Mother’s little helpers – a short review of Mai

(Did this piece for Reader’s Digest India)
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The opening scene of the 2012 epic Gangs of Wasseypur subverted the viewer’s expectations with a cheeky juxtaposition: this gritty saga about hinterland crime begins by showing us a scene from the TV soap Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, complete with the cutesy title song – then the camera pulls back to reveal Wasseypur residents watching the show on a small TV. (Shortly afterwards, the first of many bloody gun battles begins.)

The new series Mai employs a similar contrast, in a more central way, and gets much of its novelty value and effectiveness from it. The protagonist Sheel, a sari-wearing Lucknow resident, is played by Saakshi Tanwar, who is best known as the lead on another major TV soap of the 2000s, Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki. Though there are small complications in Sheel’s domestic life, she and her husband Yash and their mute daughter Supriya – studying to be a doctor – seem to be a comfortable, content family unit. Until Supriya is killed in a “hit-and-run accident” that is soon revealed to be something more nefarious. This leads Sheel to investigate what happened: along the way she gathers information about a medical scam in the old-age home where she has been working, and encounters many unsavoury types, as well as two young men who try to help her but whose motives are unclear.

And so, we have the susheel bahu from Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki interacting with hardened criminals who use cuss words in her presence – or at her – while she replies to them in a composed meter, and calls them “bhaiya” or “beta” (perhaps in an effort to keep herself safe, or perhaps because it just comes naturally to her). At the same time, Sheel stays one step ahead of her adversaries and does what needs to be done – calmly pouring boiling water on a man who says something vulgar about her daughter, driving a sharp nail through her own foot to distract an SPF officer.

There is something very kinetic about watching this character, in this setting, trying to figure things out. The big “award-clip” moment in Tanwar’s performance – the full outpouring of Sheel’s grief – comes late in the first episode, and it is a fine example of expository writing too (pretending that she has come to a posh school to enquire about admission for her daughter, Sheel gradually breaks down as she explains that her child wants to become a doctor because she herself couldn’t). But Mai, having got this emotional high tide out of the way, then returns to the business of showing Sheel as someone who doesn’t have the time or luxury to fall apart.

Purely as a crime show, Mai is hit and miss. The plot is sometimes convoluted, credibility is stretched, and it isn’t always easy to figure out the relationships between the bad guys and their associates: who is double-crossing whom; what is the deal with the “crypto-key” that everyone is looking for; and hold on, where did this twin brother come from? But the series is mostly on solid ground when it sticks with Sheel and her mission. There are moments in her emotional journey that combine dismay and indignation (on learning that her daughter hadn’t told her about a boyfriend, she mutters “Haan toh theek hai, humme jaanna bhi nahin” as if still communicating with the dead girl). The flashbacks to the mute Supriya, once so alive and passionate, raise the stakes. And there are some inspired little touches, such as a nightmare sequence – hilarious, depressing and unexpected at the same time – where Sheel imagines her husband in a family set-up with a woman who can speak to him in German. In moments like these – Teutonic syllables assailing Sheel as she sleeps – Mai moves beyond the trappings of the crime genre and becomes a portrait of the aspirations and fears of people who are struggling to balance their capabilities with their circumstances.

P.S. here are two screenshots from two recent series. Top: Scam 1992 (Sony Liv). Bottom: Mai (Netflix). What’s the connecting thread between these two images? (Just a three-letter word. Very familiar to anyone who was watching Hindi films of a certain vintage.) 

Answer: Ilu. (Or Ilu Ilu, if you prefer.) The interrogation scene refers to “Yeh Ilu Ilu kya hai?” as the most pressing question of the day. And that’s Vivek Mushran, who sang “Ilu Ilu” in Saudagar in another lifetime, as Sheel’s husband in Mai.