Hansal Mehta’s web shows seem riddled with a specific set of contradictions. The protagonists – based on real-life figures – seem infused with a larger-than-life glow. The setting is grounded in a fact-based environment, and yet characters talk like they’re in a film.
The show delves into the nitty-gritty of the world just enough to draw attention to the ‘research’ – but the insights are mostly generic.
These shows are largely well-acted and have flourishes of ‘90s cinema, but there is rarely anything disruptive, choosing, instead, to co-opt it by comforting nostalgia. The supporting cast (thanks to Mukesh Chhabra) have interesting faces, who do their job well, however offer just one characteristic for their parts: the ‘greedy’ cop, the ‘disapproving’ father-in-law, the ‘corrupt’ politician.
The protagonists act like they’re already living and breathing in a web series. There’s no arc here, only bullet points and the eventual destination.
For instance, in a scene in the first episode of Scam 2003: The Telgi Story (on Sony LIV) the protagonist Abdul Karim Telgi (Gagan Dev Riar) and his accomplice, Kaushal (Hemang Vyas) get beaten by their competitors in a park, for trying to source revenue stamps for an area outside their ‘jurisdiction’. While Kaushal is howling in pain, we see Telgi notice a man from the competitor’s gang not stealing the revenue stamps they were trying to buy, but the stamp papers they’re pasted on. It’s like the show slows down to pointedly shine a light on Telgi’s brilliance in the most obvious way. This is a problem in Hansal Mehta’s shows – the protagonist already sees something others don’t. They don’t arrive at it, there’s no journey to undertake. It feels like a filmmaking equivalent of Mehta saying– “they’re built differently”, rather than trying to explore what makes them different. Is it their less-than-favourable circumstances, or just their pathological behaviour?
Scam 2003, adapted from Sanjay Singh’s Telgi: Ek Reporter Ki Diary and directed by Tushar Hiranandani (with Hansal Mehta still as showrunner), traverses a similar path as Scam 1992. Sony LIV has released the first five episodes – apparently the first volume of a two-parter. Like its predecessor, even this instalment seems obsessed with the ‘what’ and ‘how’, over the ‘why’.
Written by Kiran Yagnopavit, Kedar Patankar (of Kaun Pravin Tambe? fame) along with Karan Vyas (also credited for the dialogues) – the show begins in early ‘80s in Khanapur (Karnataka), where we’re introduced to Abdul as a fruit seller on a train. A stranger (Talat Aziz) recognises his enterprising nature, and ability to deliver silver-tongued sales pitches, offering him to come work in Mumbai.
Hiranandani milks the beginning of every rags-to-riches montage in Mumbai, where an immigrant comes down to the city intoxicated with the promise of a good life. Phrases like “Bambai ki hawa (Bombay’s air)”, “sapno ki nagri (city of dreams)” and visuals of worn-out sandals held together by a safety pin – are thrown at the viewer. A good example of reinventing the trope of an immigrant’s worn-out sandals might be Jubilee (2023) – where Atul Sabharwal uses it to inject grace and warmth from an unforgiving city in the most unexpected moment. Which is exactly what makes Mumbai such a magical place to live in.
A still from ‘Scam 2003 – The Telgi Story’.
Starting off working in a lodge, we’re told Abdul is a man in a hurry. After working in Saudi Arabia for about seven years, he comes back to start his own travel agency. But we’re also relayed in the first scene that his real income is from providing forged documents to poor people and sending them to work abroad. Has he always been morally flexible – the series chooses not to dwell on it. When did he cross over to the other side? Was there ever fear/doubt/desperation in him when he decided to do this? What prompts Telgi’s outburst at a later stage, when he kills someone who betrays him? The series conveniently glides over his head-space. How did a humble fruit seller, who talks his way out of most sticky situations, choose violence? The show doesn’t stop to wonder.
Scam 2003 seems like a checklist-based approach towards filmmaking at its most pedantic. Linearly following Telgi’s journey, from his first visit to jail, we see him meet his accomplice who introduces him to forging revenue stamps, thereby resulting in him chancing upon the business of forging stamp papers. Choosing between the abundance of specific details to tell us exactly how the scam took place and why Telgi did what he did – the show seems content to tackle only the former. So, it goes into granular detail around at least three ways to counterfeit stamp paper in the first five episodes, mistaking jargon for depth. There’s no problem Telgi can’t solve. Which is why even though showrunners introduce obstacles in his path, conveying how he was playing with fire, we also know he will find a way. Because every now and then in the show, with his back against the wall, Telgi delivers a one-liner and walk away with swagger with guitars from the main theme playing in the background. One of the most baffling things about Scam 2003 is how uncurious it is about who was Abdul Karim Telgi? It only wants to focus on his exploits, how he did it – and what was the fallout of his actions.
There’s no denying that the show is well-acted though. The supporting cast includes familiar faces like Nandu Madhav – oscillating between being a violent cop and an ever-smiling ally, Sameer Dharmadhikari as corrupt politician Tukaram, ‘90s popular face Bhawana Balsawar playing a politician who wears pearls, and folds her hands as a response to most things. Marathi actor Bharat Jadhav is exceptional as a govt employee, who mistreats Telgi as a small-timer, only to turn into a dutiful, obedient child when the tides turn. There’s also the part of a bar dancer, based on real-life dancer Tarannum – who was rumoured to have earned crores after Telgi and men like him were besotted by her. However, she doesn’t get a single line of dialogue, instead simply turning up in Madhuri Dixit outfits scene after scene. These are all intriguing characters, performed well, but they’re all terribly underwritten. They’re allowed to flourish only to the extent of their function in Telgi’s grand scheme of things within the show.
A still from ‘Scam 2003 – The Telgi Story’.
The focus is entirely on Gagan Dev Riar’s Telgi – whose stodgy physique is at direct odds with how fast and loose his brain works. A good student of people’s behaviour, the show somewhat explains what made Telgi such an effective businessman. Showing up with a duffle bag and a ‘gift’ for most government servants and politicians, Riar brings a necessary sliminess to Telgi. He paints a character we empathise with, somewhat root for, and someone we come to fear.
Both Harshad Mehta and Abdul Karim Telgi are interesting characters for how they came in from the outside, found ways to profit off a corrupt system, making obscene amounts of money for everyone in the process. However, they’re eventually thrown under the bus by a significantly larger system that continues to operate in similarly corrupt ways. So, then are they criminals or scapegoats of a larger corrupt establishment? By putting them behind bars, are we curing a diseased society or simply suppressing its symptoms for the foreseeable future?
Scam 2003 ends on an explosive note — after Telgi is shown to have spent Rs 90 lakhs in a dance bar over the course of a night. It’s a rare moment of hubris getting the better of someone who liked operating from the shadows. It’s also a rare moment where a dated sequence like men showering currency on bar dancers, gets new sociological context. The centrepiece of the sequence is no longer the woman, but men trying to prove their manliness by summoning trays full of cash. It’s a petty, pathetic sight.
One almost wishes that such sharp insights are seen in the next part of the show releasing in October.