Nobody seems to command the art of long form storytelling like Sudip Sharma. He entered the scene with Paatal Lok during the pandemic, creating a show that quickly secured its place as a defining work. A show that will stand the test of time as a masterstroke. He followed this with Kohrra. Another police procedural but one that was quieter, more introspective, and deeply rooted in its personal terrain. A show that found its audience over time. And now, with the second season of Paatal Lok, Sharma returns with what can only be described as a masterclass in long-form storytelling. Few understand the syntax of the medium as intensely as he does. Fewer still employ it to its fullest potential. He uses the slow-burning tempo of episodic storytelling to expose the dubious architecture of the police procedural. Where most murder mysteries reduce side characters to tools, or as keys to unlock the plot, or as mere suspects and informants. But Sharma grants them the dignity of depth. In his world, heroes don’t exist, and villains are rarely what they seem. Everything breathes with a past; everything unfolds in tandem; everything carries the weight of its consequences.
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This intention reveals itself unmistakably from the opening scene, where the series begins with the assassination of a political leader (an absolute departure from the assassination that loomed as an unfulfilled event in the first season). Across eight tightly edited episodes, Hathi Ram (Jaideep Ahlawat) charges through some of the most gripping action set pieces in his pursuit of the truth behind the killing. Yet, this is not violence for spectacle, nor carnage for its own sake. Sharma ventures beyond these genre’s highlights, seeking to dissect violence at its roots. He interrogates its transformative nature. How it mutates and reshapes itself as it moves from one individual to another. It is this ripple effect, this haunting sonorous, that Sharma unpacks: violence as deeply personal, and, in turn, undeniably political.
Every character in Paatal Lok 2 is tethered, in one way or another, to the chain of violence. It may not always take center stage in their lives, yet it passes through them, directly or indirectly, shaping their choices and circumstances. For some, violence is the cause; for others, the consequence; and for many, the inevitable casualty. Say, for Daniel, the sniper assassin, it is loyalty etched in blood. For Reuben, the insurgent leader, it becomes a rebellion forged in fire. In the lives of Grace and Asenla, it is like trauma passed down like reversion, with them bearing the burden of their men’s transgressions. For some, like Rose, violence is an unbearable void, robbing them of loved ones. Yet for others, it forms unexpected connections in its aftermath, as it does for Esther and Jane. In paradoxical cases, such as Uncle Ken, violence even becomes a perverse heliograph of hope; a twisted means to a redemptive end.
However, unlike season one, Sharma refrains from presenting violence as the singular focal point of the narrative. Indeed, he seeks to investigate its multifaceted nature, but never at the expense of his characters. They remain central, depicted in all their complexities, serving as the heart of the story. From this intimate microcosm, Sharma effortlessly expands to encompass the broader, more potent themes of brutality and aggression. Take Daniel (Prashant Tamang), for instance. A character who, at first glance, seems to embody the archetype of a mercenary often found in this genre. Yet, the show grants him room to breathe, allowing his story to unfold with gravitas. As someone who lost his entire family to a violent political past, Daniel carries that burden like a permanent scar. The violence he survived becomes a debt he must continually repay, binding him to his new father figure, Uncle Ken (Jahnu Barua), in a cycle that blurs survival with servitude.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is Reuben (LC Sekhose), who fights tirelessly to break away from his father. There is always a simmering aggression within him, poised to erupt, not out of spite, but from a desire to give back to his land and his people. He wants to do the right thing but finds himself bound to the wrong alliances. Perhaps, this ties into the show’s larger thematic foundation (one that was deeply rooted in the first season): sons who cannot see their fathers as… fathers. Perhaps that is why, in the lone moment when Hathi Ram meets Reuben, there is empathy in his gaze. Perhaps, in Reuben’s rage, he sees traces of his own son’s directionless anger. Perhaps, he also sees, a reflection of himself: two men burdened by the presence of fathers who exist but have never truly been present.
This time, however, the show shifts its focus to grieving mothers and their bonds with absent daughters. In that sense, if we look closer, Rose (a remarkable Merenla Imsong) becomes a central character. She challenges our own biases, forcing us to confront the assumptions we carry. We rarely see her, but she is always the subject of conversation. When her story is revealed, it strikes with the force of shock, a reminder of how easily we judge those we barely understand. Rose’s life has been shaped by endless violence, abuse, and guilt. She has navigated the depths of the netherworlds (Paatal Lok) in search of solace in the heavens (Swarg Lok), with her daughter whom she may have never truly known. The tragedy of her life is that she cannot claim her daughter, while she is not accepted by her own mother.
Other women, like Aslena (Rozelle Mero) and Esther (Mengu Suokhrie), find their children stolen by brutality in the form of shame, and now they seek to develop bonds with daughters who were never truly theirs. But the world does not afford all women this opportunity for self-recognition. Many are confined to the role of combative figures within the constraints of the patriarchal order. Some are partners to men who view them as vessels to cleanse sins, while others are tools of establishment for the manipulation of power and image. Meghna (the ever-dependable Tillotama Shome) is perpetually belittled by the men who surround her, as her identity as an Assamese woman in Nagaland is systematically downplayed. While Grace (Theyie Keditsu) is relegated to the role of a drudge, her husband uses her to carry out his dirty work, all while maintaining his pristine facade.
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While the world constantly diminishes them, the show offers subtle avenues for reclaiming their narratives. For Grace, such a moment arrives not in an overt confrontation, but through a silent act that allows her some sort of solace. With Meghna, the lens directed at her is already steeped in prejudice, even from us as viewers. Pre-existing genre conventions condition us to misinterpret her adherence to protocol as a sign of corruption. It’s no surprise, then, that even Hathiram assumes the right to lecture her on duty. However, in a standout moment, she turns the tables, challenging both him and us to confront the deeply rooted biases we impose on her.
