Baramulla 2025 Movie Review
“Baramulla,” the 2025 political drama directed by Sanjay Puran Singh Chauhan, stands as one of the year’s most striking and thought-provoking Indian films—a haunting blend of realism, history, and emotion that captures the complexities of life in a land where politics and pain are inextricably intertwined. Set against the turbulent backdrop of Kashmir, the film takes its name from the picturesque yet troubled town of Baramulla, which has borne witness to decades of unrest, resilience, and quiet hope. Rather than offering a simplistic portrayal of conflict, “Baramulla” dives deep into the moral and emotional layers of the people who live within it—ordinary individuals caught between loyalty, love, and survival. Chauhan, known for his sharp narrative eye and commitment to authenticity, crafts a story that is both intimate and epic in scale, one that refuses to take sides and instead confronts the human cost of ideological division.
The film opens with an arresting sequence: a sweeping shot of the snow-covered mountains gradually revealing a small village buried under silence, its beauty juxtaposed with an unspoken tension. The camera lingers on faces—men hardened by loss, women cloaked in quiet strength, children learning too early what fear looks like. From this opening moment, “Baramulla” sets the tone for what follows: a cinematic meditation on identity, displacement, and the fragile line between belonging and alienation. The story centers on Aamir Dar, played with profound intensity by Rajkummar Rao, a young journalist who returns to his hometown of Baramulla after more than a decade in Delhi. Disillusioned by the sensationalism of mainstream media, Aamir hopes to write a book about his roots and the changing face of his homeland. But his return coincides with a new wave of political tension, and he soon finds himself entangled in a web of secrets that force him to confront his past, his family, and his own complicity in the narratives he once helped shape.
Aamir’s emotional journey forms the heart of “Baramulla.” Through his eyes, the audience is reintroduced to a place that is both familiar and foreign—beautiful yet scarred by violence, loyalty, and loss. Rao’s performance is one of his career’s finest, capturing the quiet torment of a man torn between personal conscience and political chaos. His eyes convey more than dialogue ever could: guilt, empathy, and a longing to belong to a home that no longer feels like his own. Opposite him is the remarkable Zaira Wasim, making her much-anticipated return to cinema after years away, portraying Safiya, a schoolteacher who refuses to leave her ancestral land despite escalating tensions. Wasim embodies resilience with understated brilliance, her performance filled with restrained emotion and quiet defiance. Her chemistry with Rao is electrifying, but it’s not romantic in the conventional sense—it’s born of shared pain, unspoken understanding, and mutual recognition of loss.
Supporting performances add further depth to this rich tapestry. Manoj Bajpayee plays Major Rathore, a hardened yet weary Indian Army officer who has spent years stationed in Baramulla, caught between duty and compassion. Bajpayee brings gravitas and moral complexity to the role, refusing to reduce his character to stereotype. His interactions with both Aamir and Safiya reflect the film’s central tension—the battle between empathy and ideology. There’s also a standout performance by Shubham Saraf as Tariq, Aamir’s childhood friend who has taken a radically different path, drawn into the local insurgency out of desperation rather than ideology. The friendship between Aamir and Tariq serves as a microcosm of the region’s larger conflict—two boys who grew up together, now divided by choices shaped by circumstance and survival.
The brilliance of “Baramulla” lies in its refusal to present clear heroes or villains. Instead, it portrays a cycle of pain that spares no one. Chauhan’s screenplay, co-written with Iqbal Sultan, draws heavily from real events without ever descending into documentary-style exposition. The dialogue is sparse, almost poetic, allowing silence and expression to carry emotional weight. There are moments of breathtaking stillness where the film trusts the audience to listen to the unspoken—the crunch of boots on snow, the distant echo of gunfire, the low hum of a prayer whispered in fear. These choices give “Baramulla” a realism rarely seen in Indian cinema, evoking the human experience of living under constant uncertainty.
Visually, the film is a masterpiece. Cinematographer Avik Mukhopadhyay captures Kashmir’s haunting beauty with reverence and restraint. Each frame feels like a painting—majestic mountains shrouded in mist, rivers frozen in time, and streets lit by the warm glow of lanterns as darkness falls. But beneath the beauty lies an undercurrent of sorrow; the landscapes are not mere backdrops but silent witnesses to decades of turmoil. The use of natural light and muted color tones enhances the sense of melancholy, while long takes create a rhythm that mirrors the slow, uneasy heartbeat of the valley itself. The score by A.R. Rahman complements this visual poetry perfectly, blending Kashmiri folk melodies with orchestral arrangements that swell and recede like the ebb and flow of conflict. The main theme, “Khamosh Mitti” (Silent Earth), sung by Shreya Ghoshal, is particularly moving—a lament for a land that has seen too much and healed too little.
Narratively, “Baramulla” moves at an unhurried pace, but every scene feels essential. The film avoids clichés of patriotism or victimhood and instead focuses on the emotional truth of its characters. One of the most powerful sequences comes midway through the film, when Aamir visits the ruins of his old home and finds a wall still marked by childhood graffiti—a simple drawing of two boys flying kites. The camera lingers on the image, and for a brief moment, time seems to fold, revealing the innocence that once was. Later, a quiet conversation between Major Rathore and Safiya in a deserted classroom explores the moral cost of survival; he speaks of following orders, while she replies, “Orders may protect nations, but they destroy hearts.” Such moments encapsulate the film’s haunting humanity.
The film’s final act is both devastating and transcendent. As tensions escalate and violence once again grips the town, Aamir must decide where his loyalty lies—not with a side, but with truth itself. His pursuit of a story becomes a search for redemption, forcing him to confront the choices that have defined his identity. Without resorting to melodrama, Chauhan delivers an ending that is emotionally shattering yet profoundly moving. The last sequence, set against a sunrise over the Jhelum River, symbolizes both loss and renewal. Aamir’s voiceover reflects on what it means to belong to a place that breaks your heart yet calls you home. “Baramulla,” he says, “was never about borders or blood—it was about standing in the storm and remembering who we are when the world forgets.” It’s a line that echoes long after the credits roll.
From a thematic perspective, “Baramulla” operates on multiple levels. On one hand, it is a deeply personal story about identity and memory; on the other, it’s an urgent commentary on the socio-political climate that continues to define Kashmir’s reality. It critiques not only the violence of insurgency but also the indifference of bureaucracy, the manipulation of media, and the exploitation of suffering for political ends. Yet it never loses sight of humanity. The film suggests that beyond ideology, what truly defines people is their capacity for compassion—and the courage to keep believing in peace even when it seems impossible.
Chauhan’s direction is unflinching yet empathetic. He avoids sensationalism and resists turning tragedy into spectacle. His storytelling recalls the restrained power of filmmakers like Vishal Bhardwaj and Neeraj Ghaywan but carries a voice distinctly his own. He grounds his narrative in lived experience, having spent time in the region during research, speaking with locals, journalists, and soldiers alike. This authenticity shows in every detail—from the dialects and costumes to the subtle representation of daily life in a conflict zone. “Baramulla” is not about heroes saving the day; it’s about ordinary people trying to survive one.
Technically, the film excels across the board. The sound design by Resul Pookutty is immersive, using ambient noise—the wind, the rustling of trees, distant gunfire—to create a sense of constant unease. The editing by Namrata Rao is deliberate and lyrical, giving each moment space to breathe. Even the production design contributes to the emotional storytelling, with interiors that reflect both cultural richness and the decay of time. Every visual choice reinforces the narrative’s emotional truth: the faded walls of homes, the quiet markets, the broken schools, and the frozen rivers all tell stories of endurance.
Critics and audiences alike have lauded “Baramulla” for its bravery and sensitivity. It has been hailed as one of the most mature depictions of Kashmir in Indian cinema, steering away from propaganda and instead offering empathy. Internationally, it has drawn comparisons to films like “The Kite Runner” and “Paradise Now” for its blend of personal and political storytelling. Yet what makes “Baramulla” stand out is its distinctly Indian sensibility—its understanding of silence, of spiritual endurance, and of love that persists even amid loss.
Ultimately, “Baramulla” is not a film about war or politics; it’s about people—flawed, frightened, and resilient. It’s about memory, about what happens when home becomes both a refuge and a battlefield. It’s about the quiet moments of courage that go unseen, the small acts of kindness that resist despair. In a world that too often divides people into sides, “Baramulla” dares to suggest that empathy is the only true form of resistance. It’s the kind of cinema that stays with you—not just for its beauty, but for its truth. By the time the final image fades, of the snow melting into the Jhelum’s currents, you realize that “Baramulla” is more than a movie—it’s a requiem for a wounded land and a testament to the human spirit’s unyielding capacity to hope. It is, without question, one of 2025’s most important and unforgettable films.
