Raising Kids, Unpacking Trauma: Why Parwarish hits home

Read time: approx 20-25mins

Every now and then, a Pakistani drama shows up that makes you sit up and go, “Wait… why does this actually feel real?” Parwarish is one of those. It’s not full of evil in-laws, love triangles, or long courtroom monologues. Instead, it quietly zooms in on something way more complicated — parenting, growing up, mental health, and what it actually feels like to be a teenager (or a confused parent) in today’s world. No screaming matches, no dramatic thunder sound effects — just honest, messy, relatable moments that hit way closer to home than we expected. And with that, let’s break down why Parwarish might just be one of the most refreshingly real shows we’ve had in a while...

Pace

Every episode feels like a full, healthy eating plate — you get sweetness, bitterness, and something nourishing. Whether it’s the slow-burn friendship of Wali (Samar Jafri) and Amal (Reham Rafiq), the comforting wisdom in grandad’s scenes, or the small family dinners that manage to say so much with so little — there’s warmth here. No episode feels dragged or a waste of time because there's always something to take from each episode. 

Gen Z coded

Parwarish feels incredibly in tune with today’s youth — not just Pakistani teens, but young people worldwide. The characters speak like actual Gen Z kids: phrases like “sigma boy,” “LGBT,” “aura,” and “sexist” aren’t just sprinkled in for effect — they’re built into the rhythm of how these teens express themselves. It’s rare to see a Pakistani drama where the language feels this current and intentional. The writer thought deeply about how to connect with younger audiences by reflecting on how they actually talk. The result is a show that doesn’t talk down to teens — it speaks with them, in a voice they recognise.

The Roti Maker Debate

Only Parwarish could turn something as ordinary as a roti maker into a full-blown moment of cultural reflection. It’s light on the surface — a funny little disagreement — but underneath, it hits on something deeper. Why do domestic chores still define a woman’s worth? Why is spending on convenience questioned when it comes to women’s time? It’s a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of scene, but it says a lot about how generational values around “productivity” and “respectability” in desi homes are still evolving (very slowly).

Maya’s Engagement Pressure

Maya’s (Aina Asif) engagement storyline is frustratingly real. She’s smart, capable, and still in the middle of studying — but somehow, that’s not enough to protect her from the looming pressure of settling down. You can’t help but question why her father was in such a rush to get her engaged while she’s still in medical school. Does he not realise how mentally and emotionally demanding that path is? And if she’s already on it, shouldn’t the goal be for her to become a practising doctor — not just a degree-holder with a ring on her finger? It’s ironic, because in most desi households, a child studying medicine is a moment of celebration — but here, there’s a weird absence of pride or excitement. Her discomfort is never loud, but it lingers. There’s this constant undertone of her wanting to push back, but not knowing how — which makes the whole situation even more painful to watch.

Types of Mothers

Mahnoor (Savera Nadeem) is this modern mom who works at a school, so you’d think she’d be super tuned in to what her kids are going through, right? But surprisingly, she’s kind of clueless about their real feelings and struggles. It’s like she’s focused on the surface stuff—discipline, rules, appearances—but misses the emotional side of things. And that gap causes a lot of friction with her kids because they don’t feel truly heard. It’s interesting because it shows how even well-educated parents can sometimes miss the emotional cues, which makes her parenting feel a bit disconnected.

Then you have Panah (Saman Ansari), whose kids are basically the “good kids” you don’t hear much about—well-behaved and pretty unproblematic. Her style is more traditional, maybe a bit stricter, but it seems to work for her family. There’s this calm, stable vibe in their home, which really contrasts with the chaos in Mahnoor’s household. It makes you think—sometimes old-school parenting might actually get results, even if it’s not as emotionally open.

Now, Maya’s mom, Sadia (Bakhtawar Mazhar), is such a breath of fresh air. Coming from a middle-class family, she’s not the typical quiet, “yes ma’am” type of mom we often see on TV. Instead, she stands up for Maya and fights for her dreams, which feels so real and empowering. It’s refreshing to see a mother who isn’t just in the background but actually uses her voice, especially in a society where women are often expected to stay silent at home.

And then there’s the grandmother (Shamim Hilaly), who’s the classic old-school parent. She’s very traditional, and sometimes it feels like she’s from a whole different world than the younger generation. But what’s cool is she’s not just there to create drama or be a villain—her character actually shows how there’s a real generational gap in parenting styles. And instead of this being a bad thing, the drama suggests it can be a chance for families to grow and learn from each other.

When it comes to the mothers in Parwarish, the drama shows just how deeply a mother’s presence—or absence—can shape a child’s emotional world. Mahnoor, despite being educated and modern, struggles to truly see her children, leaving them to navigate their pain alone. In contrast, Maya’s mother—firm, loving, and brave—becomes the voice her daughter doesn’t always have, standing up for her in ways we rarely see on screen. Panah offers quiet stability, raising respectful, grounded kids without needing to shout to be heard. And then there’s the grandmother, whose old-school values are softened by the wisdom that comes with age, showing that even traditional parenting can evolve with compassion. Parwarish beautifully reminds us that mothers aren’t just caregivers—they’re emotional anchors. A child who feels supported by their mother grows up knowing their voice matters. And in a world where silence is often expected of women, a mother who speaks up becomes her child’s first lesson in courage.

Types of Fathers

Jahangir (Nauman Ijaz) is kind of a tough nut to figure out. He uprooted his whole family from America and brought them to Pakistan because he didn’t like the “modern” influences and upbringing his kids were getting there. He wanted them to have the kind of childhood and lifestyle he grew up with—strict, orderly, and “proper.” But that desire for control sometimes tips over into selfishness. For example, he completely left Mahnoor and the kids at his parents’ house and went back for business, totally unaware (or maybe just uncaring) about how hard things are for them right now. There’s this weird side to him where he tries to appear supportive—like when he helps Wali get into med school—but then he tears him down in front of the whole family, reminding Wali that since he “gave birth to him,” he has the right to control his life choices. Jahangir wants everything to be neat and orderly, but the reality is far messier. And his ego really shows when Wali runs after his car at the airport to say goodbye, and he just drives off without a second thought. Emotionless doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s like he’s trapped in this old-school mindset where being a father means authority and control, not connection or empathy, and that makes him a complicated—and sometimes frustrating—character to understand.

Suleiman (Saad Fareedi) is Jahangir’s brother, but honestly, he feels like a completely different kind of dad. Whenever things go wrong with Jahangir’s kids, Suleiman’s the one who steps in to help like they’re his own. His style is way more calm and composed—he’s not the kind of dad you’d be scared to mess up in front of. You can tell he really gets what parenting is about, especially in that scene where he brings Sameer home from the police station. Instead of scolding or yelling, he talks to Sameer’s mom about how these things happen with kids and there’s no point in scaring them. Aniya overhearing that and hugging Suleiman was so telling—it’s like she’s craving that kind of understanding and warmth she maybe never really got from her own family. Suleiman is the dad Aniya needed, showing how much a gentle, patient approach can make a huge difference.

Shaheer (Nazar Ul Hassan) probably has the most genuine character development in Parwarish, and honestly, it’s been heartwarming to watch. At the start, he was your textbook strict, suspicious father—constantly pressurising Maya, manipulating her into getting married, and even raising his hand on his kids. He caused a whole scene at Wali’s house too, playing right into that typical desi dad role who cares more about honour than actually listening. But what’s been so refreshing is seeing how that starts to shift. After some honest conversations with his wife—and maybe finally really seeing how much pain Maya is in—something in him changes. It’s slow and subtle, but it’s real. He begins to soften, starts thinking beyond just control and image, and actually considers Maya’s feelings and her side of the story, especially when Wali ends up in the hospital. You get the sense that while Maya and her sister didn’t exactly grow up in the safest or most emotionally nurturing home, Shaheer is trying. He’s starting to understand that love doesn’t look like control—it looks like showing up, being present, and listening. And that growth, however imperfect, makes his character feel incredibly human.

Grandad (Arshad Mehmood) might not have a ton of dialogue, but honestly, he’s one of the most impactful characters in Parwarish. His scenes with Wali are some of my absolute favourites—there’s this quiet wisdom and compassion in the way he talks to him, and in many ways, he’s been more of a father to Wali than Jahangir ever managed to be. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it really lands. He teaches Wali about life, the world, and doing the right thing—not with lectures or control, but with empathy and experience. I do find myself wishing he’d had that same influence on his own son, Jahangir, who clearly didn’t inherit his calm or gentleness. Grandad often steps in as the silent peacemaker, especially when Shaheer storms in causing chaos, and his presence alone brings a sort of grounding energy to the house. He’s affectionate, understanding, and you can tell he gets what everyone’s going through—but at the same time, there are moments where I wish he spoke up a bit more. Sometimes it feels like he could step in more actively, especially when things start to spiral. Still, he’s the emotional anchor of the family in a lot of ways, and without ever raising his voice, he brings a quiet kind of love that’s rare in the drama.

When you look at all the fathers in Parwarish, what really stands out isn’t who had the most authority or control, but who gave their children the safety to be seen, heard, and loved. Jahangir wanted obedience and order, but failed to offer warmth or emotional security. Shaheer started off in that same mould—strict and controlling—but managed to grow, slowly recognising his daughter’s pain and softening in response. Suleiman, on the other hand, led with empathy from the start, showing that calm, consistent love goes a long way, even when things get messy. And then there’s Grandad—quiet, steady, and deeply kind—who, without needing to dominate, ends up being the most comforting father figure of all. In the end, Parwarish reminds us that children don’t crave perfection or power from their parents—they crave presence, protection, and the freedom to be themselves without fear.

How Parwaish Tackles Teen Mental Health

One of the most gripping elements of Parwarish is how deeply it unpacks the mental health struggles of its teenage characters — and how every outburst, withdrawal, or reckless decision is rooted in something much deeper. Each of the kids carries emotional baggage that doesn’t just exist in isolation — it’s a direct result of the parenting (or lack thereof) they’ve received, the trauma they’ve internalised, and the survival modes they’ve adapted to. 

Wali's (Samar Jafri) story is one of emotional deregulation in its rawest form. He doesn’t ask for support; he isolates. The minute he felt suffocated at home — misunderstood, unseen, blamed — he bolted. But his leaving wasn’t just a rebellion; it was a trauma response. He’s detached, impulsive, and struggles to form any kind of healthy connection because he’s never really been shown how. His anger isn’t just an attitude — it’s grief, it’s fear, it’s confusion. And the saddest part? Everyone sees his bad behaviour, but no one sees the brokenness underneath. His mental health isn’t loud in the way we expect — it’s in the silence, the disconnection, and the way he keeps people at arm’s length, scared to be vulnerable. Wali didn’t just leave his house — he left a version of himself behind, too. 

Maya (Aina Asif) is one of the more quietly complex characters in Parwarish. On the surface, she seems like she has it together — studying medicine, engaged, always trying to be polite and accommodating. But there’s a deep undercurrent of insecurity and low self-worth that keeps spilling into her relationships. She’s constantly second-guessing herself, trying to meet everyone’s expectations while slowly disconnecting from her own needs. You can see it in the way she tiptoes around her fiancé’s moods, or how she clings to friendships even when she feels unappreciated. There's a real lack of authenticity in her behaviour — not because she’s fake, but because she doesn't quite know who she’s allowed to be. The anxiety sits on her like a second skin. The actress brings a kind of softness to Maya that works well, though at times her delivery flattens out, which almost mirrors how emotionally dulled Maya has become, trapped in the roles others have assigned her.

Amal (Reham Rafiq) is the textbook “good child” — the one who carries the weight of holding everything together. But that perfectionism comes at a cost. Underneath her calm and composed exterior is a constant fear of slipping up, of not being enough. Her panic attacks are a stark reminder of how much pressure she’s internalised — to succeed, to behave, to please everyone around her. She’s probably the most mature of the siblings, always stepping in to cover for Wali’s mistakes or to calm Anya down when things spiral, especially in the absence of any adults. She’s usually mothering someone, but the painful irony is that there’s no one really doing that for her. She rarely asserts boundaries, often absorbing responsibility for things that aren’t hers to carry. Her guilt and shame are palpable, especially in scenes where she tries to mediate or fix situations no one asked her to fix. There’s this deep anxiety tied to her identity — as if one mistake will unravel everything. The actress portraying Amal does a great job of showing the quiet unravelling — it’s in her eyes, her stiff posture, her polite but strained tone. It’s a performance that doesn’t shout, but it lingers.

Sameer (Abdul Hasan) is the kind of character who says very little, but there's a lot going on under the surface. After Wali left home, he started hanging around the wrong crowd, falling into drugs — not so much out of rebellion, but more as a form of escape. He doesn’t know how to express his emotions openly, so he buries them. There’s a kind of emotional suppression at play — he internalises everything and masks it with silence or avoidance. You get the sense that he’s deeply self-sacrificial too; he often steps up quietly, doing what needs to be done without asking for credit, almost like he feels he has to earn his place in the family by being helpful. His struggle isn’t loud, but it’s constant — and that tension sits right under his composed exterior.

Aniya (Nooray Zeeshan) is perhaps the most visibly broken of the siblings, and the show doesn’t shy away from portraying her pain. She’s constantly blaming herself for everything that goes wrong — Wali leaving, the tension in the house, even things far beyond her control. This intense self-blame has spiralled into depressive thoughts, and at one point, she even alludes to suicidal feelings. Aniya’s coping mechanisms are deeply maladaptive: she self-harms, withdraws, lashes out — not because she wants to hurt others, but because she doesn’t know what to do with the hurt inside her. Her fear of abandonment is so strong it’s heartbreaking, and you see her clinging to whatever sliver of connection she can find. There’s also a constant push-and-pull between her need for love and her belief that she’s unworthy of it. Watching her unravel is painful because, deep down, you can tell all she really wants is someone to make her feel safe.

Perfomance

One of the things I really appreciated about Parwarish is how it gave space for the younger cast to shine—this is very much their story, and the drama doesn’t just revolve around the usual older, experienced leads.

Sameer (Abdul Hasan) has been my favourite from the very beginning. There’s something so instantly likeable about him—he's funny, lighthearted, and brings that perfect cousin energy we all know from family gatherings in Pakistan. His scenes with Wali were such a highlight; their bromance was easily one of the most natural and entertaining dynamics in the show. Acting-wise, I haven’t seen him in anything before, but he left such a strong impression that I genuinely hope he gets more screen time in future dramas. He brought a much-needed warmth and humour to a show that’s otherwise quite emotionally heavy, and honestly, that’s not easy to do without coming off as forced.

Amal (Reham Rafiq) was a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect her performance to be so believable and emotionally layered, especially since she’s not one of the main leads. The scene where she has a panic attack—completely losing control, throwing things, and even slapping herself—was honestly intense to watch and so well done. She made that moment feel painfully real. My only hang-up is the casting choice: she’s actually 30 in real life, which felt like a bit of a stretch given the much younger character she’s playing. It’s not about age itself, but when the rest of the cast are closer in age to their characters, it does feel a little odd. Still, I can’t deny that her acting was one of the strongest in the show—sometimes even more convincing than the leads.

Samar Abbas Jafri as Wali is pitch‑perfect casting. He brings a quiet emotional depth that makes Wali instantly sympathetic, whether he’s clashing with his dad, joking with Sameer, or breaking our hearts in those hospital scenes. I love that they cast an actor who, like Wali, dreams of being a singer while heading down a more conventional path—Samar actually does sing in real life, and you can feel him drawing on that experience whenever Wali talks about music or picks up a guitar. He never overplays a moment; instead, he lets the feelings breathe, and the audience connects right away. Still early in his career, but definitely one to watch.

Aina Asif’s performance as Maya was hit‑and‑miss for me. Early on, her delivery felt a bit stiff, like she hadn’t fully settled into Maya’s headspace yet. But the hospital scene with Wali was a breakthrough—suddenly the panic, guilt, and love all felt raw and real. When the writing gives her grounded emotional beats, she shines; when the script goes lighter or more dialogue‑heavy, she sometimes loses that spark. There’s clear potential here, though, and with stronger direction or more textured material, I think she could really level up.

Characters I still don't fully understand (but that's what makes them interesting)

Jahangir (Nauman Ijaz) – Part-Time Dad Energy

There’s just something off about Jahangir that I still can’t quite figure out. He’s like in his own world, doing his business thing, completely detached from what’s actually happening with his kids. It’s almost like he’s playing pretend—trying to create this “happy family” image without doing any of the emotional labour that comes with it. Sometimes it really feels like he’s a part-time dad who clocks in and out when it suits him. The scene that really got to me was when Wali came running after his car as he was leaving for the airport, and Jahangir just… kept driving. No pause, no glance back—nothing. It felt cold, but also weirdly childish, like his ego couldn’t handle the moment. And then there’s his dynamic with Suleiman, which feels kind of bitter? It’s like he’s always trying to assert dominance over him or belittle him, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s jealousy or just deep-seated insecurity. Either way, Jahangir is still a bit of a mystery to me—and not in a good way.

Waleed (Hassam Khan) – Control in Disguise

Now this guy is interesting. Maya’s fiancé (if we can still call him that?) is definitely one of the more layered characters in the drama. From the start, he was giving major double-faced energy—trying to appear sweet and respectable in front of Maya’s family, while being totally different with her. The scene where he corners her in the kitchen and then acts like nothing happened when her mum walks in? Creepy and calculated. He thrives on control—turning up at her university like it’s some romantic gesture when really it felt more like a public interrogation. They’re engaged, not married, and even if they were, this kind of possessiveness is a red flag. Then there’s the whole “doctor bahu” thing. He didn’t seem to have a job or ambitions of his own, and instead looked like he was ready to ride on Maya’s future success as a doctor. Usually in these scenarios, you’d expect the guy to have a problem with a working wife, but he seemed totally fine with it, which at first seems progressive, but actually feels opportunistic. Like, is he chilled about it because it benefits him?

Boss (Meesam Naqvi) – The Mystery Mentor?

Boss is another one I haven’t quite wrapped my head around yet. At the start, his behaviour with Wali was all over the place—one minute he’s helpful, the next he’s being a total pain. It wasn’t clear if he was trying to discipline Wali, mess with him, or teach him something in his own twisted way. But as the show’s gone on, I do feel like Boss sees himself in Wali. They both have this musical side, and maybe Boss wants to guide Wali in a way no one ever did for him. But then again… is it just mentorship, or does Boss see potential in Wali that he can profit from later? Another theory I’ve been sitting with: what if Boss is actually really rich and living undercover? Like, he started out just like Wali, made it big, and now he’s sort of testing Wali or preparing him for something? Maybe there’s even a hidden illness or some twist where Wali ends up inheriting something from him? I don’t know—but whatever Boss is up to, I feel like we haven’t seen the last surprise from him yet.