Puneet Krishna’s series boasts of an inventive premise and standout performances but fails to make the grade, succumbing to verbose narratives and a lack of stylistic commitment
If there was an award for turning inventive premises into a drag-fest, I’m certain Indian storytellers would be contending for it. In the last decade of Indian streaming, there has been nothing more frustrating than witnessing filmmakers self-sabotage projects that could have otherwise become definitive storytelling. It’s worse than having to sit through shows that resemble a template and underwhelm in their lack of ambition and finesse. Such shows are easy to churn and easier to forget, their existence devoid of any purpose beyond existing for the sake of populating a catalogue.
But then there are shows that have everything going for it; they go beyond convention and sparkle with potential, with premises that look and sound invigorating. Except, they turn out to be a cruel tease when it all comes undone apart in the execution. Puneet Krishna’s Tribhuvan Mishra: CA Topper — currently streaming on Netflix — is the exact definition of one such show. It’s not that the show doesn’t swing for the fences, but more that Krishna, the creator, co-director, and co-writer, works overtime in ending up as the roadback for all of its aspirations. The fence then turns into a cruel reminder.
Subverting the romantic relationship template
Spread across nine excruciatingly bloated episodes, Tribhuvan Mishra: CA Topper puts a racy spin on the proverbial underdog drama. The show follows the making and unmaking of Tribhuvan Mishra (a standout Manav Kaul), an honest, married government employee as he crumbles under the burden of crippling debt and starts moonlighting as a sex-worker to make ends meet in Noida. If the premise wasn’t already rife with comedic potential, the storyline goes out of its way to seal the deal: It just so happens that Bindi (Tilottama Shome), his favourite client, is married to Teeka Ram Jain (Shubhrajyoti Barat), a sweet shop owner who moonlights as a ruthless gangster and a neglectful husband. And so, matters escalate when Teeka Ram and his SRK-loving henchman find out about Mishra and Bindi, forcing the CA Topper to confront moral and emotional dilemmas.
Co-directed by Krishna and Amrit Raj Gupta and co-written by Krishna, Sumit Purohit, and Arati Raval and Karan Vyas, the show opens on a high note as it reframes sex as a tender act, observing it from the perspective of female desire and pleasure. (Krishna also co-wrote two seasons of the violent Mirzapur so the reframing here is especially of note.) The romantic relationship between Mishra and his wife Ashoklata (Naina Sareen) is charted cleverly, in terms of disguising their partnership within the contours of the standard middle-class marriage and then subverting that template by turning the gaze deep into their sex life. These portions are filmed with such playful irreverence that it is downright difficult to not burst with excitement at the thought of the many ways the show could climax.
Equally rewarding, on the other hand, is Tribhuvan Mishra: CA Topper charting the loveless relationship between Bindi, a Bollywood fanatic who craves grand gestures of romantic affection, and her husband Teeka, who seems allergic to even the thought of affection. In a way, Bindi and Teeka represent the conventional ideal of marriage, in which the idea of pleasure has long run its expiry date. It’s exactly what makes the Mishra and Ashoklata coupling so unique and watchable: at long last, in Hindi storytelling is a romance that doesn’t only exist in stolen glances and asexual domestic bliss but rather, one that also hinges on passion and pleasure.
The show follows the making and unmaking of an honest, married government employee as he crumbles under the burden of crippling debt and starts moonlighting as a sex-worker to make ends meet in Noida.
The feeling of sameness
In any case, the comic consequences of witnessing a bumbling middle-class man leading out a secret double life is not exactly unique ground — especially once you have Shah Rukh Khan essaying an iteration of that character in Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi (2008). By that, I mean, the writers struggle to come up with quirks to Kaul’s Mishra that stand out in such a way that it becomes a fully-realized character. The writing is often flat and verbose when it attempts to offer Mishra’s obedience a solid foundation, generic in a way that it distracts from Kaul’s committed performance in reminding you of Surinder Suri. The feeling of sameness proves to be the show’s biggest undoing, second to its insistence of verbalizing every thought, move, anxiety, desire, and detour.
Similarly, the setting of Noida and its aggressively masculine reputation is barely utilized in a manner that Abhinay Deo captured the tragicomic realities of Delhi. Even before the show reaches halfway, it’s amply clear that the makers seem to have run out of juice, given the contrivances they adopt to make the show’s sub-plots look and sound intriguing. Even the sinister transformation that Kaul’s Mishra undergoes is unearned when viewers are not allowed to see an organic evolution.
Then there are times the show randomly crowds episodes with far more side-characters than necessary, each of these characters dull down the proceedings manifold. The padding up of backstories and neon-lit shootouts is so breathless that it makes you wonder whether the makers want to willingly lose sight of their primary material.
Displays style, doesn’t adopt it
In a way, that answer feels obvious when you consider the fact that Tribhuvan Mishra: CA Topper is stretched out over nine hour-long episodes. That’s about nine hours of storytelling, a move that can only be earned if a storyteller displays a commitment to telling a story. It’s not that the show doesn’t possess style (the opening neon-lit sequence is ample proof) but just that, it feels more content in being a show that displays hints of style rather than a show that adopts a style.
The problem permeates the entire undertaking — there are hints of promise, hints of sincere turns, and hints of fruitful situational comedy and social dramedy but none of it is consistent. The result is a show where too many cooks grapple to assert dominance in an overcrowded kitchen. The decision to mount nine one-hour long episodes for a story that could have done with about six half-hour episodes should have been a red flag for anyone who has played any part in greenlighting this show. And yet, that is exactly what we get. If anything, it reveals an ambivalence toward a medium and a crisis of creativity that really should not be ignored.
The mediocrity is no laughing joke — it is emblematic of a deeper rot that still prevails in the almost decade of Indian streaming where creators, writers, and commissioning platforms continue to treat long-form storytelling callously, as nothing more than a cash cow. It explains why good Indian shows still remain an exception and not a norm. Shouldn’t Indian storytellers have gotten better at their craft, ambition, and skill in these seven years instead of revealing year after year, how incapable they still are at helming long-format storytelling?
