Pakistan once had countless cinemas bringing romance, music, tragedy and action to both city and town. That has been all but replaced today by a handful of multi-screens in a few big cities, with ticket prices only a few can afford.

As journalist Qaisar Kamran writes, there was a time “when a ticket cost less than a meal” and “for a few hours, everyone could sit in the dark and disappear into a story.”

The journalist Muhammad Suhayb takes us on a cinema-hopping journey in his article ‘The Death of Single Screens’: from Empire Cinema near Civil Hospital, where Pakistan’s first-ever film, Teri Yaad (1948)), was screened, to Regal, now Regal Trade Centre, where Dilip Kumar and Noor Jehan’s Jugnu (1947) completed its silver jubilee. Naz (now Naz Shopping Centre) and Nishat (now a commercial building after it burnt down in 2012) were called Radha and Krishna, after the names of the owner’s children.

The central role of cinema is best understood by a story of Mehboob Khan’s Ailan, released all over India on August 14, 1947. The reels lay on Lahore’s chaotic train platform, where families traumatised by rioting arrived — some dead, some alive. Undeterred, Chaudhrey Eid Mohammed, owner of Rattan Cinema in Lahore, somehow smuggled out the reels and announced its opening at his cinema.

Cinemas once thrived on a movie-going culture in Pakistan that has now vanished, much like the cinemas themselves

In 1947 alone, 184 films were released in the midst of the deadly riots of Partition. Someone was writing scripts and songs, acting, directing, filming and producing films. Cinema became a temporary sanctuary and a reassuring continuity when so much was falling apart.

South Asian cinema has been called a centrifugal force, spreading its influence into the very fabric of society. Audiences easily identified with the heroes and heroines, pushing back against injustice or holding on to love against all odds.

Reality became acceptable through melodrama and poetic song. These lyrics from the film Arsi (1947) spoke to the displaced: “Tu hi bata ae aasman hum beywatan jaayein kahaan[Tell me O sky, where should we who are without a country go?]”

Cinema remained an integral part of peoples’ lives in both Pakistan and India. As much as the story, the cinema house itself created a sense of community, a shared experience. The matinee show saw a largely female audience, while evening shows were a family outing. The seating system of upper circle, circle and stalls, brought together all economic segments of society.

Once called the chaar chaar aanay walay — referring to the four anna [1/16th of a rupee] cost of a ticket — the audience housed in the stalls was the liveliest. Their spontaneous applause, comments to get on with it if the action was to slow, whistles and boos determined if the film was a hit or a flop. Today, a film is deemed successful based only on its box office earnings, instead of how many of its dialogues and songs are remembered, the latter once aided by little booklets containing the lyrics. It is difficult to imagine a film in a multiplex achieving a platinum jubilee like Armaan did in the 60s.

When Nishat Cinema finally called it a day, what we lost was not just a cinema hall, but a way of life — an intimate friend, a space of shared emotions. Finding a scene funny, tragic or romantic in the digital isolation of film streaming, or watching TV dramas at home, does not compare with sharing these emotions with a cinema full of people — essentially a gathering of strangers.

There is wonder in what film critic Charles Taylor points out as a sense of “Wow, isn’t it amazing that we all find this funny” or sad or frightening or heroic.

The erasure of community makes people feel invisible. One may speculate that elite-driven societies are unmotivated to create community spaces that make individuals feel valued and connected to something larger than themselves. There is no intention to revive traditional cinema, develop sports centres or improve museums. A fragmented, atomised population is redirected to prescribed gatherings in mosques, workspaces and shopping malls. Like the film Doraha,we are at a crossroads:

“Bhooli hui hoon dastaan, guzra hua khayal hoon
Jis ko na tum samajh sakay, main aisa aik sawaal hoon

[I am a forgotten story, a thought that has passed/ I am the question that you could not understand].”

Durriya Kazi is a Karachi-based artist.
She may be reached at
durriyakazi1918@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026