I knew Desi Bling was going to be ridiculous within the first few minutes. Not fun, ridiculous. Not charming reality-TV is ridiculous. I mean, spiritually draining levels of ridiculous. The kind where somebody discusses gold purchases with the seriousness of international trade policy, while another person reacts to a dinner invitation as if they’ve just uncovered political corruption. And somehow the show presents all of this with a completely straight face, as though viewers are expected to sit there thinking, “Yes, naturally this yacht disagreement has devastating emotional consequences.” Honestly, by episode three, I started feeling like I was watching a sociology experiment funded by luxury brands. And yet… I kept watching.
That’s the frustrating thing about Desi Bling. It’s objectively absurd, emotionally repetitive, and often deeply shallow, but it’s also the kind of trainwreck spectacle Netflix has practically perfected at this point. You don’t watch because it’s insightful. You watch because every scene feels one passive-aggressive comment away from somebody emotionally collapsing beside a diamond-covered centerpiece worth more than most apartments.
The show follows a rotating cast of wealthy Indian expats and celebrities living in Dubai, including Karan Kundrra, Tejasswi Prakash, Rizwan Sajan, Satish and Tabinda Sanpal, Sana and Adel Sajan, Alizey and Lailli Mirza, Dyuti Parruck, Pamela Serena, and several others whose combined wardrobe budget could probably repair public infrastructure somewhere. To give the series some credit, Netflix absolutely knows how to manufacture visual excess. Every frame screams money. Penthouses stretch endlessly into the skyline. Cars arrive like they’re participating in separate competitions. Brunches resemble corporate summits sponsored by Swarovski crystals. Even casual conversations happen in environments so aggressively expensive that they start feeling hostile. At one point, I genuinely forgot whether I was watching a reality series or a very expensive hostage negotiation between influencers.
Visually, the show is polished to death. Dubai is filmed exactly the way this genre demands—glittering skylines, infinity pools, yachts, drone shots, luxury boutiques, rooftop parties, and restaurants where nobody appears to consume actual food despite constantly ordering it. Netflix wants this world to feel aspirational. The problem is that after a few episodes, it mostly feels exhausting. Nobody here appears happy. Not relaxed, happy, anyway.
Everyone is constantly managing status, defending relevance, monitoring loyalty, curating image, networking emotionally, or attending events that look expensive enough to require government approval. Even vacations somehow feel stressful. Particularly the vacations. And the emotional conflicts? Good lord.
I understand reality television thrives on interpersonal drama. That’s the genre. But Desi Bling stretches minor inconveniences into full-scale emotional warfare with such astonishing commitment that it eventually becomes parody. Someone being excluded from a guest list triggers discussions about betrayal, loyalty, respect, identity, and personal values. A delayed phone call becomes a relationship crisis. Seating arrangements are treated with the emotional seriousness of peace negotiations. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking: You people own multiple properties. Please survive brunch.
The funniest part is that the show genuinely believes it’s documenting power and glamour, while accidentally documenting how emotionally fragile extreme wealth can make people. Every interaction feels transactional. Every compliment sounds strategic. Every apology feels professionally rehearsed. Nobody talks like a normal human being for more than thirty consecutive seconds before the conversation collapses into branding, status anxiety, or passive-aggressive emotional accounting. Human interaction here often feels less like friendship and more like luxury diplomacy.
Tejasswi Prakash is probably the closest thing the show has to an authentic emotional center, largely because she occasionally reacts to the surrounding insanity like an actual person rather than a walking sponsorship deal. Whenever she drops the performative reality-show tone, the series briefly becomes watchable in a more grounded way. Unfortunately, the producers clearly panic whenever things start feeling emotionally sincere, because within minutes somebody is usually dragged into another unnecessary confrontation beside decorative fire installations.
Karan Kundrra at least seems partially aware of how ridiculous everything is. There are moments where he visibly looks like a man trapped inside an overfunded social experiment, and those moments are genuinely funny. But even he eventually gets pulled back into repetitive arguments that feel less like authentic conflict and more like producers refusing to waste rented event spaces. Rizwan Sajan ends up unintentionally becoming one of the more compelling presences simply because he occasionally behaves like someone with actual responsibilities outside reality television. Every time he enters a scene, the atmosphere changes from “Instagram-fueled emotional chaos” to “adult man trying to survive exposure to influencers.” That contrast alone deserves its own documentary.
Then there’s Satish and Tabinda Sanpal, who operate at such an aggressive level of wealth performance that several scenes begin feeling like sketch comedy. The discussions about jewelry, status, gifting, and luxury escalation are so detached from normal human existence that they eventually become fascinating in a deeply anthropological way. At one point, I stopped taking notes and simply wrote: “These people have lost contact with Earth’s atmosphere.”
The supporting members fluctuate wildly between entertaining and unbearable. Some understand the absurdity and lean into it with enough charisma to make the chaos fun. Others appear permanently trapped in “camera mode,” where every sentence sounds filtered through publicists, social-media strategy, and luxury-brand negotiations. That becomes exhausting fast.
The pacing doesn’t help either. Eight episodes are far too long for material this emotionally repetitive. By the middle of the season, the structure becomes painfully obvious: Luxury event. Passive-aggressive comment. Reaction shot. Confessional interview. Public confrontation. Walkout. Drone footage. Repeat. The editing is also hilariously manipulative. Pauses are stretched to breaking point. Reaction shots are recycled like national resources are running low. Someone says, “We need to talk,” and the show cuts between fourteen faces like nuclear codes are about to be discussed. The reveal is usually about somebody feeling “disrespected” at a cocktail party. Please. Calm down.
What ultimately makes Desi Bling so unintentionally funny is that it desperately wants viewers to envy these lives while accidentally revealing how hollow, exhausting, and emotionally performative they often seem. Nobody appears emotionally secure. Nobody seems fully present. Everyone is trapped inside a constant loop of maintaining image, defending status, and manufacturing importance out of increasingly microscopic social conflicts. And somehow Netflix turned that into eight episodes. Impressive, honestly. By the time the season ended, I didn’t want the cars, the penthouses, the designer clothes, or the endless VIP events. I wanted silence. And maybe a normal conversation in a room without mirrored ceilings.
Desi Bling is visually extravagant, occasionally hilarious, and unintentionally revealing in ways the producers probably never intended. But it’s also repetitive, emotionally shallow, structurally bloated, aggressively performative, and so obsessed with wealth aesthetics that actual human behavior sometimes feels completely absent. A few cast members manage to inject genuine personality into the chaos, but most of the series feels like watching rich people professionally overreact while surrounded by decorative lighting and luxury catering. Which, unfortunately, may have been the entire creative brief.
Final Score- [4.5/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
Follow @AnjaliS54769166 on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times