the narrative style or performance depth. What was once viewed as a unique blend of rural charm and urban wit has now become a predictable caricature. The clownish energy, which may have been endearing in the early years, now feels forced — almost as if Diljit is trying to meet the expectations of a role that no longer fits him naturally. The broader disappointment lies in the fact that Diljit has the talent and the presence to redefine Punjabi cinema, but Sardaar Ji 3 suggests he's stuck in a comfort zone. Instead of exploring new emotional ranges or bolder themes, he seems content repeating a formula that's well past its prime. As the global Punjabi film industry develops further and audiences become more discerning, actors like Diljit will need to take creative risks or risk becoming parodies of their former selves. Stardom is a gift — but it can become a burden when it resists reinvention. Switching to Neeru Bajwa, who plays the role of a ghost/witch named Pinky, we must say that she reprises her presence in the series with grace and seasoned charm, she has also done justice to her role with a few scattered deviations and lapses. Playing the role of a strong-willed and magnanimous female or feminine creature, she adds emotional balance to the otherwise chaotic and comedy-driven storyline. Her character acts as both a counterforce and a reality check to Diljit Dosanjh's over-the-top antics, grounding the narrative in moments of sincerity. While the film largely revolves around supernatural fun and cross-border humour, Neeru brings depth through her expressions and mature screen presence. Though her role isn't the central arc this time, her contribution adds a layer of continuity and credibility to the franchise. Her final understanding and decision to get aside, sacrifice her overwhelming love, and to bring Noor and Jaggi together adds to the positive emotional flow that runs through the theme of the film. Winding up, the film is just like a confection — sweet, effervescent, and unpretentious. It embraces its genre tropes joyfully, yet beneath that lies little narrative heft. Performatively, it struggles on Diljit's enduring appeal and music‑infused humour, which often rescues the experience. The insertion of Sikh spiritual text attempts emotional depth but highlights the film's tonal fragility. Meanwhile, its political entanglement inadvertently performs a cultural critique: the torn space where art and diplomacy collide. Muttahir Ahmed Khan is an author, literary critic and educationist, and can be reached at muttahirahmedkhan@ All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer
Express Tribune
a day ago
- Express Tribune
Humaira Asghar and the case for posthumous dignity
When I was writing my Master's dissertation, a friend pursuing his PhD introduced me to Nicola Wright's work on the Digital Afterlife – a body of research that examines what happens when rituals, practices and cultural legacies are transplanted from the physical world into the digital realm. Wright's insights helped me think more critically about the posthumous releases of musicians, the fate of digital estates, and the eerie ways algorithms can keep a star alive online long after they've died in the flesh. For someone who only experienced a public figure through the Internet, the star doesn't pass away – they simply become part of the feed, resurfacing perpetually, like a living ghost in the machine. These are not just esoteric musings about stardom or virtual memory. They are philosophical and political inquiries into what it means to live and die in an age when platforms preserve, remix and monetise both presence and absence. And, crucially, they help us understand how Freddie Mercury's question – 'who wants to live forever?' – has become the default setting for celebrity remembrance. But the last few days on the Pakistani Internet forced me to revisit these ideas from an entirely different angle. Not from the curated legacies of global icons, but from the silence around those who die unknown and unclaimed – until, suddenly, they aren't. The last few days online – not in the real world, where countless bodies are buried quietly by Edhi and Chhipa — have been shaped by someone the general audience had never heard of before: Humaira Asghar. Her death didn't merely go viral – it gave the Pakistani Internet a new subject to mourn, a spectacle to perform, and a cause to rally around. Here was someone the industry didn't even classify as a 'C-list' talent – an invisible woman, surviving on the margins of a hyper-competitive fashion and television world. And yet, in death, she commanded the attention of Sindh Governor Kamran Tessori, the Sindh Culture Department, A-list actors, and ACT (the officially registered trade association for Pakistani actors), to name a few. That an otherwise forgotten figure could achieve such posthumous visibility reveals a strange truth: in the digital age, death can be a launchpad for fame. It underscores a deep absurdity of Internet culture – how obscurity in life can be undone by the grotesque spectacle of death. What couldn't be accomplished through PR agents or talent managers was suddenly delivered by the sheer virality of bodily decay and social neglect. That is, perhaps, the most sobering irony: that visibility is no longer proof of value, but of narrative utility. And Humaira, in death, became a story that fit. But what exactly are we mourning when we share her photo, write our heartbreak, or blame the industry in Instagram captions or a journalistic analysis similar to what you are reading? Is it her death or is it the discomfort it brings us? The tragedy of Humaira's lonely end forces us to interrogate what our online mourning rituals say about our capacity for care, and whether we've become better at performing grief than preventing it. Social media profiles of the deceased now function as digital mausoleums. Humaira's photos and interviews, once uploaded for visibility and relevance, now serve as a mosaic of her absence. In death she became hyper-visible, an ironic fate for someone abandoned in life. This shift from personal profile to an online shrine is not neutral – it reshapes our relationship with both the deceased and ourselves. When mourning is mediated through a feed, it displaces traditional rituals with algorithmic aftershocks: a 'memory' notification, a resurfaced post or a recommended video featuring a now-silenced voice. These algorithmic echoes of Humaira Asghar don't just preserve her; they curate her, often stripped of nuance and context. What we are left with is a fragmented, crowd-sourced version of her identity, no longer anchored in real relationships but floating in the collective imagination of strangers and spectators. This is the double bind of the digital afterlife. In Digital Anthropology and Internet Studies jargon we'll say, it democratises memory while destabilising the personhood it seeks to honour. A recent trend in digital humanities is the study of 'posthumous personhood.' This refers to the way identities continue to circulate and be reconstructed after death, particularly online. Humaira Asghar's persona is now mediated more by those who knew of her than those who truly knew her. In this way, her identity is no longer her own – it belongs to the digital commons, subject to reinterpretation and exploitation. Our South Asian methods of mourning – the duas, the funerals, and the acts of charity – are meant to provide dignity and closure. Yet in Humaira's case, the janazah became an afterthought to the narrative. Volunteers scrambled to secure a final resting place for her after her family declined to claim her, but this too was uploaded, documented, and debated, and eventually her brother showed up to prove all the speculations wrong. Humaira's case exposes how digital spaces do not merely preserve legacies; they produce them, often posthumously and without the subject's control. Her identity is now refracted through the lenses of grief, voyeurism and social commentary. A clip from a past interview, such as Ahmed Ali Butt's Podcast becomes evidence of her yearning for a lover; a glamorous photo becomes proof of loneliness, a sad, sentimental caption is reason to believe she was depressed. This retrospective storytelling, often tinged with projection and moralising, obscures more than it reveals. And yet, it is also the only form of remembrance many will ever engage in, a paradox that reveals the uneven terrain of online mourning. Who gets to be remembered, and in what form, is increasingly decided not by family or faith or sect, but by digital participation and platform governance. Thus, the moral hazard is not only about management. It's also about presence and representation. When the living fail to protect the dignity of the dead in their lifetime, do they have the moral authority to construct their afterlives? When Humaira's social media became a digital shrine, it wasn't built by those closest to her, but by an anonymous digital public that claimed her only after her silence. In this context, Humaira's digital afterlife becomes a case study in what scholars call posthumous subjectivity – a state in which the dead continue to be constructed as social agents, but without agency. We see how the dead are rendered symbolically active while materially silent. Their identity becomes a canvas upon which collective anxieties, moral judgments, and unresolved guilt are projected. In Humaira's case, her death has been mobilised to critique the entertainment industry by people like me, highlight mental health neglect, and lament the breakdown of familial and social bonds. Yet, paradoxically, these narratives often do more to serve the needs of the living than to honour the person who has passed. Similar to how a family you must have known waits for the patriarch to die in order to lay claim to his supposed wealth only to find out it never existed or was entrusted to someone else. The dead person then loses all 'value' and is only being mourned by the successors because the world expects them to mourn. What the practice leads to on the Internet is a form of grief capitalism, where digital mourning becomes both emotionally and socially transactional. The more viral the grief, the more 'value' it holds. Humaira's story gained traction not necessarily because many remembered her fondly, but because her lonely death – and the synaptic horror of it – fit a tragic archetype palatable to digital outrage and sentimentality. Her posthumous visibility, then, did not emerge from remembered love but from a renewed usefulness to a content-hungry system. The question of what is owed to the dead becomes muddied in this terrain: Is visibility a form of justice, or a second, more subtle form of exploitation? Ultimately, Humaira's fate invites us to confront how digital spaces both preserve and pervert memory. Her digital afterlife, shaped by strangers more than loved ones, raises difficult but necessary questions: Whose grief is being performed? Whose narrative is being amplified? And at what cost does visibility come for someone who, in life, was largely unseen? When actor Osman Khalid Butt spoke out in the wake of Humaira Asghar's death, his words carried the clarity and restraint that the moment demanded: 'I don't even know what to say anymore. Feels like we're walking in circles. I get it: engagement is currency. Contrarian opinions aimed to provoke, framing grief and rage for clicks are the new economy. But can we please pause for a second and bring back basic empathy.' His statement wasn't simply a defense of Humaira's dignity – it was a rebuke of the culture that has made mourning a monetisable performance. In an age where tragedy travels faster than truth, Butt's call serves as a warning: we are blurring the line between remembrance and relevance, between solidarity and spectacle. What he described was the rise of grief farming – a digital behavior where grief is harvested for attention, engagement, and social capital, often at the expense of the dead. This is not merely a moral failing; it is a cultural shift rooted in the architecture of social media. In the attention economy, visibility is currency, and loss – especially one as horrifying to our senses as Humaira's – is immediately co-opted into a cycle of virality. The problem is not that people grieve online, but that they perform grief for an audience, flattening complex lives into emotionally potent thumbnails and teary-eyed reaction reels. What gets lost in this process is not just nuance, but humanity. Grief becomes a genre, complete with its own aesthetic tropes and emotional rhythms. And as with any genre, its currency depends on recognisability and repetition. But grief in real life is messy, slow and nonlinear. It is also private and often invisible. What happens, then, when our experience of loss is shaped more by algorithmic rhythm than emotional reality? What does it mean for the bereaved to see their loved one's death become a trend, their final moments debated in comments and dissected by strangers? These are the questions that Humaira's death forces us to ask. Her case is not unique in its tragedy, but in its digital afterlife. The public nature of her death, the discovery of her decaying body, the familial confusion, the volunteer janazah offers, the social media uproar was swiftly turned into content. A woman who died forgotten became unforgettable only because her anonymity became grotesque. She did not trend because she was beloved, but because her end fit the aesthetic of tragedy that performs well online. This cycle is what scholars increasingly identify as grief capitalism – where the emotional labour of mourning is extracted, packaged, and redistributed for consumption. It is a system that privileges content over context, spectacle over care. The problem is not remembrance, but who gets to remember, how, and for whom. Digital afterlives can be comforting. They allow for asynchronous grieving, collective memory, and archival presence. But they also introduce a moral hazard: who manages these legacies, and with what consent? Who speaks for the dead when the only voices left are followers, fans, and critics?
Express Tribune
2 days ago
- Express Tribune
Behroopia' writer distances herself from TV drama
Screenwriter Rida Bilal has publicly distanced herself from the TV series Behroopia, stating that the story currently airing no longer reflects her work. In a strongly worded Instagram post on Friday, Rida alleged that her script had been significantly altered without her consent. "When your name is on something that no longer reflects your voice, it's time to speak up," she wrote. "Scenes changed, characters twisted, and intentions lost. The writing you see now? It's not mine." With Faysal Quraishi and Madiha Imam in lead roles, Behroopia centres on Mahnoor, a woman who enters a second marriage only to discover that her new husband harbours a disturbing secret. Framed as a psychological thriller, the series explores themes of deception, betrayal, and societal taboos surrounding divorce and remarriage. In her post, Rida claimed the story has now veered far from her vision. "I have tried to state a lot of things in a dignified manner before, but everyone has their limit and I have finally reached mine," she wrote. "Behroopia no longer reflects my ideas, writing, or the emotion with which it was created for the audiences." Rida further criticised the network and director, writing, "It, however, does reflect the channel's lack of ownership, the director's unfulfilled desires and his knack for writing, which he should practise more often so that the industry can completely go down the drain." This is not the first time a writer in the Pakistani television industry has raised concerns about creative interference. Bee Gul has previously stated similar challenges. Her 2014 series Zid, which centred on a woman resisting forced marriage and societal pressure, was reportedly undermined by producer interference. Gul said the pressure compromised the show's potential and contributed to its critical failure. Rida's post has drawn widespread attention online, with many industry professionals and viewers expressing support. As of Saturday, neither the private channel nor the director of Behroopia issued a public response. Rida is known for her work on dramas such as Khudgarz and Do Bol, and has often been praised for her character-driven narratives and emotionally grounded writing.
