To begin with, Anusandhan is a series created by people I call friends and colleagues. It is written by someone I have already worked with, someone with whom I share a very warm professional rapport. It is directed by a filmmaker whose debut feature I deeply admired — so much so that I wrote about it, out of sheer enthusiasm, in this very newspaper years ago. I loved Aditi Roy’s Abosheshey and often wondered why she wasn’t making another film. Over time, as we have all seen, she ventured into television and the OTT space, both in Bangla and in Hindi, which perhaps pushed filmmaking to the background.
What I’m trying to say is this: Anusandhan involves people I genuinely care about — people whose creative sensibilities I hold in high regard. And most importantly, its leading lady is a dear friend. I consider Subhashree Ganguly one of the finest, most well-rounded actors of her generation. With her striking screen presence, her audience connect, and her ability to deliver emotionally immersive performances, she stands out. I’ve directed her, I want to direct her again, and I have tremendous respect for her craft.
Because of all this, it is difficult for me to be completely objective. In trying too hard to avoid bias, I may end up sounding harsher than intended. I hope my friends understand the spirit in which I’m approaching this effort to maintain fairness, which might make me scrutinise things more than usual. But let me be clear: I like the show. It works. And it works for specific reasons.
The series lands on its feet primarily because of its clarity of intent. At a time when TV-plus dramas dominate both regional and national OTT platforms, attempting something this gritty, this purposefully hard-hitting, is commendable. The show has dollops of drama — and ironically, that drama stems from the very sensibilities that Aditi Roy and Samragnee Bandyopadhyay have honed while creating some of hoichoi’s biggest hits.
Those earlier shows had the potential to become extended television dailies, and yet they worked because their makers always kept the audience in mind — never allowing the narrative to stagnate, always keeping viewers engaged. A part of that sensibility is carried into Anusandhan as well. The show never slows down; something is constantly unfolding, and that helps maintain momentum.
I won’t go deep into the plot as many readers have already seen Anusandhan, or at least the trailer, and are aware of what to expect. The story is set in a rehabilitation home (formerly a prison) in a fictional place called Rooppur. A young journalist, Anumita Sen, and her assistant, Bhombol, arrive there to investigate what lies behind the closed doors and what begins as curiosity unravels into layers of power, exploitation, and a nexus of rackets run by the powerful within the institution.
Although performances are not the only element of an audiovisual work, I will begin there for convenience. Subhashree, as I’ve already mentioned, is my favourite actor among the current leading ladies, and she delivers a heartfelt, committed performance. She plays two distinct avatars — the poised young journalist and a completely deglam, emaciated version of the same woman with effortless conviction. Shaheb Chattopadhyay, a co-actor I admire greatly and someone who has matured beautifully over the years, tends to take the “villainy” a bit too seriously here. His character — polished, suave, well-read, yet deeply corrupt — has multiple layers, but the “baddie” aspect feels slightly overemphasised, making the performance lose some spontaneity.
Aritra Dutta Banik as Bhombol, feels underwritten. He’s reduced to a sidekick whose intended humour doesn’t quite land. Given his current persona as a sharp, articulate speaker, the character feels like an extension of his childhood screen image rather than a reflection of who he is today.
Among the supporting cast, Arijita Mukhopadhyay and Swagata Mukherjee hold their ground well. However, where the series falters a bit is in the peripheral cast — the one-liners, the prisoners, the voices in police vans, the quick cuts of background chatter. These are crucial to world-building, and this authenticity is where few productions often struggle, especially because of our dependence on post-dubbing. When city-bred voices attempt to sound like jail inmates, the world becomes inauthentic, and the illusion breaks.
The series could have benefited from greater use of diegetic sound. Instead, there is a reliance on background music to generate mood. In a domestic drama, this works. In a gritty, grounded narrative like Anusandhan, more ambient sound, the hum, the echo, the natural harshness of the environment would have added depth and realism.
Similarly, crimes are portrayed with heightened drama music, acting flourishes, tension-building, whereas true cold-bloodedness is often banal, quiet, almost mechanical. That missing casual brutality could have made the world feel more real.
The screenplay works, though it occasionally tries too hard to be layered. There is an increasing tendency today to avoid linear narratives. Here, the dual timelines create intrigue at first but later lean toward confusion and even slow down the pace. In isolated moments, however — especially when Anumita recalls her fiancé while confronting harsher realities in the present — the crosscutting achieves emotional resonance.
Dialogues are functional, sometimes too literal. In domestic spaces, they work well enough. In the prison world, they can feel stereotypical. Imaginative writing could have lifted both the emotional moments and the humour, making interactions feel fresher and more organic.
Full marks to the craft. The cinematography, the staging of long takes, the Steadicam movements inside the rehabilitation home — these lend the series its dark, gloomy aesthetic. While I’ve pointed out where the world feels somewhat constructed, visually the show succeeds in creating a mood that aligns with its theme. And credit for this belongs to both the director and the cinematographer.
What works for me is the intent, the pace, the merging of the protagonist’s personal and professional arcs, and the courage to attempt such a narrative when Bengali OTT audiences largely gravitate toward domestic dramas. Here, that “domestic conspiracy” is transplanted into a rehabilitation home and executed with confidence. It is not without flaws. But it has a beating heart, a compelling protagonist, and a willingness to push beyond the safe and familiar. And for that, it deserves appreciation.