Freedom At Midnight is a pulpy portrayal of Partition politics, where its flaws are its greatest strengths

What appears, however, at first glance, to be an underwhelming narrative hides a deeper resonance. There lies a moving subtext about nation-building — its eventual triumph, shadowed by tragedy. A shift in perspective reframes every misstep as a point of fascination, every melodramatic note as an exciting choice, and each performance as a layered portrayal. It never occurs to you that the series is more than a cinematic retelling, but rather an ongoing dialogue, more relevant now than ever. It never occurs when these revered historical figures are shown as deeply human: their flaws and narrow-sightedness exposed. It never occurs when admiration gives way to critique, and a moment of historic triumph transforms into an immense blunder. And it never occurs that the show, in its own way, seems to mirror the nation it seeks to document — discovering moments of triumph within the depths of its own sorrow.

On the surface, one might argue that the show’s principal flaw lies in its detached, objective stance. Like its source material, which adopts an outsider’s perspective sympathetic to Lord Louis Mountbatten, the series too leans in this direction. But, this very approach also adds a layer of intellectual depth for three key reasons. First, it breaks away from the conventional nationalistic narratives of the freedom movement, where the Englishmen are invariably cast as the villains. Second, it shifts the focus, illustrating that as the dawn of freedom approached, it wasn’t Britain but India’s own people who clashed — debating, wounding, and killing one another to preserve their vision of what freedom should mean.

Thirdly, through its humane depiction of Mountbatten (Luke McGibney), the show paradoxically brings a rare depth to figures like Gandhi and Nehru — offering a refreshing political perspective at a time when both have been subjects of intense national scrutiny. It doesn’t only highlight Nehru’s (Sidhant Gupta) tireless efforts to prevent Partition; it also portrays his vulnerability, his existential struggles with his own convictions, with the ideology of satyagraha, and his eventual submission to the demands of the day. In this sense, the series steps further, reframing Gandhi (Chirag Vohra) not as the unquestionable peacemaker but as a figure perforated with bias, particularly in his treatment of Nehru. A terrific moment arrives at the close of the fourth episode, when Gandhi, confronted by his own flaws, candidly acknowledges and critiques his inherent prejudices.

The most compelling figure to emerge is Patel (a remarkable Rajendra Chawla), whose pragmatism and lack of ego set him apart as the true architect of the movement. He is the practical force, guiding the other players with steady resolve. His camaraderie with Nehru offers a refreshing contrast, a bond of mutual respect and intellectual exchange that has been subject to much reinterpretation in the last decade. The series beautifully captures how the two constantly sought each other’s counsel, engaged in lively debates, and evolved together in their vision. The dynamic between Patel and Gandhi provides further layers of emotional gravitas. There are two major moments between them: the first, early in the series, when Patel aligns with Gandhi’s vision, and the latter, towards the end, when he openly rejects it, unafraid to voice his dissent.

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What remains the biggest flaw is the show’s reduction of Jinnah (a standout Arif Zakaria) to a mere caricature. In casting him as the central villain, it fails to seek any nuance, presenting Jinnah and the Muslim League as the singular, almost monolithic source of blame for the tragedy. The narrative positions Jinnah as the mastermind behind the events, attributing everything to his insecurity and jealousy. Moreover, it takes a troubling step by portraying the entire Muslim community through the lens of villainy, with riots depicted as the result of an enraged Muslim mob. This one-dimensional approach erases the complexity of history, reducing a deeply multifaceted issue to a parochial, divisive narrative.

What the series undeniably educes is a sharp reflection on fascism, and how a leader’s myopic ambition can unravel the fabric of a nation. Here, the subtext becomes an entity of its own, not merely elevating the text but reshaping it entirely. It paints the portrait of a leader so consumed by insecurity and self-interest that every decision is filtered through his personal lens. It speaks of a party so single-minded in its pursuit of one community’s dominance that it relegates others to the margins, resorting to violence to forge a religious state. Read again, and the weight of this message feels all too familiar, its relevance sharper now than ever before.

The most poignant moment unfolds in the season finale, when Partition is declared as the inescapable fate. An outraged mob gathers outside Maulana Azad’s (Pawan Chopra) home, demanding that he flee to what they believe is his rightful place. In that moment of overwhelming loss, he breaks down, seeking solace in Gandhi. For a few brief seconds, neither speaks, for there are no words left to offer. Time has finally betrayed them. The race they fought has been lost. The clock has come to a halt, and with it, so too have their hopes. What remains now is the greatest tragedy of Partition — the past, irrevocably sealed, and the future, violent and scarred. Time has run out, and with it, the possibility of undoing the irreversible.