Not long ago, watching TV meant slipping into a world where characters resembled people you knew—your neighbour, your office colleague, maybe your own slightly dysfunctional family. Today, you’re more likely to find yourself staring into sprawling walk-in closets, gold-plated bathroom fixtures, and ₹8 lakh handbags. You might not notice the plot thinning, because the sparkle’s designed to distract.
In one of the most surreal scenes of Karan Johar’s 2016 movie Ae Dil Hai Mushkil, a heartbroken Ranbir Kapoor croons about unrequited love in a Parisian penthouse the size of a shopping mall. Anushka Sharma dances in couture at what appears to be a private ball thrown just for the pain of it. This was supposed to be about love, but somewhere between the chandeliers and the Chanel, the story evaporated into thin Dior.
Fast forward to television today. Whether it’s a glammed-up Netflix dating show set in Udaipur’s marble palaces or a web series where a Delhi socialite worries about finding “the right kind of match” for her spa business, the message is loud and sparkly: money matters more than anything else. We don’t tell stories anymore—we sell lifestyles.
When Did This Happen?
Indian entertainment wasn’t always like this. Remember the middle-class warmth of shows like Sarabhai vs Sarabhai, Hum Log, or Office Office? They didn’t have fancy sets, but they had heart. Their characters dealt with nosy neighbours, job insecurity, awkward family dinners. Real stuff. Today, it’s glitzy NRIs in lehengas that cost as much as a 1 BHK in Mumbai, solving problems like “which luxury brand should I endorse for my cat’s birthday party?”
The shift didn’t happen overnight. It began with aspiration TV. Reality shows like Indian Idol and Kaun Banega Crorepati promised transformation—rags to riches, small-town to stardom. That was fine, even empowering. But somewhere along the way, the “aspiration” became absurd. We went from showing people climbing the ladder, to showing people dancing on top of golden escalators.
Blame it on the global spillover effect. As Hollywood paraded its Succession heirs and White Lotus vacationers, Indian creators mirrored the same wealth worship. Netflix India, Amazon Prime, and even ALT Balaji quickly joined the bandwagon. Instead of relatable stories, we got shows like Fabulous Lives of Bollywood Wives, where four ultra-rich women whine about how hard it is to find “authentic caviar in Bandra.”
Why It Matters
You may think, “What’s the harm in a little escapism?” But here’s the thing—when every story is soaked in cashmere, where do the other 99% go?
We stop seeing our own struggles reflected. Financial anxiety, which is at an all-time high in real India, becomes invisible. Unemployment? Not a problem when everyone’s launching ₹1 crore perfume lines. Rising rent prices? Not when the protagonist’s family owns six villas in Goa. For young viewers, the message is subtle but strong: if you’re not rich, you’re not interesting.
It warps expectations. Teenagers start seeing wealth not just as a goal, but as the baseline. Instagram influencers flaunting their ₹5 lakh vacation looks in Maldives are no longer the fantasy—they’ve become the template. And this has consequences. A 2023 NIMHANS study found a significant increase in anxiety levels among Indian youth tied to “unrealistic lifestyle exposure through OTT platforms and social media.”
The irony? The few shows that step away from the sparkle—Gullak, Panchayat, The Bear (on Hulu), or even The Pitt, a sleeper hit on Max—resonate deeply. Why? Because they remember that stakes don’t have to be cinematic. Sometimes, the drama of getting your salary delayed or dealing with your in-laws has more emotional depth than a thousand shots of rooftop champagne parties.
What’s Getting Lost
Even creative merit is taking a hit. Talented writers are reduced to stylists. Story arcs are built around product placements. “She should cry here,” says the director. “But make sure the tears don’t smudge the ₹3,000 Manish Malhotra eyeliner.”
In Karan Johar’s Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, there’s a scene where Jaya Bachchan senses her son’s return just by the wind. It’s cinematic, yes. But it’s rooted in emotion, family, drama—themes that connect. Now, that emotion is often replaced by drone shots of a ₹25 crore Gurgaon skyscraper with “BOSS LADY” in neon pink on the balcony.
Where Do We Go From Here?
We don’t need to cancel glamour. Let’s not pretend Indian audiences don’t love a good costume change. But we do need balance. We need stories that show both worlds: the dazzling and the difficult. Where ambition isn’t always tied to inheritance. Where struggles are respected, not erased.
We need more Paatal Lok, less Paltan Wives of Powai. We need shows where money isn’t the main character.
Because when television only tells the stories of the rich, it quietly tells the rest of us we don’t matter. And that’s not just bad art—it’s dangerous messaging.
