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Birthday cake shows up. Despite the fact that he is at the doorstep of a household that is engulfed in raw grief, the delivery man is cheerful. Shekhar Krishnamoorthi in Abhay Deol frantically tries to get rid of him because he doesn't want to talk about why they can't have the cake at home; He wants Neelam Krishnamoorthi (Rajshri Deshpande), his wife, to miss the cake. He tells her it's the dhobi, lying to her. She is not deceived; She sees him tucking the cake away in a cabinet. She puts it back in the fridge after he leaves. The couple meet at home with only the cake in the middle of the table at the end of another long, painful day dealing with courts. After cutting the cake, they quietly reflect on their son, noting that it was his favorite flavor. Neelam's tired expression softens a little, while Shekhar's face has a glimmer of a smile. There are no words; There are no tears shed. They hold hands and go to sleep that night, aware that the following day will be another battle.
These scenes are what make Trial by Fire on Netflix so intense—so intense that words like "heartbreaking" and "gut-wrenching" just seem empty. Trial by Fire shows the journey of the parents whose children were killed in the Uphaar Cinema in 1997. It also shows how long it took them to get justice, dealing with bad witnesses, corrupt people in power, and frequent court appearances. It delves into the various facets of the tragedy that claimed so many lives. The unspoken struggle for closure is far more harrowing than the court battles and fight for justice, which show how much the callous mismanagement cost. Abhay Deol and Rajshri Deshpande, particularly Rajshri, play abandoned parents in a desolate household. They sink into the grief sea.
Rajshri is a woman who is almost dead inside after the fire broke out and their children died, but she still wants answers. She quickly comes to the realization that there has been a failure on every level, from the poor repairs made to the transformers that destroyed the theater to the owners absolving themselves of any responsibility. She is a mother attempting to piece together a blurry and distorted puzzle. She is aware that a fire could have saved her children. Her shock, fury, and rage lead her to the one goal that eventually becomes her very core. She can't help but feel a little resentment that her children's friend survived in that state—it's a fleeting, gloomy, but horribly natural thought: "Why us, and why not them?" The instant passes when Shekhar convinces her to back off.
As Neelam fights for justice, we see a nation struggling to run a business through her eyes. The first few episodes take you right into the shock of the loss and take you on a journey through grief, full of sadness and sweetness at the same time. Sticky notes that detail reminders of dentist appointments that won't be attended occasionally bring back memories. Occasionally, the agony comes to the surface, impairing reasoning. But in such a circumstance, how can one anticipate rationality?
Neelam, for instance, causes a stir by illegally entering the party of a politician. She demands to see the friend of her daughter who escaped the fire. Neelam is too consumed by the fire of her own loss at first to be able to see that his tearful parents are asking her to give them some time because he is also grieving. The non-linear processing of the entire trauma reveals the agonizing realism of the situation: trying to comprehend what occurred on that fateful afternoon, asking anyone who might remember any details from that day who was behind it, with the sudden resurgence of one thought that just digs in deeper: what happened to her daughter's necklace? The family has buried its memories; It is found in toothpaste holders, birthday cakes, and photo frames. Every time she picks up a toothpaste holder, Neelam's expression encapsulates the situation. The shock of loss, the sudden dissociation, and the flash of seemingly unrelated thoughts that are connected to their past make up the entirety of the portrait of grief, which is as real and raw as it gets.
There are fleeting moments of nostalgia as the Krishnamoorthis form the AVUT, a legal organization to fight against the system. These fleeting moments make the show so completely relatable and human. As another grieving mother shows him pictures of her son, Shekhar smiles as he listens. She tells him with warmth and naivety that her son has always wanted a dog, but that his father was initially against it. He acquired the dog later. You can see him with the dog. Shekhar enjoys this to listen to; He is still grieving, but he is aware that others are frantically trying to fill the void. In another scene, a shaking nurse tells a watchman the names and ages of a six-person family, ranging from 30 to six months. The tragedy's victims weren't just a number; they were once real, breathing people.
The initial shock has worn off, but the desire for justice remains strong. The years pass slowly. Both Neelam and Shekhar still carry a sense of weariness and heavyness, though it may not be obvious, and it haunts the atmosphere. Neelam never smiles on the show; instead, she just has a wry expression and abruptly switches topics when something is too close to home. Neelam never misses an opportunity to express her anger when speaking with reporters, and her rage at the injustice that was done to her regularly bursts forth like a dam. This is especially true when the perpetrators walk free. However, as depicted in the show, the search for justice appears to be just as endless as the search for closure.
Shekhar smiles a little more when he meets an old friend, but it hurts to watch because you see a man trying to laugh at other people's jokes but hiding his anger. In one scene, he gets drunk with the friend and keeps laughing at something he had said before, making fun of him for it. As the show comes to an end, he undergoes a noticeable transformation; He doesn't think there will ever be change or justice. Neelam, on the other hand, does it, and the series ends with her at the court with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
Abhay Deol and Rajshri Deshpande's performances in Trial by Fire make the Uphaar Cinema tragedy come to life. It demonstrates the various infernal circles—the literal meaning, the agony of legal hell, and the personal hellishness that permeates lives following such loss. It shows the many layers of the tragedy that tore people's lives apart in 1997 in a nation trying to figure out how to get out of widespread dysfunction, which is why it hurts so much.