Rubina Ashraf is a seasoned Pakistani television actor who got fame through hit PTV classic dramas. Her notable dramas are Kasak, Pas e Aaina, Dil Zar Zar, Angna, Aik Sitam Aur, Zakham and others. Rubina Ashraf also directed popular TV show Ruswai. She was recently praised in Green Entertainment’s hit drama serial Iqtidar. Rubina Ashraf is married and has two children. She often shares her pictures with daughter and husband.

Lately, Rubina Ashraf was a guest at Good Morning Pakistan where she opened up about coping with financial struggles as a newly wed bride.

Talking about it, she said, “The most challenging period in a girl’s life is the first two years of marriage. Everything may seem wonderful—love, building a home, affectionate feelings—but both spouses often get stuck on one issue: budgeting. For the one earning the income, managing finances can be hard. We often used up the entire paycheck within the first 15 days. If we had extra expenses—like a birthday or gifts—it became difficult. Tariq would give me a fixed amount and say, “This is all I gave you—manage with it.”

She further added, “My advice to couples is to discuss the budget openly. I know , the girls would not like my advice but they should manage in husband’s budget. The husband (or primary earner) should clearly state his income status, and together, they should agree to spend and save within that amount”.

In Pakistan’s celebrity culture, misogyny isn’t hiding in the shadows: it’s center stage, mic’d up, and applauded. Over the years, few Pakistani male celebs have crafted a unique genre of sexism — one that is cloaked in satire, delivered with swagger, and later dismissed as harmless opinion. But behind the jokes and justifications lies a pattern: a consistent undermining of women, disguised as commentary, comedy, or charisma.

The Punchline Is Always a Woman

The viral truck-sized bouquet that YouTuber Maaz Safdar gave his wife may have been an exaggerated influencer stunt, but the backlash it drew from veteran actor Naumaan Ijaz was telling. Instead of calling out the spectacle for what it was — pure digital theatrics — Ijaz warned women not to “expect this nonsense” and painted men as helpless victims of female greed. It was a public reprimand targeting women’s desires, however fictional.

Pakistani women don’t ask for giant bouquets — they ask for dignity, rights, and basic safety. But instead of addressing the real issues — like the damning statistic that 90% of women in the country face some form of domestic violence — male celebrities choose to question the validity of victimhood. Ijaz once famously said, “You can’t clap with one hand,” reducing abuse to a mutual misunderstanding and implying victims should’ve “walked away.”

From bragging about infidelity to slamming the #MeToo movement as anti-religious, Ijaz has made a habit of excusing male misconduct while blaming women for speaking up. And when the backlash comes, it’s always labeled a “joke,” followed by a celebrity ally, like Atiqa Odho, rushing in with a tone-deaf defense.

The Brotherhood of Misogyny

Naumaan Ijaz isn’t an outlier; he’s a product of an industry where Khalilur Rehman Qamar still writes prime-time shows after publicly insulting women like Marvi Sirmed and Ailia Zehra. Where Faysal Quraishi mocks Saba Qamar’s age while playing romantic leads decades younger. Where Danish Taimoor flexes his “permission from God” to marry four times on national TV as his wife sits silently beside him. And where Feroze Khan — accused of domestic abuse, with bruises and court documents to back the claims — not only survives scandal but thrives, rebranded with a new wife and fresh dramas.

Each of these incidents doesn’t stand alone. Together, they form a disturbing image of how power and patriarchy intersect in Pakistan’s entertainment industry. Instead of accountability, there’s friendships. Instead of introspection, deflection and instead of consequences, celebration.

This isn’t just about one man’s mistake or one clip gone viral — it’s a systemic culture where the line between opinion and abuse is deliberately blurred. Where few Pakistani male celebs take turns on talk shows displaying a version of masculinity that sees empathy as weakness, and misogyny as virtue.

The Applause Must Stop

For years, this behavior has been normalized — shrugged off with “boys will be boys,” or buried under the weight of star power. But it’s time to ask: Who really pays the price when “jokes” demean, when abuse is excused, and when women are repeatedly silenced?

It’s no longer just about what these celebrities say. It’s about what they represent — a culture where misogyny gets screen time, victim-blaming gets applause, and silence gets rewarded.

It’s time to change the script.

Read more: Khalilur Rehman Reveals Talk show Clash on Taghoot was Scripted

Ayesha Khan — once the heartbeat of Pakistani television, a woman whose grace and charisma lit up countless screens — died alone, unseen, and heartbroken. The quiet departure has shaken the nation, not just because of the loss of a veteran actress, but because of the piercing question it leaves behind: How did a mother become invisible to her own children?

Ayesha Khan Slowly Fades From  Spotlight to Silence

In her prime, Ayesha Khan was a name that resonated in every Pakistani household. Her elegance, her performances, and her warm presence earned her admiration far and wide. But her final chapter tells a different story — one not of applause, but abandonment.

Ayesha’s body was found in her Gulshan-e-Iqbal apartment days after her death, a fact that, in itself, is chilling. Journalist Sarah Hussain’s heartbreaking tribute sheds light on the emotional devastation Ayesha endured in the years leading up to her death. According to Hussain, “It’s good that Ayesha Aapa passed away. She wasn’t living… just waiting for death.” These are not the words you write for someone who lived with joy — these are the epitaphs of a forgotten soul.

After giving away her property to her children nearly a decade ago, Ayesha was left longing for their voices, their faces, their love. Her generous heart, which once gave to the needy and strangers alike, received only silence in return. The most painful betrayal came not from strangers, but from her own blood — children who promised to call and never did, who lived in luxury while their mother withered away in solitude.

When Love Fails Loudly, and Death Comes Quietly

Farah Iqrar, who reported on Ayesha’s death, recalled how the actress had become withdrawn, especially after a bone fracture left her physically weakened and emotionally shattered. Far from the vibrant woman she once was, Ayesha faded into silence, disillusioned and disheartened by the people she once held closest.

Her burial, like her death, was quiet and unremarked — no national headlines, no industry tributes, no grand farewell. Her son informed the police that it was a “natural death” and refused a postmortem. Just like that, she was gone.

Ayesha Khan’s death is a mirror held up to society. It asks us to confront the uncomfortable truth that no amount of fame, wealth, or goodwill guarantees love or dignity in old age. It asks us why a woman who once commanded the nation’s attention was left without even a final goodbye.

This is not a story about a forgotten actress. This is the story of a mother who gave everything — and in return, was given nothing. Ayesha Khan didn’t just die — she was left to die.

And that should haunt us all.

Read more: Legendary PTV Star Ayesha Khan Passes Away