Ever since the release of Sacred Games, the 2018 Hindi crime drama series that ushered in the boom of the OTT era, police procedurals have been one of the most frequently explored subjects on streaming platforms. At first glance, the Trisha Krishnan-starrer Brinda, which was released on Sony Liv on August 1, promises to be a series built on similar lines. Trisha plays Brinda, an introverted sub-inspector who takes initiative on a prolonged murder case and gradually rises in ranks as the team unravels the case. However, with each passing episode, as Brinda goes through a transformation, the series too delves into newer, surprising territories, surprising the viewer with both its socio-political intentions and emotional weight.
Cast: Trisha Krishnan, Ravindra Vijay, Anand Saami, Indrajith Sukumaran, Aamani
Director: Surya Manoj Vangala
Directed by Surya Manoj Vangala, Brinda is daring and ambitious enough to not confine itself to a whodunit. The first few episodes of the show are gripping and well-paced enough to keep you intrigued about the series of murder cases and their underlying roots. However, even after the identity of the prime accused is revealed, there is plenty of meat in the narrative. That’s when we realise the myriad dynamics of the world in which Brinda unfolds. Interestingly enough, Brinda has her own emotional baggage that initially seems unrelated to her professional challenges. But gradually, the series displays commendable grip on its narrative, tying the links between the two sides of the fence—the cops and the criminals—to create an expansive universe that explores themes like religious dogma, childhood trauma, and the non-binary nature of morality without ever getting too shoddy. Even after the big revelation, there are newer layers that keep exploding, raising the stakes—and that’s the biggest strength of the series. Despite such heavy themes, the series never feels preachy or didactic.
(A special mention goes to Shakthikanth Karthick, whose background score adds a whole new layer of grandiosity and atmosphere, lending almost a gothic horror mood to the show. A chase sequence between Brinda and Thakur, for instance, brims with unnerving intensity, largely because of how Shakthi composes the moment, blending silences and a brooding hum in the score.)
Most impressively, Brinda writers create a striking protagonist in Thakur, a shabby-looking recluse whose innocuous exterior actually adds to the terror he unleashes. He might be mysterious, but he is not conniving in his demeanour. That’s what makes him even more chilling. When police catch him at a crucial point, a guileless Thakur tells them everything honestly, oblivious to the possible repercussions. Anand Saami is riveting as Thakur, lending a great sense of tension to the narrative with his performance that’s both subtle and striking at once.
Brinda’s character has a journey of her own amidst the unravelling of the mystery. She is established as someone who largely keeps to herself while always doing the righteous thing (established with a nifty touch like her closing the toilet door at the police station, because everyone else always leaves it ajar). As Brinda comes into her own and finds recognition for her work, we see her transform from a withdrawn yet sincere officer to someone who boldly states what she wants and what she is angry about. At a point early on in the show, Brinda decides to lock one of her superiors up as an act of rebellion. As opposed to doing it quietly on previous occasions, Brinda owns her anger this time. There are plenty of such moments where Brinda’s slow transformation into a more assertive and self-assured police officer effectively ties in with the deepening secrets of the case she is investigating. Despite her struggle to imbibe the physicality of a cop figure, Trisha Krishnan delivers a commendable performance as the titular character. It’s her vulnerabilities and struggle for righteousness that keep us glued to the show for the longest part. Ravindra Vijay, playing Sarathi, delivers a heartfelt performance as well.
The only subplot that doesn’t coherently tie into the central narrative is Brinda’s equation with her sister Chutki, a 17-year-old whose rebellion doesn't add anything to the narrative. Also, there is an occasional use of stilted and expository dialogue, but these remain minor quibbles in an otherwise consistently engaging series.
At its core, Brinda effectively tells a story about battling your demons, underscoring it through a peripheral character, a middle-aged man who never gives up on hope and goodness, even in the face of evil. The final three episodes of the show are a marvel in particular, as the writers dig into the characters’ past in a way that makes it difficult to not empathise with even the more heinous among them. The show culminates with a rivetingly ambitious sequence set against the backdrop of a religious site, capturing the horrific dangers of religious dogma, even in a society driven by law and order, juxtaposed with an intimate, confrontational sequence between two key figures amid a forest.
Another writing decision that makes a surprising impact is the use of flashbacks. Every episode in Brinda begins with a sequence from someone’s past, be it Brinda, Thakur, or Brinda’s vengeful brother. Initially, it might seem like a convenient device to churn out sensational visuals to grab viewers’ attention. However, as the narrative progresses, the interlinks between Thakur and other characters lead to a surprising amount of poignance, which takes us closer to even the antagonists. Similarly, an elaborate chapter from the childhood of Brinda’s brother, which takes up a large chunk in episode 7, captures the philosophical essence of the show, about dealing with the eternal internal battle between good and evil.
Despite its formulaic exterior, Brinda is laden with many such thematic surprises, executed with commendable aesthetics, that make it a compelling watch.