Dahaad’s opening credits are a perturbing montage shot in some forsaken town in Rajasthan. Women rush through the gates of a dilapidated traditional haveli (a mansion), and a man’s hand smears a woman’s mehendi (henna). Women gaze in infinity while they stand in an empty desert; mud pots lie shattered, an empty noose hangs, handprints on a crumbling wall gleam in obscurity, and a handful kathputlis (traditional Rajasthani puppets) dangle from a tree. It is clear at once that this show is about women, but how it is going to differ from the several other web series that are located in Indian villages and talk about crime against women is something to explore. 

The premise of Dahaad—a limited series streaming on Amazon Prime Video—is simple and basic, “nothing ever-seen-before.” A serial killer is on the loose in Mandawa, a small town in Rajasthan. His victims are women whose dead bodies are found in public washrooms while they are dressed as brides. Moreover, the murder “weapon” is a proscribed, deadly chemical—cyanide. Police authorities begin investigations and embark upon a cat-and-mouse race to catch the killer. With this standard storyline, Zoya Akhtar, Reema Kagati, Ritesh Shah, and Ruchika Oberoi have managed to create something great. 

The eight-episode series opens with sub-inspector Anjali Bhaati (Sonakshi Sinha), who is seen defeating a man in a judo match in a class. She is daunting. She is shrewd. She is focused. To put it in tabloid terms, she is more man than the men around her. Bhaati is accompanied by SHO Devi Lal Singh (Gulshan Devaiah), a soft-spoken, sensible, uncorrupted officer, and SI Kailash Parghi (Sohum Shah), who’d cross any limit for a transfer to a better, more civilized town. The village is in an uproar because a Thakur (an upper caste community) girl has run away with a Muslim boy, and political parties are extravagantly publicizing the issue. There we have our first insight into reality: blatant Islamophobia and casteism that are present around us and how political parties use such incidents for their benefit.

Unaffected by the rising turmoil is a Hindi literature professor, Ananad Swarnakar (Vijay Varma), who teaches in a women’s college. He is gentle. He knows how to charm you. He seems the last person on the planet who could murder someone. He is the perfect professor, the perfect father, the perfect husband, and an almost-perfect killer. As the police officers investigate the first case of supposed Love Jihad, more cases come to light of brides’ suicides—later revealed as murders. 

A thing about great films and shows is they can translate research, news, and facts into visuals without making the final product seem like a school lesson. Good writing is about crafting characters that have minds of their own and not of their creators, characters that are multidimensional. The show’s characters have their trials and tribulations, they shine, and they fall. They are both heroes and pawns—just like all of us. Dahaad delves into several sub-plots, mostly arising from the personal lives of the police team, and harbors an intersectional lens towards the women characters. Anjali is this valiant officer in the police station, and yet she is undermined by many because of her gender and her lower caste. She is on the lookout for a serial killer, but the real pressure she bears is from her mother, who wants her married. Vandana (Zoa Morani) is a manager in a big hotel. She is financially independent and well-read yet highly affected by what her in-laws think and say about her. 

The series thus does a great job of reflecting on the structural inequalities that plague Indian society. We are exposed to instances of casteism, sexism, patriarchy, and corruption, and the show does that without propagating a social message or making a social commentary. I like the fact that Dahaad does not reduce small-town politics to mere violence—as seen in shows like Mirzapur. The show rather unfolds slowly and takes its sweet time to follow the narrative while exploring various sub-plots—however, it feels a little rushed at the end. Caste, class, and gender tend to create a close nexus when it comes to oppression. The creators have tried to showcase how the agency of girls is often compromised in the name of protecting them. 

The concluding episode is a reckoner of the larger issue that requires our attention. (Spoiler ahead) While the audience wants to know why Anand killed those women, awaiting a story of trauma and emotional damage like that of Dahmer and Ted Bundy, it is slightly surprising when we get none. Once arrested, he is sent to prison, and when Bhaati asks why. He simply answers that those women deserved to die for responding to his advances. He killed those women out of entitlement, for he felt there was a need to teach them a lesson. It is a remark on the embedded oppression and also a classic case of generational trauma wherein toxic masculinity is passed down from one generation to another—Anand’s mother was murdered by her father while he was beating her.

Reema Kagti and Ruchika Oberoi’s direction is efficient, and they sure know how to keep the viewer on the edge of their seats. Writer Sumit Arora’s words are memorable. Varma is exceptional and the star of the show. Devaiah does a stellar job, and so does Shah at communicating the dichotomies of his character. 

Dahaad can feel stretched and rushed at the same time. It follows a set pace and a tried-and-tested template and offers you a story that is, if not extraordinary, appreciable. It’s a testament to the magic cinema can create when the crew behind the camera are women.

Review Courtesy of Anjani Chadha

Feature image via ‘Dahaad’ Excel Entertainment