I have been watching The Family Man since it first came out, so I went into Season 3 genuinely curious, but also a little cautious, especially about how the show would handle family dynamics this time around. Earlier seasons treated the tension between Srikant’s job and his home life with a mix of humour and chaos. This season takes a sharper turn.
Instead of keeping the family on the sidelines, it pulls them straight into the middle of a terror plot based in the Northeast. What unfolds is not just another chase-heavy spy story, but a season that spends a lot of time sitting with discomfort inside the home. Women are given real weight here, generational gaps are no longer brushed aside, and even the villains do not fit into easy categories. The execution is not always tight, but there is an honesty to what the show is trying to do that stands out.
Manoj Bajpayee plays Srikant Tiwari as the same exhausted, stubborn man we have known, someone who believes that providing and protecting automatically excuses everything else. The show finally pushes back on that belief. His marriage with Suchitra feels lived-in and strained, built on months of unresolved resentment. Suchitra’s work on her therapy app, ShrinkMe, becomes an important counterpoint to Srikant’s worldview.
When the app collapses because of the nationwide ban on Chinese platforms, it is treated matter-of-factly, but the impact stays. Her professional identity disappears overnight, and there is no safety net waiting for her. She is not written as fragile or dramatic, but is tired, angry, and done adjusting herself around Srikant’s half-truths. As they are forced to move together while on the run, the problems in their relationship come into full view. Some of the strongest moments are the subtle ones, when Suchitra directly calls out his excuses and emotional absence.
Dhriti, their daughter, is where the generational divide becomes impossible to ignore. Played by Ashlesha Thakur, she is outspoken, anxious, politically aware, and completely uninterested in making herself easier for others. She uses they/them pronouns, participates in LGBTQ+ rights protests, and is open about being on anxiety medication.
The show does not try to soften her edges. Her interactions with Srikant, especially his confused attempts to understand her language and beliefs, are awkward, but also funny. What makes these scenes work is that the humour never fully undercuts the discomfort. Srikant’s inability to keep up is not just about slang or “wokeness.” It shows how quickly parents dismiss what they do not understand. When Dhriti was suspended from school, the show does not dramatise it excessively, but the message is clear. Speaking up has consequences, and girls are often punished for refusing to stay quiet. At the same time, Dhriti is not idealised. She is still figuring herself out, still vulnerable, and still learning how to exist within systems that do not make space for her.
The antagonists add another interesting layer. Meera, the broker behind much of the season’s conspiracy and conflict, was initially written as a male character, and that decision shows. She operates with precision, control, and complete emotional detachment. There is no attempt to soften her or frame her power through sexuality or sentiment. She exists comfortably in a world of arms deals and intelligence without justification. In contrast to the way female villains are often portrayed, Meera’s authority comes purely from her mind. Alongside Rukma, whose grief gives him a quieter depth, the show avoids reducing cruelty or ambition to gender. This carries over to characters like Zoya as well, who continues to function as a capable professional without needing explanation.
The season also quietly questions ideas of masculinity through Srikant’s son, Atharv. His decision to pursue ballet, and the bullying he faces because of it, exposes how narrowly masculinity continues to be defined. It is a small thread in the larger narrative, but one that lands with surprising emotional weight.
That said, the season is not without issues. The scale of the plot sometimes works against it. Certain threads, like the app ban, feel rushed, and the family’s involvement in the action occasionally feels rather artificial. There is also a fine line the show walks with Dhriti’s characterisation. Her adoption of a visibly “woke” identity, including blue-coloured hair, appears intentional, but the series stops short of explaining what this choice is meant to communicate.
Ultimately, Season 3 feels more grounded than most entries in the genre. It is interested in the slow, uncomfortable shifts happening inside families, not just external threats. Characters like Suchitra and Dhriti push forward in small, stubborn ways, while Srikant is forced to confront parts of himself he has avoided for years. The show does not pretend these tensions are easily resolved. It simply lets them exist, and that restraint works in its favour. Despite the frustration over the cliffhanger at the end, this season leaves an impression because it feels honest. It reflects a reality many people will relate to. For that reason alone, it is an engaging watch and easily earns a solid 8/10.
About the author(s)
Mahi Agrawal is a B.A. LL.B. (Hons.) student at Hidayatullah National Law University, Raipur.
