It has become fashionable to lament the insidious invasion of Indian ‘culture’ into our lives via our television screens. Actress Atiqa Odho was on television the other day lamenting the foreign onslaught and making a case for prohibition. As if we’re a nation of geniuses, in danger of draining our brains while watching the latest marital dilemma that Akshara (of Yeh Rishta Kya Kehlata Hai on Star Plus) grapples with on the idiot box. And as if prohibition ever solved anything.

The real question is, do we actually have a problem in the first place?

We do, but it sits largely on the other side of our television screens. Take the average Pakistani serial: the protagonist is probably somebody wronged by the system, suffering from existentialist angst, generally mopey, and dumped or dead by the end of the season. If she’s rich, she probably lives in a house that’s as dull as real-life affluent homes. And if she is in love, it’s a no-hoper that’ll go to pot. Not someone you would want to know, nor let into your home, especially if your own life could be inspiration for the film Groundhog Day.

Contrast that with the dazzling display of glamour in popular Indian soap operas and a dressed-to-the-nines protagonist with a roller-coaster life that stops just short of perfect happiness and perfect despair. And if she’s rich, she probably lives in a make-believe palace with columns. And the whole soap opera package (heroine, hero, and house) is certainly 'good to look at,' as actor Amir Khan recently said to explain the appeal of another icon of popular culture, Kareena Kapoor, before elaborating that ‘din accha kat jata hai’ (it’s easier to pass the day) when she is around.

Now that statement hits home when you consider the average day in the average life of the average Jamila. After a full day’s work, pandering to the in-laws and husband’s egos and catering to the demands of too many children, the last thing the woman needs during ‘me’ time is a convoluted lecture in a language she half understands. She certainly doesn’t want to watch misery framed realistically. And, without taking anything away from poet Nasir Kazmi, and what must be a riveting television-worthy novel by Umera Ahmed, she doesn’t want to fathom the meaning of the words Meri zaat zarra-e-benishan (My being is a spec without a mark). Very profound, indeed; but is the thought entertaining?

A story narrated by a jury member on a popular Pakistani award show is telling of the generally (but not always!) condescending attitude of those producing local entertainment programming. A few years ago, a well-known director, having been appointed to the jury, walked into a meeting where the judges were deliberating nominees for television awards. The director made no bones about her agenda: she would nominate serials and actors that she deemed tasteful enough and through that try to raise ‘standards,’ conveniently forgetting that at the end of the day, the award was a popular one, to be won through votes on nominations that had to be familiar to the public.

Such loftiness is one of the major reasons why many who have access to cable prefer to tune into undemanding and addictive soap operas on Star Plus and its ilk. And because it’s also fashionable amongst the privileged to view anything popular with suspicion, opposition to the truly popular comes precisely from those who don’t watch it, but who still feel free to label it a conspiracy to keep people dumb and invade their brains.

Which brings us to one of the local soaps that is topping the popularity charts these days. Geo TV’s Yeh Zindagi Hai, an undemanding, many-melodramas-per-episode soap opera about the life of a family of butchers has caught the nation’s fancy and created a buzz in the world of TRPs (TV Rating Points) and advertising (now that's an industry gone awry in this country, considering that news channels are more watched than entertainment).

Yeh Zindagi Hai's language will make the squeamish cringe, there’s a slap or a shove in nearly every scene, and the heroine’s gone through several marital upheavals – divorce, remarriage, and several showdowns with her second husband’s second wife. To top it, her tenant, an erstwhile Lucknow ka nawab (introduced in the show mainly to poke fun at the well-bred) is leading a double life as a beggar-cum-eunuch. Another popular one is the self-explanatory Maasi aur Malika.

Hardly high culture. But that, folks, is populism, which should matter some, now that we are a democracy.