In a media landscape divided by class and culture, two Indian shows—The Royals and Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar—reveal how fiction can both mirror and bridge a fractured youth demographic, writes Vinta Nanda.

India's entertainment landscape is undergoing a sharp and revealing transformation. With shows like The Royals on Netflix and Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar on Jio Hotstar dominating youth attention, it's evident that modern Indian storytelling is carefully targeted, deeply divided, and increasingly reflective of our country’s socio-economic contrasts. These shows, though starkly different in theme, tone, and audience, both stress a fundamental truth—content is now curated to resonate with specific segments, often by excluding others. But can that same specificity also drive unity? As a viewer, filmmaker, and editor, I argue that fiction’s power lies not just in relatability but in curiosity and empathy.

In a country as layered as India, it’s hardly a surprise that our screens too reflect a split—a vibrant, sometimes jarring divide. In the past week, I found myself engrossed by two shows—The Royals on Netflix and Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar on Jio Hotstar. Both are superhits. Both are bold. Both are meant for the youth. But that’s where the similarities end, for their audiences sit on opposite ends of India’s socioeconomic tightrope. And that’s precisely why both these shows are essential to the evolving grammar of Indian storytelling.

The Royals: Decadence with a Wink

Let’s start with The Royals, a glossy, stylized, modern-day royal romp through the opulence of faded grandeur. It’s a Cinderella tale disguised in satire, where the chandeliers are dusty and the tiaras tarnished. Directed by Priyanka Ghose and Nupur Asthana, and written by Neha Veena Sharma, the show doesn’t aim for documentary realism—it plays with myth, modernity, and melodrama. As the heir (Ishaan Khatter) partners with a hospitality entrepreneur (Bhumi Pednekar) to turn their ancestral palace into a luxury resort, the drama unfolds through money problems, love dilemmas, and generational angst.

Critics were quick to pounce. The Maharani of Baroda denounced it. Royal descendants called it a "mockery." Many seniors and "purists" decried its lack of authenticity. To them I say—perhaps you’re right. But must storytelling always pass a fact-check? Fiction, after all, is not a museum. If I, as a viewer and creator, can embrace the show’s audacity without seeking realism, isn’t that a valid experience too?

Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar: Grit Over Gloss

Across the spectrum lies Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar, a gritty, slow-burning tale of caste, class, revenge, and emotional upheaval. Written by Kamal Pandey, set in the dust and politics of Uttar Pradesh, this show is devoid of glamour. No palaces here—just broken dreams and brutal truths. It isn’t trying to be sleek; it’s trying to be honest. Kuldeep (Dhaval Thakur), a scholarship student, becomes collateral damage in a love story turned vendetta. Shanvika (Sanchita Basu), a daughter of privilege, is both the flame and the spark that burns it all down.

The Truth in Fiction

Both shows are fictional. And yet, one is accused of misrepresentation and the other is lauded for representation. Why? Because context shapes reception. Audiences don’t just consume stories—they inherit them, judge them, often through the tinted lenses of their own experiences.

Which brings me to a larger, more uncomfortable question: Are we enjoying stories only when we relate to them?

As a filmmaker and editor, I resist that narrow lens. Stories, in their purest form, are portals—not mirrors. They must transport, not just reflect. I don’t need to be royal to feel the weight of legacy. I don’t need to be marginalised to understand the pain of injustice. What I do need is empathy—and curiosity. The willingness to travel mentally into lives I don’t live. That’s what The Royals and Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar both offered me, albeit in drastically different packages.

Let’s be honest—Indian youth is no longer one demographic. There’s the Instagram generation that speaks in Reels and aesthetics, urban, English-speaking, liberal. And there’s the aspirational Bharat, whose stories are etched in regional dialects and dreams of escaping systemic ceilings. The Royals targets the former, Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar the latter. Each show knows who it’s talking to. And yet, I find value in both, because I choose not to see through the gatekeeping of class or creed.

When Will the Critics Change?

This is where criticism must evolve.

I often find critics to be rigid—not because they lack knowledge, but because they lack surrender. They seek meaning, but on their own terms. They dissect plot, performance, and politics, but forget to feel. But if a creator can suspend judgment to create new worlds, why must a critic be shackled to old worldviews? If entertainment evolves, shouldn’t criticism too? The critic must not only ask what the story tells, but also why it needs to be told—and for whom.

Do Stories Bridge or Divide?

And here’s the real twist: while stories divide by design—to target specific audiences—they also have the potential to unite through interpretation. When I watch a show made “for someone else,” and still find myself moved, amused, or enraged, something magical happens: I connect. I may not belong to that world, but I understand its truth. That empathy is the bridge between India’s two roads—the polished expressway of privilege and the rugged trail of survival.

So, will stories from opposite ends of the spectrum unite our youth or deepen the divide?

That depends not on the stories, but on the listeners.

Fiction’s Deepest Common Thread

If audiences stay siloed—urban watching urban, rural watching rural—the divide will persist. But if we dare to step into each other’s worlds through stories lit with honesty, nuance, and curiosity, that divide can transform into dialogue.

And here lies the most fascinating irony: while The Royals and Thukra Ke Mera Pyaar speak to radically different Indias, they both orbit the same eternal axis—the tale of privilege and the underdog. Whether told with chandeliers or cow dung, luxury resorts or locked rooms, palace politics or caste oppression, these stories are ultimately about power, loss, rebellion, and desire.

In the end, the outer trappings may differ, but the soul of the story remains universal. And that is the magic of storytelling—it reminds us that even in divided worlds, the human struggle is often the same.