Viral by chance, famous by heart

Express Tribune

15-06-2025

Gul Wali Khan was arranging a fresh tray of walnuts at his stall in Peshawar's Rail Shopping Plaza when a teenager walked up, grinning. 'Aap ka woh video dekha tha,' the boy said, wide-eyed. 'Jo truck ke neeche bhi nahi toota!'
Wali smiled, half amused, half proud. He's heard this before, from young fans, elderly couples, and even entire families who visit just to meet him in person.
Not long ago, a family visiting from Birmingham stood at the counter, pointing at their phone and laughing. One of them told him, 'You're more famous in the UK than here.'
It wasn't always like this. For over two decades, Wali ran Nayab Dry Fruits the way many small shopkeepers do, quietly, consistently, with little fanfare. There were no signboards or advertising plans. But in 2022, a single video changed everything. Shot by his nephew and uploaded to TikTok, it showed Wali dramatically challenging viewers to try and crack open one of his walnuts, not with teeth, not with a stone, not even with a truck. The video racked up millions of views. More followed. Then hundreds more. People started arriving from cities he had never been to, some just to take a selfie. 'I didn't plan this,' he says. 'I just spoke from the heart, and the phone camera was rolling.'
Since then, his voice and face have travelled far beyond Peshawar. Customers have flown in from the UK, France, Germany, and Switzerland just to shake his hand. Some recognize him by voice alone. Others bring gifts. All of it, Wali says, happened without a marketing team, paid ads, or any idea how social media even works. 'Before all this, my business was ten percent of what it is today. Now, it's grown by ninety percent.'
And Wali is not alone. Across Pakistan, small and homegrown businesses, from a sweet shop in Mardan to a roadside kachalu vendor, to a family-run clothing brand in Sialkot, are discovering that one authentic video can unlock what once felt out of reach.
Not every post goes viral. But sometimes, one is all it takes.
When virality replaces strategy
In Pakistan, a quiet revolution is unfolding on phone screens. Platforms like TikTok, Instagram Reels, and Facebook and YouTube Shorts have become unexpected allies for small businesses, offering them a stage previously reserved for those with substantial marketing budgets.
Traditionally, small shopkeepers and home-based entrepreneurs relied on word-of-mouth or foot traffic to attract customers. Now, a single, authentic video, often filmed on a basic smartphone, can propel a local business into the national spotlight. These videos, unpolished and heartfelt, resonate with audiences seeking genuine stories over glossy advertisements.
The numbers underscore this shift. In 2023, Pakistani companies spent $10.5 million on TikTok advertising, accounting for 10% of the country's digital marketing expenditure. This figure, while modest, highlights TikTok's rapid ascent as a preferred platform for businesses aiming to connect directly with consumers.
This digital transformation is further fueled by the country's expanding mobile connectivity. According to the Pakistan Telecommunication Authority (PTA), as of March 2025, Pakistan boasts 143 million 3G and 4G users, with mobile penetration reaching 58.3%. This widespread access ensures that even the most remote businesses can reach a vast audience without traditional advertising channels.
For many entrepreneurs, the appeal lies in the simplicity. There's no need for marketing jargon or complex strategies. A heartfelt message, a glimpse into daily operations, or a unique product demonstration can captivate viewers and turn them into loyal customers.
This democratization of marketing means that success is no longer confined to those with deep pockets. In the age of virality, authenticity reigns supreme, offering small businesses a powerful tool to tell their stories and grow their reach organically.
While the digital shift may feel abstract at times, its real impact is unfolding in unexpected corners, at roadside stalls, in home kitchens, and behind modest shop counters. These are not businesses with ad budgets or media plans. What they share is a moment, one idea, one video, that helped them break through.
Dry fruits in Peshawar
As mentioned before, Wali got famous just by one video. Before TikTok fame, Wali's biggest challenge was keeping his shop stocked during the busy season. Now, it's managing the flow of tourists and fans who arrive daily, some from overseas, others from neighboring cities, and many carrying nothing more than a phone and a story about how they discovered him online.
His shop, Nayab Dry Fruits, tucked inside Peshawar's Karkhano Market, has become something of a landmark. It's not unusual for 15 or 20 people to show up at once, hoping to meet 'the man from the video.' He doesn't manage his social media, in fact, he doesn't even know how to upload a video, but his content has spread across the internet with a kind of homemade charisma that big brands often try to replicate. Now he has more than a million people following him on the social media.
The shift hasn't always been easy. A video showing Wali refusing a costly gift to two disabled boys once drew criticism online. The backlash hit him hard. 'I went into depression for a while,' he admits. 'But then I spoke the truth. This is my shop, built with my own hard work.' To his surprise, tens of thousands came to his defense. The story, and his video response, only increased his visibility.
What started with a nephew's smartphone has grown into something far bigger, a loose collective of family members, friends, and even customers who create content with him, sometimes inside a small video studio set up in the corner of his shop. He still credits it all to one thing - sincerity. 'People say, 'Who taught you this?' But no one did,' he says. 'I just speak honestly, and people connect with that.'
His dream now is to expand to Europe, especially the UK, where he says his videos are even more popular than in Pakistan. For a shop once built on tradition and quiet routine, the internet has offered not just growth, but a global audience.
Sweets from Mardan
In the narrow lanes of Mardan, nestled between grocery shops and chai stalls, Jalil Sweets has stood for over 75 years. Known for its gajar ka halwa and syrup-soaked gulab jamuns, the shop was already a local favorite. But it wasn't until Rehmat Gul, better known online as 'Baba Ji ke Kartab', picked up a ladle and started juggling piping-hot sweets mid-air that Jalil Sweets found its second identity: a TikTok sensation.
One video, simple, spontaneous, showed Rehmat tossing gulab jamuns from one tray to another with theatrical flair. It exploded online. Views turned into visitors. 'Before TikTok, people knew us in Mardan,' he says. 'After that video, people were calling from Lahore, Peshawar, even abroad asking us to ship halwa.'
The shop hasn't changed its recipes or its setup. The counter is still lined with trays of fresh mithai. The ghee still fills the air. But the customers are different now, younger, more curious, and often holding their phones out to record. Some come just for a glimpse of Baba Ji in action. Others want a selfie before they leave. 'We had a brand before but you can say TikTok made our brand modern without losing the traditional feel,' says Rehmat. 'It helped us tell our story in a real, fun way.'
Jalil Sweets never had a marketing plan. Word of mouth kept it going for decades. But now, it's digital buzz that brings in orders, and energy. Rehmat greets fans on camera, chats with visitors mid-filming, and makes sure every video feels like a window into the shop's warmth. 'People connect with honesty,' he says. 'They see how much love we put into every piece of mithai.'
The experience has reshaped his outlook. 'Someone once told me, 'Baba Ji, you've made mithai entertaining!' That's when I knew this was more than just a shop. It had become a story people wanted to be part of.'
Fabrics and fashion
Atia Zuhair the owner of Kachay Dhagay didn't restart her family's clothing brand with a business plan or a store launch. She picked up her phone and started talking.
In short, honest clips on social media, she began sharing the behind-the-scenes life of Kachay Dhagay, the fabric runs, the design choices, the self-doubt, and the small wins. What started as a way to document her journey quietly grew into something far more powerful. 'One day, while sourcing fabric, a shopkeeper looked at me and said, 'You're from Kachay Dhagay, right?'' she recalls. 'I was surprised and happy. That's when I realized how powerful social media is. People actually watch and remember.'
Kachay Dhagay wasn't new, it was a paused legacy. Atia brought it back with her own vision, blending old family values with contemporary aesthetics. More than sales, what she found was a community. 'People often come up to me and say, 'I found you on TikTok.' It means a lot,' she says. 'Those aren't just followers, they're supporters.'
For Atia, the social media platforms weren't just a tool for business. It was a way to work from home, on her own terms, in a society where that's not always easy for women. 'I tell girls who can't leave home for work, don't waste your talent. Share it. People will notice.'
Atia's story is not loud or flashy. It's patient, persistent, and real, the kind of story that quietly finds its way to people's screens and stays with them long after they scroll past.
Street food sensation
Under the open sky in Bijligarh, Mardan, Umer Nawab carefully assembles a plate of kachalu, boiled potatoes mixed with spices, sauces, and his signature touch of flair. The stall is simple, the recipe traditional, but the impact has been anything but ordinary. Online, he is known as Pehlwan Kachalu, and his street food story has become a viral sensation.
What changed everything was a single video. In it, Umer layered the ingredients one by one, ending with what he calls the final touch of love. His voice, full of energy, carried through the screen. 'TikTok brought people to me,' he says. 'From Lahore, Karachi, even other countries. They saw the video and wanted to try the food.'
Before all this, his stall catered to passersby and neighborhood regulars. Now, it draws food vloggers, tourists, and fans who wait in line with their cameras ready. 'It's not just a stall anymore. It's become a brand,' Umer says. His account now has over half a million followers, and several videos have crossed the million-view mark.
What draws people in isn't just the food. It's the way he presents it, fast hands, warm banter, a connection to the viewer. 'People trust what they see,' he says. 'They watch me make it with my own hands and feel part of the experience.'
Through his videos, Umer also challenges how people see street vendors. He doesn't just serve a snack. He shares a culture, a rhythm, a way of life. 'Kachalu is a Mardan staple, but it also tells a story about where I come from,' says Umer.
Now, he interacts with customers online, takes suggestions, and welcomes fans who show up just to say hello. His future plans include expanding his stall, creating his own sauce brand, and continuing to share his journey, one spicy plate at a time.
Why it works?
There's no branding playbook behind these videos. No scripts, no filters, no polished voiceovers. What draws viewers in, and keeps them watching, is the simplicity of the moment. A vendor speaking with warmth. A home business owner showing their struggle. A halwa maker tossing sweets with a smile.
These aren't marketing campaigns. They're people. And in a crowded digital space, that still counts for something.
At a time when brands spend millions crafting the perfect online presence, small businesses across Pakistan are showing that sometimes, the most effective content is the kind you don't plan. These videos may be shaky, the lighting inconsistent, but they carry something more powerful, sincerity.
'Big businesses still rely on spending to stay visible on social media,' says Ibtisam Ahmed, a social media marketing manager at a local agency. 'But stories that are original and create a real connection don't need a strategy or a budget. These people speak from the heart, and they have platforms where audiences are already waiting. You just have to be real, and you can reach people organically without spending a penny.'
That's the difference. These business owners are not pretending to be anything other than who they are. They don't perform for the camera. They simply invite people into their world, whether it's a roadside stall, a home workspace, or a decades-old sweet shop. The result is a kind of content that feels more like a conversation than a pitch.
The afternoon sun filters through the glass panels and Wali carefully seals a packet of almonds, the day's third order for a customer from Lahore. Nearby, two boys are recording a slow-motion video with his walnut display. He watches, smiles briefly, then returns to weighing figs on the scale.
There's no script here. Just the quiet rhythm of a shopkeeper who now shares his space with the unexpected fame of the internet.
Every now and then, someone asks if he'll make another viral video. But Gul Wali doesn't think in terms of virality. He thinks in terms of fresh stock, clean counters, and greeting whoever walks through the door, whether they saw him on TikTok or just happened to pass by.
As another phone camera lifts and the familiar challenge begins again, 'Yeh akhrot na haath se tootega, na truck se', he looks on, not certain if this clip will go viral. But then again, he didn't expect the first one to, either.