Desi Bling, a new Netflix reality show about rich Indians in Dubai, begins by pissing you off. In the opening scene, self-proclaimed billionaire Satish Sanpal lies flat on a bed, scrolling on his iPhone like a preteen, while his wife Tabinda massages his feet with dollops of Cartier foot cream. Immediately you’re informed that this is a daily ritual.
Tabinda says, “As a Hindu, he believes if a wife touches her husband’s feet every morning, it brings wealth.” A minute in and I’m already rolling my eyes back into my skull. What she really means is that it stokes the entitled man-child’s ego and she panders to his tantrums.
The couple move on to discussing their toddler, Bella, who Tabinda calls the “richest kid in Dubai” because her father bought her a pink Rolls-Royce and sets of gold cutlery before she was born. The wife herself has accumulated 40 kilos (!) of gold over her nine-year marriage and isn’t shy to announce it to people she meets for the first time.
Don’t get me wrong; I have no issues with trashy displays of wealth. I had May 22, the show’s release date, marked on my calendar because I was frothing at the mouth in anticipation of more unhinged reality TV. I grew up on Keeping Up with the Kardashians, where 2013 Kimye literally had gold toilet seats made, so in comparison the Sanpals are mere frosting. Give me more UHNI cringe and I’ll happily eat it up.
But this, sadly, is just not it. In the name of a hate-watch, Desi Bling’s male cast just wave their big dicks on screen. When TV actor Karan Kundrra’s girlfriend and fellow actor Tejasswi Prakash mentions being nervous about moving to Dubai, his grand emotional consolation is: “You be you….but in makeup.” Over the next few episodes, he tells his rich friends (and basically all of Netflix) that his partner is immature, all because she asked him to book a cab from the airport.
Can someone direct this man to TikTok’s bare minimum versus princess treatment trend? His boys are only too happy to join the girlfriend-wife hate train.
The first time we meet Dyuti Parruck, who made bank by helping Indians get Golden visas in Dubai, he says he’s relieved that his Ukrainian wife cannot understand Hindi because it lets him run wild and free. Eww.
It’s like the dirty uncle’s WhatsApp group came live on TV for everyone to see. At 40-something, Satish behaves as the ringleader, with weekly boys-only yacht parties and sleazy comments about how good a female dancer’s body looks. Double ewww. And it gets worse. When he is paired with Alizey Mirza, a content creator at least a decade younger than him, for a yoga session, Sanpal is given loud instructions to not peek down her sports bra while doing the downward dog.
Felt the hair on your arm prickle up? Yeah, that disgust dominates the viewing experience of Desi Bling. Sadly, the women on the show fan the flames. Typically in reality TV, the cast is split between the antagonising villain and those who claim holier-than-thou status. (Think Christine Quinn versus Chrishell Stause in Selling Sunset.) Yet here, that moral high ground is left bang empty.
Tabinda knows her husband sleeps around and doesn’t care as long as it’s a different woman each time. In fact, when Parruck’s wife snaps at her husband for lying, the women on the show chide her for disrespecting him in public. Watching it, you start to feel ridiculous for expecting better.
The gaslighting [in the show] isn’t meme-worthy, it’s bone-chilling.
The gaslighting isn’t meme-worthy, it’s bone-chilling. If you’re thinking this is just classic reality TV, well, it’s not. I live and breathe this semi-scripted trash. I’ve watched every season of Dubai Bling within the first 24 hours. Scandoval was my Super Bowl. I have a VPN to keep up with all things Bravo and I could pick out the Love Island, Love is Blind, and Too Hot to Handle blonde lookalikes from a lineup. And that study makes me more certain than ever that Desi Bling is not a fault of the genre. It is, in fact, a bleak sign of the times.
It’s an age when tradwife culture thrives on Instagram and over 31 per cent of Gen Z men believe that women should never appear too independent. Debuting at a time when conservative politics is touching new heights, this reality show no longer feels the need to veil its misogyny. Against this backdrop, the show’s rich men can ask their wives to press their feet for breakfast and get away with infidelity at brunch.
Sure, reality TV has always had seeds of sexism, class politics, and pretty privilege. The entire Real Housewives ecosystem functions off such narcissistic men who fund the lives of their vain partners. But there the entertaining tension lies in the pushback from the women. At the recent RHOBH reunion, Kyle Richards said her ex-husband’s million-dollar business is deservedly half hers. Meanwhile, Dorit Kemsley calls her ex a raging alcoholic in front of millions of viewers. The women may rely on their partners financially, but they are not reduced to the reliance.
In Desi Bling, the same gendered wealth gap prevails. Only, now the money excuses all accountability. No matter how frivolous or inconsequential you may deem television, it is worrying that a show that glorifies chauvinism stands at the number one spot on Netflix’s Most Watched in India. It is even more concerning that my 14-year-old cousin and his friends are binging the series through sliced Instagram clips.
When I started episode one, all I wanted was pure and shallow reality TV. I wish I could hate on the Sanpals’ obsession with sequins and the entire cast’s inability to throw a good party. But the faux mermaids and bad Bollywood cameos fail to distract you from the deeply imbalanced relationships.
Even at 2x I couldn’t get to the end of Desi Bling and neither should you. If you’re craving fiery reality TV that doesn’t leave you feeling existential, may I suggest the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City? A stalker becomes a cast member, another goes to jail, and phrases like “high body count hair” come in plenty. Now that’s a hate-watch that deserves your brain cells.
