Once upon a time, in a galaxy… uh, a gully… not so far away, there was a jaded adman called Haroon. He had worked in advertising for years and was well-respected among his peers. In between fancy award nights and baal-ki-khaal campaign optimisations, he found himself sinking deeper into a general disdain for the industry. It was really much ado about nothing.

Nights, weekends and sanity traded in for a piece of advertising that ‘audiences’ would eventually be forced to consume. To the world, he was thriving. Inside, he was sick of it all.

This is when he stumbled upon a new app that promised ‘foolproof’ ad-blocking. It only had a handful of downloads and a solitary five-star review that read: “Free, finally!”.

Haroon was naturally suspicious (as are all ad folk), but brushed it off, thinking that this was one of those occasions when a small-time developer had flown under the radar and managed to publish on the app store without the powers-to-be noticing. After all, app platforms that depend on ads generally don’t want people to download ad blockers. He also knew that it was only a matter of time until it was unpublished, so he decided to give it a shot.

It turned out that once installed, the app only had one big button in the middle of the screen that said ‘off’. He clicked it, and it made a ding sound, but nothing much happened after that; the button just greyed out. He switched to Instagram to give it a whirl. Skip story, skip story, skip story. Where’s the ad? Maybe his phone was acting up again. Skip another couple of stories and finally, he saw it in action. Interestingly, it didn’t ‘remove’ the ad; it just blocked it – it was just a blank, black screen for six seconds or so. No music, no nothing. Meh, he thought. At least it works. And without a second thought, Haroon went back to the grind.

It was then that he noticed something odd. It seemed as though all advertising had been blocked in his physical reality. Billboards still existed, but they were blank. TV ads (considered ‘dead’ by digital agencies like his) still had their timeslots but were empty screens with no sound. The radio went silent every time the RJ went for a commercial break.

And it got weirder…

Shopping turned into a guessing game. In the stores, Haroon faced shelves packed with products that were indistinguishable from one another, save for their shape and the text that described them. The visual cues he once relied on to make quick decisions were gone, forcing him to read the labels meticulously and make purchases based on descriptions and ingredients rather than brand loyalty. This unexpected level of engagement with the products, devoid of branding influence, led him to discover alternatives he previously would have overlooked. He couldn’t tell a Coke apart from a Pepsi because the labels didn’t say anything. His cereal box was blank.

When friends discussed the latest viral ad or the branding genius behind a new product, their words were muffled or specific references were skipped, turning their enthusiastic dialogues into confusing and disjointed exchanges. Haroon would smile and nod, trying to piece together the context from the fragments he could hear, feeling left out of the loop.

Vehicles moved around him like anonymous ghosts, their makes and models obscured by the absence of logos. In his altered reality, the roads of Karachi presented a motley parade of vehicles, all stripped of their defining logos and emblems. The absence of these badges transformed every car into a puzzle of anonymity. A sleek, luxury German sedan, once a symbol of status and engineering excellence, was now indistinguishable from an affordable Chinese model. The distinctions emblematic of automotive prestige and technological prowess melted away, leaving Haroon to navigate a world where every vehicle was judged solely by its shape and colour.

High-end smartphones, once status symbols marked by their iconic logos and designs, merged into a sea of indistinct gadgets. The prestige of owning the latest model from a tech giant or flaunting branded sneakers, each stitch a testament to exclusivity, vanished. Walking through upscale districts, where window displays used to beckon with the latest fads, felt like wandering through a monochrome maze.

Navigating the city became an exercise in vagueness. Landmarks that once bore the names of brands as part of their identity were stripped of these affiliations. For instance, ‘Brooks Chowrangi,’ known for its association with the Brooks Chemicals factory nearby, became ‘Chowrangi’ in Haroon’s world. Similarly, ‘Schon Circle’, which recognised the Schon Group, reverted to just ‘Circle’. This renaming rendered conversations with friends and instructions to taxi drivers a confusing ordeal. “Meet me at Chowrangi,” Haroon would say, leaving the other person puzzled. “Which one?” they would ask, highlighting how integral these brand names had become to the city’s geography.

In daily dialogue, brand-named expressions that had seamlessly woven into the fabric of communication were now jarringly disjointed. Phrases like ‘Just Google it’ turned into ‘Just it’, leaving a blank that Haroon had to mentally fill, often leading to misunderstandings.

Discussing food delivery options and saying ‘Let’s order from Foodpanda’ became ‘Let’s order from…’ trailing off into an awkward silence as the brand name evaporated from the conversation. This became doubly confusing when his mom asked him to put Surf in the washing machine because he couldn’t hear the word. When his buddy told him he would “easypaisa the money,” he didn’t get it.

The interface of his smart TV added layers of confusion to his leisure time. Distinct applications like Netflix and Amazon Prime were now ambiguously labelled as ‘movies’. This consolidation under generic names made choosing a streaming service a guesswork game. “Let’s watch something on movies”, Haroon would propose, leaving his friends baffled as they tried to decipher whether he meant a night of Amazon’s latest series or Netflix’s new documentary.

Cricket became a peculiar experience. The Pakistan Super League (PSL), usually ablaze with sponsorships, became bland. Teams, traditionally distinguished by names like ‘Karachi Kings’ or ‘Lahore Qalandars’ were reduced to ‘the team from Karachi’ and ‘the team from Lahore’, their identities obscured and logos missing. Stadiums, once vibrant with branded banners and ads, bore empty spaces. Commentary, typically sprinkled with sponsor shout-outs, fell into eerie silence.

Even mundane tasks like banking became confusing. ATMs and bank branches such as HBL or Meezan lost their logos and distinctive branding, turning into generic financial outlets. Receiving bank promotions via SMS or email turned into cryptic messages, with brand names omitted.

Soon, a realisation dawned on Haroon. In a world without brands, what was the value of an adman? It was a question that cut to the core of his identity, his career and everything he had worked for. Just as he pondered this existential dilemma, his phone buzzed. It was an update notification for the ad-blocking app, now just a nameless, logo-less icon on his screen. Curiosity piqued, he tapped on the update and the screen went black for a moment longer than usual, before lighting up again.

The update promised a new feature, one that could potentially change everything: ‘Reality Reset.’ Haroon stared at the screen, his finger hovering over the button. This could be his chance to return to the world as he knew it, branded in all its glory and complexity. But did he want to go back? Could he go back to being the adman he once was, now that he had glimpsed a world without the endless clamour for attention?

Taking a deep breath, Haroon made his choice and tapped the button. The screen flickered once, twice, then steadied. He looked up, anticipation mingling with dread, to see if his world would change yet again. And if it did, would it be for the better or worse? Besides, could he really trust a no-name app to do what it claimed? And if he didn’t, who would he escalate the issue to? A no-name tech company that hosted the app on his no-name phone? Would they care that their incompetence could no longer affect their now indistinguishable brand?

Could anything be trusted at all?

Umair Kazi is Partner, Ishtehari.