The dysfunctional Muslim family becomes a front to conduct a seedy (soap) opera of sex, betrayal, bloodshed and glorified cosplay conflicts. The caricatures cross over into bad-Muslim-sad-Muslim territory. Oldest son Salim (Aashim Gulati, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Siddharth Malhotra in the intense scenes and Gulshan Devaiah in the kooky ones) is the vintage version of a hippie. Middle son Murad (Taaha Shah) is a radical kohl-eyed nutcase. The youngest, Daniyal (Shubham Kumar Mehra), is a God-fearing softy. Nuance is for losers. All the juiciest and most unverified theories about the Mughal empire are cherry-picked for effect. Again, this isn’t the problem; dozens of films, some of them classics (Mughal-E-Azam, Jodhaa Akbar), have indulged in revisionist styles over the years.
But it’s the gaze and treatment of Taj that give it away. Any sort of heroism, for instance, feels like a half-hearted footnote. When Akbar preaches peace and tolerance through his Din-i-illahi creed, he comes across as a deluded old man who is reacting to a vague dream. When the crowd chants Allahu Akbar to voice their support, it seems like they’re only indulging him. When a popular Mewar ruler is confronted with an offer for unity, he recites a monologue about Mughal hypocrisies and dismisses Akbar as a poser. Akbar is presented as a fast-fading politician trying to stay relevant, and as someone who has no qualms exploiting his sons and wives to uphold his public image. Even if this were true, the film-making takes great pleasure in his irrational and lecherous moments behind closed doors. Especially when he misbehaves with Anarkali (Aditi Rao Hydari), a concubine he has secretly imprisoned in a corner of his harem. In a better show, this might have been a candid confession of grey shades – of a complicated king with a polygamy-shaped weakness – but Taj leans more towards the monster-with-a-mask syndrome.
The writing isn’t far behind. Every manipulative character in the show is Muslim – including Akbar’s grand vizier Abul Fazl (who went on to write the Akbarnama), the cleric Badayuni, hatemonger Murad, and Akbar’s two wives not named Jodha. This extends to Akbar’s queer son Daniyal, who goes from naive nincompoop to unhinged misfit over the ten episodes. All the noble characters and sufferers are Hindus – including Akbar’s loyal advisor Birbal, army general Maan Singh, Salim’s first wife Maan Bai, Salim’s best friend Durjan, even Salim himself who is half-Rajput. What takes the cake is that every Mughal mention of Rajput warrior Rana Pratap Singh ends with random tributes to his valour and skill. You can nearly read the producers’ notes every time a Muslim character praises the ‘enemy’. The signs come early when Dharmendra, as Shaikh Salim Chisti, reminds a young Akbar that the bonfires of his conquest represent the bravery of Rajput widows who embrace Jauhar. The implication, right from the beginning, is that the Mughals will be felled by their own amoral pursuit of power; all the Rajputs have to do is wait, watch, and exhibit chaste honour.