Sometimes, the most powerful cultural moments begin inside a kitchen. And sometimes, they emerge from a week where everything else falls apart.
Fahad Hussayn’s new track from his Jalsaghar S/S 25 campaign enters a space we all know — one where the saas never forgets, the nand never backs down, and the tea carries more tension than flavour. It’s a familiar scene, rooted in humour, shade, and domestic survival. But this time, it lands differently.
The track, although was written months ago for the Ashk o Attar series, long before the air carried smoke and the headlines turned to grief, found a new meaning. Edited only days before shelling erupted along the border, it sat in silence for a while. The artist paused. The moment didn’t feel right. But after a fragile ceasefire between India and Pakistan, the song returned with the same words, but with new weight.
Proving that it is not longer a domestic satire, Saday Tan Weray comes forward as a record of who we are. A nation that jokes, sings, survives, and shows up with pots, pans, rhythm, and resilience.
So what gives this deceptively simple track its strength? Diva explores…
It Opens With Familiarity and Ends With Fire
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The track begins mid-conversation, the way real life often does. There is no formal entry. No time wasted on context. The first voice you hear carries the same force as a saas who has lived through enough to speak without asking for space. The tone is familiar, but the confidence beneath it has teeth. It’s the kind of sharpness that comes from women who have held households together through chaos, gossip, and grief. The humour may sound light, but it carries the discipline of survival. The opening sequence — choreographed by Sania Iqbal — sets the tone. Every movement, from the slightest glance to the shift in posture, follows a rhythm that feels inherited rather than rehearsed.
Directed and produced at the Fahad Hussayn Academy, the visual unfolds like a collective memory that refuses to fade. The women — Areej Awan, Dua Saud, Rameen Faiz, Isha Asad, Nayab Ali, Sania Iqbal, and Aiza Chaudhry — deliver their lines like they’ve owned them for years. There is no character work. There is presence. In the timing of their glances, the rhythm of their pauses, and the steel in their phrasing, the scene finds its fire. The track does not wait to arrive at its point. It starts there, already unflinching.
The Timing Reshapes the Energy
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This track wasn’t built for response, but for rhythm. For domestic irony. For the kind of everyday fire that burns under the surface of routine life. Fahad completed the edit with cinematographer and editor Muzammil Garewal in the days before violence returned to the headlines. The two built a visual rhythm that was sharp, unfiltered, and emotionally honest — one that would come to feel even more potent as the news cycle shifted. And then the world shifted. A week of conflict followed. Cities paused. Air grew heavy. The track waited. The release no longer felt like timing. It felt like disruption.
But silence doesn’t hold forever. When the ceasefire landed and the noise settled, the track came back, unchanged, but louder. The jokes felt sharper. The language carried more resistance than wit alone could hold. A song that once documented household drama now reflected national rhythm. It wasn’t created to say something larger. But the world around it shaped that meaning anyway. That’s the thing with art in Pakistan — it never stays still.
The Rhythm Feels Less Like a Song and More Like a Room
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There’s a quiet realism in the way this track unfolds. The space doesn’t feel staged. It feels remembered. The walls look like they’ve held years of unfinished arguments and untold affection. The women move through it like they never left. Their timing is not polished for screen — it is built on instinct. These are not stylised pauses or performed glances. They are the natural rhythm of a world that exists with or without a camera – the world of tappay.
The music, produced by Rahil Mirza and performed by the Manwa Sisters, never rises above the conversation. It stays beneath it, pushing the track forward without ever taking over. It matches the eye contact. It follows the shifts in tone like it’s part of the furniture. There is no beginning or end. No entry point. You press play and land in the middle of something already in motion. And that’s exactly where you’re meant to be.
The Women Are in Full Control
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The camera doesn’t search for the women. It settles around them. From the first line to the last look, the women in this track hold the frame with ease. Their voices are already at the centre. Fahad, serving as both creative director and stylist through the Fahad Hussayn Academy, does not choreograph their presence too much. He lets it unfold. They speak like women who have said these things before — in other homes, other kitchens, other lifetimes.
Art direction by Mahina Reki and Khizer Durrani also leans into rhythm, not staging. Nothing feels arranged. Nothing asks for applause. There is weight in the smallest gesture — a glance that lingers too long, a breath held before a reply. These women are not positioned to look powerful,but they are naturally. They arrive already grounded. Every movement, every silence, carries its own authority. They do not perform, but instead continue to be the resilience that they are.
The Track Becomes a Reminder Without Needing to Say So
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There’s no forced closure. No dramatic line that declares meaning. The song simply arrives, performs, and leaves, just like the everyday conflicts it draws from. But in that rhythm, something unforgettable settles in. This track was recorded long before border shelling returned to the news cycle. Yet now, it echoes with more than just domestic tension. It reflects a larger resilience. The kind that comes not from protest, but from practice. From repeating daily rituals even when the outside world burns.
The tea continues to boil. The words continue to sting. The mood refuses to dull. Through Fahad’s lens — sharpened further by the colour grade of Humza Yousaf and the clean framing of Muzammil Garewal, the moment documents. And in doing so, it reminds us of a truth we often overlook. The women are still talking. The chai is still brewing. And in those acts, everything resiliently survives.
What do you think about the music video? Tell us in the comments section below.