Rahul Desai

Watching a Zakir Khan stand-up special is like watching that funny friend from your childhood actually find his true calling. It’s sort of moving, because you know for a fact that none of those friends took their talent seriously. Society simply reduces them to a personality type — the witty guy, the joker, the attention seeker, the mischief monger, the crowd pleaser, the yapper. If anything, they barely recognise it as a talent. Khan’s sets often feel like an authentication of such transient, everyday humour. His languid delivery expands the most ordinary details into mini-narratives of being alive. Which is to say: Zakir Khan isn’t a comedian; he’s a very good storyteller with comic timing. He isn’t really funny; he’s funnily real.

Santosh is two movies. The first is rooted in how Santosh, meaning “contentment” or “happiness”, is traditionally a man’s name. This underdog movie is about Santosh Saini (Shahana Goswami), a 28-year-old widow who inherits her late husband’s police job. As a new woman constable, Santosh strives to make a name in the notoriously masculine field of law enforcement. She finds a mentor in Geeta Sharma (Sunita Rajwar), a veteran cop who has over the years become a symbol of feminism and gender empowerment. Together, they investigate the brutal rape and murder of a 15-year-old girl. Santosh impresses her superiors, transcends her “compassionate appointment” (or bereavement quota) image, reclaims her own identity, and chases the case. This is the film that a specific India believes in: an inspiring coming-of-age story, a narrative of human fortitude, a gritty tale of patriarchy smashing and female agency. Santosh herself believes in it. It’s her against the world. But this is also the film that’s sold to this India. One that’s bereft of complexity, truth, ambiguity and labels. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss — or contentment.

Kanneda, the title of this eight-episode drama, is “Canada” pronounced with a Punjabi twang. The theme is clear — an Indian immigrant story that unfolds in the awkward cultural gap between Kanneda and Canada. The setting is Vancouver in the 1990s; the narrator helpfully tells us that racism is rampant and Punjabis continue to be treated as second-class citizens. The central character is Nirmal ‘Nimma’ Chahal (Parmish Verma), a young and hotheaded chap who slowly mutates from fairytale to cautionary tale. It’s a familiar journey: Nimma starts off honest (a rugby scholarship to kickstart a music career), before losing faith in the system and getting into the drugs-and-gangster business. Flashbacks allegedly suggest that his family left Punjab during the 1984 Anti-Sikh riots, but his trauma looks anything but generational.

Like Khakee: The Bihar Chapter (2022), creator Neeraj Pandey’s standalone sequel Khakee: The Bengal Chapter represents the awkward second rung of crime thriller television — too trashy to be taken seriously, too serious to be pulpy, too long to be bingeable, and too predictable to be culturally specific. It’s more or less an old-school Prakash Jha potboiler stretched into long-form entertainment. A loaded ensemble and the illusion of a grassroots narrative are supposed to offset the generic tone, a cyclical plot and a repetitive landscape. This time, the focus is Kolkata in the early 2000s, where a no-nonsense IPS officer arrives to clean up a city ripe with bloody gang wars, sinister politicians and confused cops. A reporter exclaims: “Is the City of Joy now the City of Bhoy (fear)?”. Thankfully, the show explicitly mentions the timeframe at some point, because this is the one city that makes it hard to distinguish a period setting from a modern one. Timelessness is an aesthetic here; I assumed it was 2025 until I spotted a character holding a Nokia 6600 (which still made it look like 2022). Unfortunately, rumours of a Sourav Ganguly cameo in this seven-episode drama remain rumours, despite there being plenty of scope for a princely outsider with shirt-twirling charisma leading a team of gritty underdogs.

The first part of Adolescence opens with a 13-year-old boy, Jamie (Owen Cooper), being arrested on suspicion of murder. It’s early morning. The family home is raided by the police; DI Luke Bascombe (Ashley Walters) and DS Misha Frank (Faye Marsay) take Jamie to the police station. Jamie tearfully goes through the detainment process. He is strip-searched, his father Eddie (Stephen Graham) agrees to be his ‘appropriate adult’ and a local solicitor arrives to represent Jamie. The two cops then interrogate the boy. For much of this episode, as grown-up viewers, we are wired to watch these proceedings through the lens of one question: Did he do it? At some level, we experience it as an investigative thriller: a murder mystery where the suspense lies in the answer. When Jamie quietly tells his dad that he is innocent, it’s hard not to believe the kid. He sounds truthful. It’s probably all a mistake and he’s protecting a wayward friend or elder. We look at the father as a portrait of complicity, too — closely judging every word, glance and gesture of his. DI Bascombe mentions a previous juvenile case where none of them noticed years of sexual abuse. But the end of the episode shows that Jamie did do it. He brutally stabbed his schoolmate Katie to death in a carpark the previous night. The cops had proof all along. His guilt was never in doubt. There is no confession. The anti-climax lies in the eyes of the beholder.

If you watch Hindi cinema for a living (or a loving), chances are you will be cursed with the Red Flag Syndrome. What is this syndrome, you ask? (You didn’t ask, but I’m telling you anyway because clunky exposition is in my DNA). Being able to identify red flags in a film — or being able to see through a story within the first few scenes — used to be a superpower. But now it’s almost a crime, like X-ray vision for perverse superheroes: you’re accused of seeing the film naked. It took me all of 30 seconds to commit this crime with Be Happy.

he Diplomat has all the elements of a solid thriller. The drama is Argo (2012) and Bridge of Spies (2015)-coded, where one government agent must negotiate the safe return of a citizen trapped in a seemingly hostile country. The premise is almost ready-made. The film is inspired by the true story of Uzma Ahmed (played by Sadia Khateeb), a woman who arrives at the Indian embassy in Islamabad desperately seeking refuge; she claims to have been tricked into marrying an abusive Pakistani man who kept her captive in the mountains. Deputy High Commissioner J.P. Singh (John Abraham) takes charge, determined to guide her through a maze of media scrutiny, red tape, court trials and political tensions. All he has are words and aura, in addition to the support of the Minister of External Affairs (based on the late Sushma Swaraj) from New Delhi.

A great concept can be a curse. Take the one-liner of Humans in the Loop, for instance. An Adivasi single mother named Nehma (Sonal Madhushankar) starts working as a ‘data labeller,’ a job that requires her to train AI models to recognise the world in pictures and videos. This one-liner alone is so fertile — so ripe with cultural parables and documentary minimalism — that it’s hard to imagine a fictional film that expands on it. What can a feature-length story express that isn’t already implicit?