“I was always Nida and Yasir’s [Nawaz] first choice for the lead,” Ahsan Khan confirms as we discuss his new upcoming venture, a thriller-comedy previously titled Chakkar.

“Nida had asked me if I was interested in playing the lead when she and Yasir came on my show months ago,” Ahsan clarifies about the as-yet untitled film. “[The husband and wife duo] gave off good vibes,” he says.

Ahsan has been sitting on this news for the past few weeks, refusing to confirm what Icon had learnt through its own sources; ostensibly waiting for final preparations for the film to go on set to be made. Initially set for one of the two Eids, speculating about the day of his film’s release is probably a bit early at this point.

The thriller-comedy genre (or the comedy-thriller genre, Ahsan is not sure what comes first; it’s a chicken or an egg scenario, he coyly infers) is a departure for Ahsan.

Despite knowing the gist of the storyline, he remains tight-lipped on specifics. What he does say is that the screenplay is “very entertaining.”

Ahsan Khan is a calm professional, unruffled by his surroundings, yet acutely conscious of them. He is almost spiritual about what fate has in store for him as an actor. But he’s also looking out for his sanity

“There are four or five central characters,” he says, “out of which two or three are the ones to look out for. Out of those two, I’m playing the main lead — a goody-good romantic guy named Kabeer who is quite smart,” he says, not giving away anything particular. With the film being a thriller, one understands the necessity of tactfully revealing only tidbits.

Ahsan had been looking for an excuse to work with Yasir, he had previously told me on one occasion. “I really liked [Yasir’s direction in] Wrong No. 2, and I loved his TV serial Chup Raho. Also, I haven’t seen much of the dark comedy-thriller cinema genre in Pakistan,” he says.

“Other than Yasir and Nida, one of the main reasons for doing this thriller-comedy is Satish Anand,” Ahsan affirms. “[A] pyaare, samajhdaar aadmi [an intelligent, loveable man],” whose advice, he says, he has reached out for many times. The proposition of working with this creative combination was just too good to pass, Ahsan tells me while delicately turning my attention away from the topic, by offering tea that has just been wheeled in.

It is already quite late in the evening, and within the past hour Ahsan’s hospitality has included a non-stop flow of soft drinks, coffee and now tea. The diversity of the liquid intake would challenge my digestion, although it (meaning the diversity), and the surrounding décor of the room, does give me some context for who Ahsan Khan is at this point in his career.

A family man with three children, Ahsan is a calm professional. Happy. Sorted out. Unruffled by his surroundings, yet acutely conscious of them.

Take the living room we are in, as an example: just slightly dusty (he is changing his residence, he meekly states while apologising for the not-so-apparent mess), one sees sufi influences everywhere.

A book on the table next to me discusses sufism and Punjabi poets. On a small chair at the other end, there is detailed form of a dancing dervish embroidered on to a cushion. On the wall above hangs an imposing oil painting of an old Moroccan alleyway. Replicas of Persian ceramic bowls casually litter the space. The furnishing could pass for an Indiana Jones set, yet it reminds me of his latest serial Alif — even though the room hasn’t changed since I was here two years ago.

Ahsan seems to be enamoured by the idea of sufism, I tell him. What makes you say that, he asks, genuinely caught off-guard by the change in topic. I gesture to the furnishings.

“Oh, you picked up on that?” he answers.

“I have been fortunate — blessed — that things naturally fall into my lap. Things that I want to do, that are good for me,” he says.

People come up to me and say that Alif has changed their lives — or at least their perspective on life — and then they ask me if it has changed mine, and I reply: Main pehlay se hi badla hua tha, yaar! [I was already a changed man when I did this],” waving his hand towards the room while smiling.

In Alif, Ahsan plays a renowned calligrapher of Allah’s divine names, who gets awakened to life’s beauties — especially the attraction of supposed self-imposed cultural taboo — when he falls in love with a Lollywood actress. Pressured by his overbearing father, who says that he has committed irredeemable sin, Ahsan’s character in Alif is caught in a whirlwind of emotional turmoil that defines the main arc and angle of the story: the relationship between man and God.

Ahsan’s character, which literally defines the word supporting actor/character (as in, his influence forms the basic crux of the story, and literally supports and propels the conflict in the entire narrative), only appears in flashback sequences. The actor tells me that he is only on-screen for a quarter of the show’s entire running time, yet his role still stands out.

“People come up to me and say that Alif has changed their lives — or at least their perspective on life — and then they ask me if it has changed mine, and I reply: Main pehlay se hi badla hua tha, yaar! [I was already a changed man when I did this],” waving his hand towards the room while smiling.

“There is a line from my character in Alif that goes: ‘Main wohi kuch bannata hoon, parr abb woh bikta nahin hai [I still create the same things, but now they don’t sell] — this line, in a strange way, defines what I’ve always stood for.”

Luckily for Ahsan, whatever he makes, sells, I tell him.

“Allah ki barkat kay baghair kuch nahin hota [Nothing happens without the grace of God],” he says, applying the reference to himself and, in an unpolitical, unaggressive way, to his brethren in the industry.

“Everyone is tested by God, and not everything is the same every day. You get up one day and feel on the top of the world, another day you don’t feel that good. It’s like you get a big, fat cheque one day, and other days you don’t get anything. That’s life,” Ahsan says while shrugging his shoulders.

As we talk about life and his maturing, I ask him about the lack of maturity of this industry, and somehow end up talking about award shows, celebrities and their lack of foresight.

“This could be a big debate unto itself. Despite being around for years, our industry is still shaping up. Some things are better, others aren’t. With so many avenues opening up, so many channels producing content, and so many new actors entering the business, some are bound to carry themselves professionally, some a little less [professionally], and some not at all,” he says, without pointing any fingers.

“As an actor, I can only comment from the perspective of my thinking and experience. I’ve done the Lux Style Awards and the Hum Style Awards. I perform, do nominations, come up in nominations, give out or receive awards. These shows are quite professional. I don’t give a second thought while associating myself with any of the them. [However], whenever someone else approaches me, I enquire about their associations, their media partners, the people who have referred me to them, the payments they are making — good payments show how serious the initiative is, and when the money is in place, it means the people making the show aren’t just all talk — it shows how reliable they are.

“Everyone wants the Pakistani industry to flourish, to go international, and I’m not saying that new initiatives cannot be legitimate, but there is a process to it,” Ahsan adds diplomatically.

But what about the unity of the industry? The divide in the artistic (and some factions of the journalistic) community became quite apparent in a recent debacle, I tell him.

If a fairness cream brand comes to me, I will not do it,” he says. “I’m a thinking man’s actor. I don’t want people to believe that they will become successful only if they have a fair complexion.”

“Some people might want to do it for fame, glory or simply monetary reasons.

The producers of the show might pay 20 celebrities and not pay 20 other celebrities to be a part of something,” Ahsan opines diplomatically, neither supporting nor criticising a recent awards show debacle, or identifying the general lack of ethics and solidarity of the industry. With experience comes maturity, and if someone doesn’t learn, well it’s their loss, he suggests. Our conversation leads to celebrities and the measure of one’s success. “Once, people considered an actor who appeared in six serials at the same time as successful. Now, people understand — or at least people with mature thinking do — that one needs to be exclusive … and I will get to that in a minute,” Ahsan says.

Abruptly, he thinks of an anecdote from an actor he knows, and the reference diverts our conversation to a long tangent before leading back to what we were talking about.

“There is a difference between an awami [people’s] actor and an actor who craves exclusivity,” he starts. “Yet there are actors who are choosy about the writer, the script, the director, and only do one production per year and have no issues about finances, but even then they do not deliver excellence. Then what’s the use of that exclusivity?” he asks.

“And then there are actors who are constantly working — this job is their bread and butter, they aren’t doing anything else — and those persons are accepting both good and mediocre work, and are getting appreciated for both. Then isn’t the measure of success of the latter better than that of the former?

“I feel that one’s success shouldn’t be measured by doing one big, substantially expensive play. Your success comes from how much people love you, how you relate to people as an actor, and how much people know you, and know about you. You are mingling with people by being on screen consistently. Interacting with them. The superstars of our generation, for example, were awaami. They did intellectual works too but they also worked to please the awaam,” he says.

Ahsan is proud of walking the fine line between being awaami and exclusive, he says, putting everything he has said in the last hour into context.

Udaari, he says, walked that fine line. “It was the serial that started the conversation. Before that, I don’t remember any drama talking about child abuse, or even causing an issue to be raised in parliament,” he says. “As a result, I have been made the ambassador of the Child Protection and Welfare Bureau by the Government of Punjab,” he adds.

Although he says he doesn’t like to propagate the fact, the issue of child abuse and other social causes, such as fundraising for schools, are quite close to his heart. He feels a sense of responsibility.

“If a fairness cream brand comes to me, I will not do it,” he says. “I’m a thinking man’s actor. I don’t want people to believe that they will become successful only if they have a fair complexion,” Ahsan says while getting up to offer me freshly-made chicken patties. Another cup of tea has arrived in the meantime.

“Having said that, we’re still at the gateway of a whole new world. Today, I feel that generations change every eight years. There was a time when I thought the audience changed every decade. Two years less is not a small thing by any measure. As time is going faster, and as your audience changes, you have to change to accommodate them. You have to change how you sound and your appearance as much for yourself as for the younger audience who crave diversity.

“Monotony is the death of an actor,” he says, taking a quick call on his mobile phone — it seems his family is waiting for our conversation to end so that they can go to the theatre to watch a movie.

He says that he deliberately chose to do Chhuppan Chhuppai after Udaari. After Chhuppan Chhuppai, Ahsan flew off to Sadler’s Wells Theatre in London to star in an English adaptation of Heer Ranjha, and soon after began shooting Aangan, Alif, Shah Rukh Ki Saaliyaan for television, and his other upcoming film, Rehbara, with Ayesha Omar.

“I’m a human, dude. It’s not just about diversity. I’m also looking out for my sanity. I feel that [at times] I need to not overly think about acting if I want to chill and perform. My sanity depends on how I feel. My sanity depends on my work. I can’t stay serious for six months, or do comedy for four months. My sanity comes before anything else.”

Ahsan is blessed, he reiterates, to have been getting such great opportunities where he gets room to explore his own abilities.

“I didn’t know I could host,” he says of Bol Nights With Ahsan Khan, a quirky, off-the-cuff, unscripted show where he gets to be who he is. The show, along with the live Ramazan transmission he had been hosting, and his recent forays into acting, are quite close to him, he says.

However, at the moment, the anticipation of working in the thriller-comedy has him all revved up.

“We will most probably be ready to go on set by the time this interview comes out in print in Icon,” Ahsan confirms.

Will the film blow away the box-office, I ask? “Success,” he says, “depends on the public.” Ahsan prefers to let his projects do all the talking and usually keeps himself in check at all times. Nevertheless, for once he allows himself an indulgence, adding, “I certainly hope it will.”

Published in Dawn, ICON, March 1st, 2020