Dhurandhar: The Revenge opens with an extended disclaimer, even more elaborate than its predecessor. It covers depictions of violence, substance use, and clarifies that the film does not intend to offend any community or endorse the views expressed by its characters.
A measured Hindi voice-over guides viewers through these caveats, emphasising that the film is a work of fiction, albeit one “inspired by true events.” It sets the tone for what follows, a narrative across timelines, sometimes blending fact with fiction, that asks to be viewed as cinema rather than commentary.
Not a documentary. Not a history lesson.
Much like this piece you’re reading, which is meant to be taken as a review, not mistaken for an essay or an opinion column.
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Chapter 2: The Birth of a Spy
The sequel builds on the foundation laid in the first instalment, where the promise of revenge was already established. What this chapter seeks to address is the motivation behind it.
The film opens with the backstory of Jaskirat Singh Rangi, an aspiring army recruit who finds himself on death row after committing a brutal act of violence tied to a land dispute involving a local political figure. The killing of his father and the assault on his sister serve as the emotional trigger.
The setup is effective, giving context to the character’s transformation. Ranveer Singh brings a measured balance of vulnerability and rage, anchoring the opening stretch.
The narrative then shifts as Jaskirat is recruited by Indian intelligence and drawn into a covert world, marking the beginning of his evolution into Hamza.
Director Aditya Dhar re-establishes the film’s universe with confidence, maintaining continuity with the tone and scale of the first part.
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Chapter 3: Chaos, Blood and Distance
A key shift in the sequel lies in its pacing. Where the first film allowed its narrative to unfold gradually, the second opts for density, layering multiple plot developments, twists, and action set pieces in quick succession.
While individual sequences are effective, the cumulative impact is uneven. The film struggles to sustain emotional engagement, often prioritising momentum over depth. Attempts to humanise its central characters remain brief and underdeveloped.
The treatment of Major Iqbal illustrates this imbalance. Positioned as the primary antagonist, he is given a detailed backstory, including personal and historical motivations. However, limited screen time restricts the character’s impact, preventing it from reaching the memorability of the earlier antagonist, Rehman Dakait.
In the first part, Dhar juxtaposed real-life footage of terrorist attacks in India with fictional scenes. In the sequel, he plays with timelines. In both cases, the creative liberties are evident, but it is the blending of truth and fiction that is a bit jarring. At times, this mix becomes so seamless that an unassuming viewer may find it difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. It is perhaps on the viewer to remain aware that the film is, ultimately, a work of fiction.
The film, however, maintains narrative tension. Dhar relies on frequent twists to sustain interest, ensuring that the story remains engaging. The trajectory may be predictable, but the execution keeps the viewer invested.
The violence, more intense than in the first instalment, remains highly stylised. It is designed for visual impact rather than realism, contributing to the film’s spectacle while reinforcing a sense of detachment.
Even with a runtime approaching four hours, the film sustains momentum and is seldom boring.
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Chapter 4: The Sound of War
The film’s music continues to be a defining strength. Composer Shashwat Sachdev blends Indian classical, Sufi, qawwali, and folk elements with electronic music, rap, and techno, all while staying rooted in the demands of the script. The result is a soundscape that fuels the film’s high-octane moments with adrenaline, while also evoking a lingering sense of nostalgia.
The reuse and reinterpretation of older tracks is particularly effective, with lyrics and placement aligned to narrative moments. While the first film’s soundtrack had immediate recall value, the sequel’s music operates more as a slow burn.
Tracks like Mann Atkeya (Vaibhav Gupta, Shahzad Ali), Main Aur Tu (Jasmine Sandlas), and Phir Se (Arijit Singh) fall into this category. At the same time, the film delivers crowd-pleasing, foot-tapping numbers like Aari Aari by Bombay Rockers, reimagined for this outing, and Khaled’s Didi, both of which tap directly into millennial nostalgia.
Overall, the sound design and score contribute significantly to the film’s atmosphere and pacing.
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Chapter 5: The Men, the Masks, the World
The ensemble cast delivers consistently. Alongside Ranveer Singh, performances by Arjun Rampal, Rakesh Bedi, R. Madhavan and Sanjay Dutt reinforce the film’s dramatic weight. Sara Arjun, while effective in parts, is limited by a role that lacks sufficient development.
However, the sequel is largely driven by Ranveer Singh, whose dual portrayal of Hamza and Jaskirat forms its emotional core. There is a distinct emotional and physical shift between the two, and he navigates both with control and conviction. It is the kind of rare, layered role that not only anchors the film but also stands to become a defining addition to the actor’s filmography.
The effort put in by the costume design, hair and makeup, and prosthetics teams is also noteworthy. The production design, spanning different parts of India and beyond, plays a crucial role in building a believable and immersive world.
Dhurandhar is not a perfect film by any means, but it is technically accomplished and hard to fault when it comes to attention to detail.
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Chapter 6: Borrowed Guns
Dhar’s filmmaking reflects a blend of influences. The stylised violence and narrative rhythm show traces of Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie, particularly in the staging of action and use of montage.
At the same time, the film’s rawness and treatment of violence recall the work of Ram Gopal Varma, particularly films like “Satya”, “Company” and “Shiva”.
While these influences are evident, the film attempts to integrate them within a commercial Hindi cinema framework, combining stylisation with music, star-driven performances, and large-scale storytelling
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Chapter 7: The Verdict
Dhurandhar: The Revenge is an ambitious sequel that prioritizes scale and spectacle over emotional depth. Aditya Dhar expands the narrative world with confidence, supported by strong technical execution and sustained narrative momentum.
Anchored by Ranveer Singh’s performance, the film remains engaging despite its structural excesses. While it does not fully match the emotional impact of its predecessor, it succeeds as a visually compelling continuation. With its blending of fact and fiction, whether it reads as propaganda or provocation is open to interpretation, but it remains a work of fiction, not reportage.
Rating: 3.5/5
Dhurandhar: The Revenge is playing in a theatre near you.
Dhurandhar opens with an unusually long disclaimer, firmly announcing itself as a work of fiction. What follows therafter is a mingling of fact and fiction, a narrative that is “inspired by” rather than “based on” real events. From the very first scenes, which reference the Kandahar hijack and the 2001 Parliament attack, where real life footage is juxtaposed with fictional scenes, the director makes his position clear: that creative liberties have been taken. However, I choose to take him at his word and engage with Dhurandhar for what it claims to be: a film, not a documentary. The real question then is this. As a film, is Dhurandhar any good, and does it live up to the hype?
The Story:
Dhurandhar starts off with a bang, referencing historical events, and then gradually transporting us into a world we have only glimpsed through news reports and documentaries. It is a landscape of terror, dirty politics, and hardcore brutality, where morality has long collapsed. Power, money, and domination are the only currencies that matter. The story unfolds through the eyes of Hamza (Ranveer Singh), an Indian spy tasked with infiltrating the very heart of terrorism in Pakistan by Ajay Sanyal (R.Madhavan) from the Indian Intelligence. He enters a dog-eat-dog world where survival demands savagery. Hamza must learn how these men think, identify their strengths and vulnerabilities, and make his moves with calculated invisibility. The two-hour-long first half patiently builds the world of Lyari, where crime is a way of life and rogue men commit despicable crimes. To earn their trust, Hamza must first become one of them.
Despite its longish first half, this is where the film is at its most engaging. The introduction of characters is riveting. Enter Rehman Dakait, played with chilling restraint by Akshaye Khanna, a Baloch leader determined to conquer Lyari, carve a path into Karachi’s political corridors, and secure long-denied respect for his community. Standing in his way is the vile minister Jameel Jamali, portrayed by Rakesh Bedi, a man willing to align with the devil to cling to power.
Then there is Major Iqbal, played by Arjun Rampal, a crafty ISI operator who will stop at nothing to unleash chaos in India, relying on a toxic alliance of gangsters and politicians to do his bidding. Completing this volatile quad is SP Chaudhary Aslam, played by Sanjay Dutt, a man driven by a deeply personal vendetta against Rehman Dakait and thirsting for blood. Trapped within this ruthless ecosystem, Hamza must navigate the dark alleys of Lyari, becoming an invisible presence that quietly works towards dismantling Pakistan’s terror networks from within.
Screenplay:
The screenplay, written by director Aditya Dhar, is intelligent and perfectly paced, offering several edge-of-the-seat moments. The one that lingered with me is the montage where the top goons of the rival gang are wiped out with chilling brutality by Rehman Dakait’s men. Dhar, skillfully crafts these big moments, and when they arrive the action choreography, camerawork, background score and editing operate in complete sync.
Despite the heavy use of expletives, which feels organic to the milieu and not gratuitous, the dialogue delivery remains cold and restrained, recalling the stark realism of Satya or another RGV classic, Shiva. This restraint lends the narrative a strong sense of authenticity. The only element that does not fully land is the love story between Hamza and Yalina, where the conviction that defines the rest of the film feels slightly diluted. Still, this remains a minor blemish in an otherwise tightly written film that is thrilling, dark, often funny, and unquestionably entertaining.
Technical Aspects:
From a technical standpoint, even the harshest critics will find little to fault in Dhurandhar. Lyari emerges as a character in its own right, recreated with remarkable authenticity in Thailand by the production design team. The stark landscapes of Ladakh convincingly stand in for Baloch tribal regions, while stretches shot in Mumbai and Punjab blend seamlessly into the film’s geography. Costume, hair and make-up departments show meticulous attention to detail, with several actors, notably Arjun Rampal and R. Madhavan, appearing almost unrecognizable in their transformations.
The action of Dhurandhar is another of its highlights. There is a fine art to staging brutal action. In Hindi cinema it often tips into excess, and even big-budget Hollywood films do not always make the violence feel grounded or raw. It begins with strong writing and is sustained by precise choreography, cinematography, prosthetics and sound design working in unison. Dhurandhar achieves this balance with assurance. Shashwat Sachdev’s music plays a crucial role in shaping the film’s impact. The background score is fresh, experimental and finely attuned to the film’s shifting moods. The songs too integrate naturally into the narrative.
What ultimately stands out is the synchronicity between departments. Nothing draws attention to itself. Every technical element serves the storytelling, allowing the film’s world and its scenes to unfold with controlled, unsettling effectiveness.
Performances:
Mukesh Chhabra’s casting is spot on. Every actor fits their part so organically that, after a point, you stop seeing the performer and only see the character. This level of immersion has been rare in mainstream Hindi cinema in recent years. Unsurprisingly, the performances emerge as the film’s biggest strength.
Much has been said about Akshaye Khanna’s role as Rehman Dakait. The real stroke of genius lies in the casting itself. There is an element of surprise in seeing him in this role, but it also plays perfectly to his strengths. The character demands restraint, menace, and control, with much of the emotion conveyed through silence and expressive eyes, something Khanna handles with chilling precision.
That said, Dhurandhar is ultimately carried on Ranveer Singh’s shoulders, and he delivers a performance that hits it out of the park. As Hamza, an Indian operative working in the shadows, Ranveer completely inhabits the role. The physical transformation is impressive, but it is his internal work that truly stands out. He captures Hamza’s vulnerability, intelligence, and quiet resolve with remarkable balance. Present in almost every frame, yet required to remain invisible within the narrative, Ranveer approaches the part with restraint, maturity, and exceptional control. This is easily among the finest performances of his career, possibly his best so far. With a second part slated for release in March next year, promising deeper revelations about Hamza, it is a prospect that cinegoers can look forward to with genuine excitement.
Conclusion:
Despite the controversies surrounding it, Dhurandhar emerges as one of the finest films of the year. Does it pander to a certain degree of propaganda? Yes, it does. But so have countless films in the past, across ideological spectrums. The question then is not whether propaganda exists, but whether one kind is deemed more acceptable than another. In my view, a film should be watched for what it is: a film. It is not the place to seek historical or political truth. For that, there are books, research papers, and documentaries, many of them available on this very subject.
As a reviewer, I do not believe in bringing personal ideology into the act of criticism. The responsibility is to engage with the film on its own terms. If one wishes to be an activist, that is a different calling altogether. Film criticism demands a certain distance, and an honest evaluation of craft.
The past few years have seen several so-called hyper-nationalistic films fail at the box office, not because of ideology, but because they were poorly made. No narrative can rescue a bad film. Dhurandhar succeeds because it is a well-crafted piece of cinema that delivers exactly what it promises. From its trailer, the intent is clear: a specific worldview, a hard-edged language, unflinching violence, and an adult-only viewing experience. Approaching such a film with a fixed confirmation bias is the surest way to miss what it is trying to do.
All said, it is difficult to deny the film’s technical and narrative strengths. Across departments, Dhurandhar comes out triumphant. While it may momentarily lean into a particular narrative, these instances do not derail the momentum of its gripping screenplay. The only caveat is a wish for greater honesty in its disclaimer.
Ultimately, Dhurandhar deserves to be seen for its taut writing, commanding performances, experimental score, and sustained edge-of-the-seat drama. This is cinema designed for the big screen.
When you think of the great war films of the past, you remember their sheer technical power: the sweeping cinematography, the visceral action, the stirring background score, the meticulous production design, the prosthetics and of course the performances. Yet beneath all that craft, those films endured because they moved you. A war film cannot afford to falter there.
That is why 120 Bahadur, a film about one of the Indian Army’s greatest battles, feels incomplete. Its heart is in the right place, but it needed a sharper mind to match the intelligence and spirit of its own protagonist.
Critics have largely called out the first half for being slow and occasionally dull. The common verdict is that the film takes too long to warm up before it starts landing its punches. That may be true, but for me the issue ran deeper. Something felt missing throughout, even when the second half gathers momentum. And that missing piece was emotional force. The makers seemed to play it too safe when the story needed a touch of madness, especially in the latter half where the stakes demanded bolder choices.
The story of the Battle of Rezang La is the stuff of legend. It is so astonishing that one could easily mistake it for fiction. Having recently visited the Rezang La War Memorial in Ladakh, standing on the very land where the 120 brave soldiers of the 13 Kumaon Regiment’s Charlie Company (almost all from the Ahir community in Haryana) were cremated after facing a 3000 strong Chinese force with outdated ammunition, the enormity of their sacrifice still feels impossible to grasp. They fought till the last man, taking down nearly 1300 enemy soldiers before falling. None of the bodies were found with a bullet to their back. It sounds unreal, yet it happened.
Though this story is well known within the Army, it is tragically unfamiliar to most citizens. And in that sense, I understand the instinct to sanitise the violence so the film can reach a wider audience. On that front, the film succeeds. It is technically strong, shot on real locations, with a powerful story, a capable ensemble cast and in Major Shaitan Singh Bhati a protagonist who stands taller than a hero, almost mythic.
But this was a story that demanded the brutality of war to be shown. It was an essential part of the narrative, unlike many recent Hindi films where violence is used merely as a stylistic choice. If the film had focused solely on camaraderie, bravery and sacrifice, the restraint would have worked. But with an entire second half devoted to the battle, the raw, unforgiving truth of war was needed for the script to fully come alive.
Another criticism the film faced was its restrained performances. I felt this was not a flaw but a conscious and sensible choice by the makers. Imagine a group of soldiers at sixteen thousand feet, in minus twenty four degree cold, conserving every last ounce of energy during a battle that stretches through the night. Shouting stirring lines in such conditions is not only improbable, it breaks authenticity. In choosing restraint, the makers chose truth, and it was the right call.
Where the film does falter is in its dialogue. While avoiding loud, jingoistic monologues was the correct direction, the lines still needed to carry weight, to leave you with the lingering ache that a war film should. They fall short of that. Even the constant humour does not fully land.
Farhan Akhtar, as Major Shaitan Singh, is another important anchor in the film. His performance is balanced and mature, yet there is a sense of something missing. The issue again lies in the screenplay, which does not create enough intrigue or deliver the emotional shocks the story deserves. This is a true event, one that can be easily looked up online. The power, therefore, had to come from how the story was told. Instead, the makers chose a conventional, familiar template seen in films like Border, Shershaah and LOC Kargil.
This story needed a treatment closer to Saving Private Ryan, where the war itself becomes a visceral and shattering experience. A more immersive and relentless portrayal could have left the audience shaken. But the film takes a simpler and more straightforward route, and the impact is not as deep as it could have been.
To conclude, 120 Bahadur is not a bad film by any measure. It approaches one of the Indian Army’s greatest battles with sincerity. But the creative decisions, especially in the screenplay, keep it from reaching the heights it was capable of. Despite its shortcomings, I would still urge audiences to watch it. It is a story of exceptional courage, sacrifice and the true cost of war, one every Indian should know.
Unlike the earlier nine days of this long trip, we weren’t expected to wake up early or prepare for another long drive. For once, we had all the time in the world and no real agenda. Except for the two children, everyone in the group was feeling the fatigue of the journey.
It’s funny how our bodies respond. During those long, grueling drives we hardly felt tired, carried forward by the adrenaline and the wonder of what lay ahead. It’s only when we finally stop and allow ourselves to rest that the fatigue truly sets in.
To make things worse, Subho woke up with a high fever that morning, and I with a stubborn headache. Any chance of drawing up a list of places to visit was now out of the window. We had a slightly late breakfast, and while Subho was clear he wouldn’t be venturing out in that condition, I was foolish enough to try. The earache I had seemed like a small, manageable discomfort. I thought I could handle at least a half-day plan.
The good thing was that our hotel stood right next to Dal Lake — perhaps the most iconic landmark of Srinagar. A shikara ride on the lake is almost a ritual for every visitor. How could one miss such an experience, especially when all it took was a short walk to the water’s edge?
I popped in a painkiller and set out with the others, hoping the pain would eventually fade over the course of the day. Yet, somewhere at the back of my mind, faint memories of earlier bouts of ear pain began to resurface.
A Tea Seller at Dal Lake
We crossed the road towards Dal Lake, bracing ourselves for the inevitable rounds of bargaining with the boatmen. But it turned out to be easier than expected. Ever since the terror attack at Pahalgam earlier this year, tourism in Kashmir had taken a severe hit. Local businesses were struggling, and the absence of tourists had left deep scars on the economy.
The first boatman we met offered a 90-minute ride across the lake for ₹1,500. We declined and walked on casually. He followed, lowering his price by two or three hundred each time we paused to listen. We kept walking, until he finally asked what we were willing to pay. “₹500,” we said — sticking to the golden rule of any bargain: begin low, even if it sounds absurd. To our surprise, he agreed almost instantly. As we followed him to the boat, he mentioned quietly that he hadn’t earned a rupee in the last three days.
As we stepped onto the shikara, I noticed three small fish hanging from a hook near where he sat. He caught my curious look and smiled. “My catch for the day,” he said softly.
The boat drifted away from the shore, and soon the lake began to open up before us. There’s something timeless about lakes in the mountains. Though Dal Lake wasn’t as clear as I had imagined, the sight of the surrounding mountains mirrored in its gentle ripples more than made up for it.
Cruising on the Dal Lake
The Dal is an urban freshwater lake, often called “the lake of flowers” or “Srinagar’s Jewel.” Its 15-kilometre shoreline is lined with Mughal-era gardens, parks, houseboats, and hotels. During peak winters, the lake freezes, turning into a vast sheet of ice.
Dal also has floating gardens, and in July and August, lotus flowers bloom here in their full glory. The lake is believed to have been mentioned in ancient Hindu texts, and during the Mughal era, when Srinagar became their summer retreat, emperors built exquisite gardens such as Shalimar Bagh and Nishat Bagh to enjoy the cool mountain air.
Today, Dal remains one of Kashmir’s main attractions, drawing visitors from across India, especially in winter when the valley lies under a thick blanket of snow. The sight then is breathtaking.
Kashmir in winter was something we had always wanted to experience. So, on this unplanned trip to Srinagar, we decided not to overdo things, choosing instead to explore only the areas in and around Dal.
As we drifted further into the lake, the boulevards along the shoreline came into view, as did clusters of blooming lotus flowers. Our boatman was full of stories — about the history of the lake, and little anecdotes from its past and present. At one point, he pointed toward Kabootar Khana, a small island on the lake said to have been a feeding ground for pigeons, associated with Raja Karan Singh, whose summer palace stood nearby.
As our boatman moved from one story to another, a boat pulled up beside ours. A floating cafe. We were about to get a taste of Dal’s vibrant floating market — a first for me.
My wife dressed up in a traditional Kashmiri dress
We settled for a cup of Kashmiri kahwa — what better accompaniment while drifting across Dal Lake like royalty? The fragrant tea, infused with saffron and almonds, perfectly matched the languid rhythm of the shikara. Before we could finish our cups, another boat glided up beside us, this one with a cameraman offering to dress us in traditional Kashmiri attire for a quick photo session. We hesitated at first, not particularly in the mood to pose, but eventually gave in to his persistence. Soon, we found ourselves hopping onto his boat, getting draped and dressed for the part.
We were told that our photos would be ready by the time our shikara ride was over. It’s one of those things tourists usually do at Dal Lake, so we went along for the experience.
As our little cruise resumed, we realized we were the only tourists in that part of the lake that afternoon, which instantly made us the center of attention for every seller in the floating market.
Soon, a young man paddled up with a collection of wooden handicrafts. His boat was filled with intricately carved pieces that included trays, boxes, and decorative panels, each displaying the finesse that Kashmiri artisans are known for. Woodcraft here, especially in walnut wood, is an age-old tradition that includes techniques like deep carving, shallow carving, lattice work, and undercut detailing. The motifs often draw from local elements — the Chinar leaf being the most iconic.
The craftsman spoke with an easy charm. His enthusiasm was infectious, and his artistry hard to resist. We ended up buying a few pieces.
Exploring Kashmiri woodcraft
Time on the lake slipped by unnoticed. There was barely a moment to pause, reflect, and take in the serenity around us. We did so only in the brief intervals between one seller’s boat leaving and another gliding up beside ours. The conversations with these young Kashmiri salesmen were engaging — they were skilled at what they did, drawing us in with their charm and genuine warmth. Yet, beneath their ever-present smiles, one could sense the quiet strain. The lack of tourists following the terror attack earlier this year had clearly taken a toll on this fragile floating economy. Every now and then, the desperation surfaced — subtle but unmistakable. Still, they remained unfailingly polite, never aggressive or overbearing.
The attack in April had shaken the trust between locals and visitors. The brutal act of violence targeting innocent tourists succeeded in casting a long shadow over an entire community that depends on tourism for survival. But perhaps that was the intent all along — to sow fear, mistrust, and isolation. In my view, the only way to counter such acts of violence is to continue living, to travel, to engage, and to keep the spirit of the valley alive. Fear and silence are what they seek to spread; normalcy is our quiet defiance.
Easier said than done? Maybe.
Kashmir remains one of the most heavily militarized regions in the world. Armed soldiers are everywhere on the streets of Srinagar, standing guard with loaded guns, scanning every movement, every passing face. Their presence is unmistakable even amid the city’s constant hum. It’s heartbreaking to see such a breathtaking land weighed down by the fear of sudden unrest, by the shadow of uncertainty. When will peace return to the valley? And what does normalcy even mean here? These questions kept circling in my mind.
At Dal Lake
An hour had passed since our ride began when our boatman rowed the shikara towards a small café floating on the lake. Its menu was simple but inviting. The children happily settled for plates of Maggi and ice cream, while the adults chose mojitos and lemonades — much needed on that warm August afternoon. The cool drinks were refreshing, offering a brief pause to soak in the calm of the lake and take a break from the endless stream of floating vendors.
From where we sat, we could see a line of houseboats moored near the café, some of them run by well-known hotel chains, their carved wooden exteriors gleaming under the sun. Yet, most appeared unoccupied.
After the short break, we resumed our cruise. No sooner had we set off than the next set of sellers approached. It was clear they followed an unspoken order. Each taking their turn, never overlapping, as if guided by a silent code of conduct.
A Houseboat at Dal lake
This time, a jewelry seller paddled up. His collection shimmered in the light — delicate necklaces, bangles, and earrings, each showcasing an intricate craftsmanship called filigree. A decorative design technique that uses thin metal wires to create intricate lace like patterns. What caught our eye, though, was the use of Lapis Lazuli, a semi-precious blue stone with a storied past. Revered since ancient times, it finds mention in Persian texts and is believed to have been brought to Mesopotamia from Afghanistan in 4900 BCE. During the Renaissance, European artists ground it into a powder to create the vivid ultramarine pigment for their paintings. Sourced from the Badakhshan region of Afghanistan, it was once a prized commodity, even during the era of the Indus Valley Civilization.
We picked up a simple bangle inlaid with the stone — a small but meaningful souvenir to keep as a memory.
Just as we passed a row of beautifully crafted houseboats, another boat pulled up beside ours — this time carrying a man selling spices, herbs, and medicinal substances found only in the higher reaches of the Himalayas. He spoke with quiet confidence as he demonstrated how to distinguish pure shilajit from its imitations. We didn’t intend to buy anything more, but his sincerity and knowledge won us over. We picked up a small box of saffron as a token of appreciation for his effort.
Exploring jewelry made using filigree technique
Our final stop was a handloom and textile store on the lake, where we had to step out of the shikara. The artisans here specialized in Kashmiri Aari work, a traditional form of embroidery done with a hooked needle called the aari. The technique creates intricate motifs — paisleys, florals, and the unmistakable Chinar leaf. Once reserved for royal garments, it is now used to adorn shawls, stoles, and home décor items.
This particular stop caught my wife’s and my attention more than the others. The craftsmanship resonated with us, especially since we had started a small handicraft business a year ago. We found a few pieces that would fit perfectly into our product line, and the store owner, noticing our genuine interest in bulk purchases, offered us a fair deal.
Lotus blooms at Dal
With that, our shikara ride on the iconic Dal Lake came to an end. Back at the shore, the photographer who had captured our portraits earlier was waiting, holding out our prints. The pictures had turned out surprisingly well capturing lighthearted, colorful memories of the afternoon.
We paid the boatman more than we had agreed upon, and the wide smile that lit up his face felt like a fitting close to the experience.
It was half past two — well past lunchtime. Fortunately, one of the best restaurants in the area was right next to our hotel. I was craving something traditional, something unmistakably Kashmiri.
However, by the time our shikara ride ended, the earache had worsened considerably. Yet, during those two hours on the lake, caught up in conversations with the boatman and the sellers on the floating market, I hardly had the time to dwell on it. It felt as though the pain had been trying to tell me something all along, and I, quite literally, hadn’t given it a listening ear. Now, it was shouting for attention.
Even so, my focus quickly shifted to the Kashmiri pulao and Dum Aloo we had just ordered. The sight of those fragrant dishes was enough to momentarily silence the throbbing pain.
Thankfully, the food was excellent. In the end, it felt worth the effort, or perhaps, worth the pain.
A bed cover made using Aari technique
After lunch, all I wanted was to collapse onto the bed. Given my history with earaches, (one particularly bad episode from childhood still vivid in memory) I decided I would see a doctor once we got back home. For now, I hoped that another painkiller and a good night’s rest would do the trick.
But it didn’t.
That evening, while our wives and kids stepped out for dinner, Subho and I stayed back in the hotel room, settling for a simple meal of hot soup and bread. Hardly the perfect way to spend the last night of a trip our families would remember for a long time — but perhaps that’s how it was meant to be. The memories we had gathered over the past days were worth far more than the aches our bodies were enduring that night.
Day 11: 30th August 2025 – Final Goodbye
By the next morning, Subho had recovered a little, but my earache remained stubborn. A late breakfast, a short nap, an hour of packing — and just like that, it was time to leave. Our flight to Delhi was at 5 p.m., but as is customary in Srinagar, we were required to reach the airport three hours early. The long security procedures here are part of the routine, yet they always carry a certain gravity, a reminder of where we are.
Kashmiri Pulao at Lazeez restaurant near Dal Lake
We gathered one last time at the hotel restaurant for lunch before departure. Though all of us were visibly drained, the conversation that afternoon had a quiet warmth. We found ourselves revisiting moments from the journey, the laughter, the awe, the unpredictability, even the discomfort, and realized that each had its own rightful place in the story of this trip.
As I sat near our gate waiting for our flight, after the long check-in process, my right hand pressed against my ear, a handkerchief wrapped around it for comfort, every wave of pain drew out a soft, restrained sigh. In that moment, I realized that writing this travelogue would take time. I wanted to tell this story in all its detail, the beauty and the strain, the joy and the discomfort, because isn’t that what makes a great story? One that holds truth in all its layers.
Royal Comfort Regency, the hotel where we stayed in Srinagar just across Dal Lake
The earache stayed with me for nearly a month. My hearing dulled, the pain lingered far longer than I expected, as though the memories of Ladakh were refusing to let go. And now, as I sit with this twenty-thousand-word travelogue, I find that the act of writing it has been as rewarding as the journey itself, perhaps even more so.
I wonder what I will feel when I revisit these words years from now, in a quieter season of life. Maybe that is why I travel, and perhaps that is why I write, to go in search of stories, to live them, to give them form and breath, and to release them into the world. So that one day, when I return to them, they may carry me back, not just to the places I have seen, but to the person I was when I saw them. And maybe then, my loved ones will find a part of me there too, in the echoes of these journeys, and in the stories that chose to stay.
The last time I wandered through Bhowanipore with any real leisure was nine years ago. I had returned to Kolkata a few times since the summer of 2006, but those visits were fleeting, focused on my parents, who lived there until the end of 2017. There was no space then to slip back into the rhythm of my childhood, no time to retrace the streets that once mapped my world.
But in the winter of 2016, on one such visit, I made time for an early morning walk—something I used to do every day as a student at St. Xavier’s College. The bus could’ve taken me there in under ten minutes, but I preferred the half-hour walk through waking streets. I’d arrive just before six a.m.—yes, that’s when our BCom (Hons) classes began, when the city was still stretching its limbs.
As I stepped out of my building and onto Gokhale Road, something shifted. The morning light had a softness to it, as if filtered through memory. Shapes from the past shimmered into focus. To my left stood my old gang in front of Yaseen Da’s shop, ready to dash off to Chowringhee Terrace. The bat, I noticed, was suddenly in my hand. “Bhai, chale?” Guddu grinned at me.
Just then, a school bus rounded the corner at Gol Mandir, the shouts of children echoing down the street. It was unmistakably Jugal Da’s bus—old, filled to the brim and noisy as always. I watched my father help my younger brother and a nine-year-old me into the backseat. I caught my father’s eye, and he smiled. Our smiles met briefly, suspended between the years.
I kept that smile, as the bus dissolved into the morning haze.
The next thing I knew, I was sprinting toward Chowringhee Terrace. A game of cricket was underway under a thick canopy of rain trees. Vicky hurled the ball; I met it with a square cut. The plastic ball smacked hard against the metal gate of the kindergarten school beside us. A familiar voice exploded in protest—the guard, roused even on a holiday. Guddu stepped forward to calm him down, throwing me a mischievous wink.
Then the sun vanished behind clouds, and the trees blurred once more into silhouettes. The street was quiet again.
I kept walking, but I wasn’t alone.
As I reached the point where Gokhale Road met AJC Bose Road, I paused. An unassuming man stood nearby, eyes fixed skyward, mesmerized by a crane shifting massive blocks of concrete. The flyover connecting Park Circus to Rabindra Sadan was taking shape or so it seemed.
Then a bus screeched past, jolting me back. The construction was long finished. The flyover, I realized, stood complete, humming silently above.
I crossed the road toward Nandan Cinema.
There, just outside the gate, I felt a familiar tug. My father’s little finger, gently locked with mine. It was a winter night in ’93. We were wrapped in jackets and sweaters, heading into a children’s film festival screening of Ray’s “Sonar Kella”. In my left hand was a vanilla softy, already melting slightly at the edges as the projector whirred to life.
Then, like a ripple across the screen, another image floated in—me again, slightly older this time, holding my first cup of fountain Pepsi. That too was at Nandan. The fizz, the chill, the magic of bubbles, I felt it all.
As I entered the gates of Victoria Memorial, a distant memory came rushing in. The manicured lawns stretched before me, dotted with mats and chatter. The annual picnic of our Malayalee group was in full swing on an autumn afternoon, filled with laughter, steaming containers of food, and a warmth that came not from the sun, but from the closeness of our shared roots.
Overhead, an eagle swooped low, its wings slicing the air, as it chased something in the shallow waters nearby. I flinched slightly, and the moment shifted. Just beyond the pond, I spotted the old wooden bench where we’d sit after college, me and my friends from St. Xavier’s, talking films, politics, heartbreak, and dreams.
I wandered further, exiting through the main gate. And there they were again—my childhood gang from Gokhale Road, gathered around a pushcart, gulping down glasses of shikanji. Their faces were flushed from the sun, their T-shirts soaked in sweat from a match at the Maidan. I could almost hear the clink of ice against glass, feel the burst of lime and salt on my tongue.
I let out a smirk as I walked toward the Birla Planetarium crossing. With each step, a steady smile settled on my face, and again, a bouquet of images bloomed.
Park Street unfurled before me—my school, my college. The football field echoed with shouts. The sip-ups and samosas at Panditji’s school canteen came back with startling clarity, as did the chops, rolls, and chowmein at Arun Da’s college canteen. Somehow, the footpath along Jawaharlal Nehru Road began to feel like our old corridor at St. Xavier’s Collegiate School. I could almost see Fr. Santos twirling his cane—half menace, half theatre, ready to chase down any student loitering during class hours.
I turned right at the planetarium to begin my walk back home. As I passed the Nehru Children’s Museum, another image flickered to life—miniature clay figures, narrating the tales of the Ramayana and Mahabharata. I remembered standing before them, hand in hand with my father, as he carefully explained the parts of the epics I found too complex.
When I reached the Elgin Road signal, I could almost feel a breeze drift in from Jadu Babur Bajar, thick with the smells of the morning market—fried spices, damp jute sacks, vegetables, meat and fish.
A memory rose, unannounced.
A hole-in-the-wall shop beside a mutton stall near Ganja Park—barely visible, easy to miss and still crowded. There, a man would serve mutton meatballs on a sal leaf, sprinkled with a magic masala that lingered on the tongue. If we happened to be shopping in the bazaar at night, my father would pause there without fail. One plate to snack on as we walked, and another carefully packed for my mother and brother back home.
It wasn’t indulgence—it was ritual. In Kolkata, walking and snacking are inseparable, like breath and talk. The mouth must never be idle, the stomach never left wanting. It was just the way of things.
At the signal, I glanced toward Gift Centre on Elgin Road, less than a hundred metres away. Back in school, it had been our go-to place, for birthday presents, school stationery, and last-minute greeting cards for friends in class and from the para. It was also where I carefully built my collection of Hot Wheels cars, G.I. Joe and He-Man figurines. Sachets of Hajmola and Fatafat were impulse buys at the end, tucked into our pockets before we ran off.
Two years later, I would return to the same shop, this time looking for a toy for my four-year-old son. He was with me. The man at the counter looked up and smiled instantly. He recognised me, even with my beard. Some connections, it seems, don’t fade with time.
I turned right from the signal toward Shambhunath Pandit Street and stopped at Shitala Mandir, bowing my head to the goddess.
Just beyond, Ganguram was already open. It was 8 a.m., and the familiar pot-bellied uncle behind the counter was offering his morning prayers to the gods and goddesses lining the wall. The shop hadn’t changed. The paint was coming off the walls but the glass shelves still gleamed. The scent of chhena and sugar hung in the air like something sacred.
I packed a box of sandesh for my family in Bangalore and stepped out.
Sharma Tea House was only a short walk away. I stopped in for a cup of tea, and picked up two plates of their club kachoris to take home.
On my way back to Gokhale Road, I passed Nimki House. The warm, familiar aroma of fried savouries wafted out, tugging at me like an old friend. For a moment, I slowed down. But then I smiled and whispered to myself, “Next time.”
At Gol Mandir, I offered my prayers. A steady crowd had begun to gather. But that morning, by some quiet grace, I received prasad from Panditji without a wait.
And then, I turned the final corner.
Re-entering Gokhale Road felt like stepping through a portal. The air was the same, yet not. Familiar windows blinked open. In that moment, I became a shape-shifter, man to child, and child to man again, moving between selves, across time, as if none of it had ever truly gone.
A familiar scent drifted through the morning air—the unmistakable aroma of bhoger khichuri, just as it was served on Dashami at the Gokhale Sporting Club Durga Puja. It flooded my senses, stirring something deep and wordless. As I neared my building, I spotted Guddu. “Morning walk?” he asked, reading the contentment on my face. “Yes,” I replied. We smiled. No words were needed.
Before stepping into the pathway of 7A Gokhale Road, I turned once more.
There they were—my father in his safari suit, my grandfather in his crisp whites, both smiling, standing at the edge of memory. It struck me then: these streets and alleys weren’t just theirs, they are mine too. This place has shaped me, just as it had shaped them.
But if a young boy from Palakkad, who once walked barefoot across rivers to reach his school in the 1930s, hadn’t dreamt of a better life in a distant city, none of this would have been possible. Kolkata didn’t just hold our history—it became us. That is the true hallmark of a great city: its ability to absorb everything, hold fast to its values, and through that quiet, constant churning, shape a culture uniquely its own. An identity born not from erasure, but from embrace.
In the 1970s, if my grandfather, my father, Dr. Mathur, the barefoot historian of Kolkata P.T. Nair, and their like, none of whom are alive today, had met in our tiny Gokhale Road flat, I wonder what they might have dreamt for the city’s future, fifty years ahead.
My grandfather migrated to Calcutta from a small village in Palakkad, Kerala, two years before Independence. I’m not sure when exactly he made Gokhale Road his home. My father was born in the autumn of 1949. With quiet determination, my grandfather set up a small business and soon brought over relatives from Palakkad—young men with dreams of education, growth, and a better life.
Among them was Dr. P.R.G. Mathur, a relative of ours, who would go on to become a renowned anthropologist. He completed his PhD from Calcutta University, and in the 1990s, would often visit us during his tours. He’d bring along his close friend, P. Thankappan Nair, now fondly remembered as the ‘barefoot historian of Kolkata.’ Nair lived just a stone’s throw from our home, on Kansaripara Lane. My father, Dr. Mathur, and Nair would slip into long, meandering conversations on books, politics, and the city itself. I would sit nearby, a silent bystander. The topics were far too heavy for me, but the rhythm of those conversations stays with me still.
In the 50s and 60s, as old-timers tell it, my grandmother would cook for a gathering on humid afternoons. Our small flat never felt small back then. “When it got too crowded, we’d sleep out in the balcony,” my father used to say. Years later, I accompanied him to visit Dr. Mathur in Palakkad, not long before his death. Both men were frail and quiet, but the moment was heavy with feeling. Dr. Mathur kept recalling just one thing—how lovingly my grandmother used to feed him. Her begun bhajas were his favourite. In the end, perhaps it’s always the small things that matter.
Three generations of our family owe a quiet debt to this city, and to this locality in particular. We lived in Krishnapriya Mansion, a hundred-year-old building just across from the police barracks on Gokhale Road. Modest, weathered and slowly crumbling, but always full of life. We had rented two flats in the building. My father spent his entire active life there, anchored not just by familiarity, but also by the flavours of the city.
He was a true foodie—perhaps the most Bengali of all his traits. Nimki House with its crisp savouries, Sharma Tea House with its heritage chai and club kachoris, Tibetan Delight’s momos, the doodh cola and parathas from Balwant Singh Eating House, pastries and sandwiches at Sugarr & Spice, and of course, the mishti doi and sandesh from Ganguram. These weren’t just food joints. They were rituals. Each one just a few hundred steps from our door.
However, one of the strongest memories I carry from the 90s is of my father heading to Jadu Babur Bajar on Ashutosh Mukherjee Road. It was a daily ritual, folded neatly into his morning walk. But on weekends, it took on a certain flamboyance. He’d step out with a spring in his step and his trusted jhola in hand. I was usually forced to tag along.
Someone on the road would shout, “Sachi da kothai?”, and without missing a beat, he’d reply, “Bajar korte jacchi.” That reply, so casual, feels oddly alien now, meaningless almost, for a generation that shops with a swipe on Blinkit or Big Basket. But the way he said it, with a twinkle in his eye and a hint of anticipation, made it sound like he was off on a holiday.
I couldn’t understand it then. Jadu Babur Bajar or Jaggu Bazaar as we kids mockingly called it—was no picnic spot. It was chaos. A sensory overload. A maze, a tangle of stalls and sounds where the sense of direction went to die. Yet my father moved through it with the grace of someone who belonged.
To me, it was a noisy, crowded hellscape where we spent hours negotiating with fish sellers or chasing the “right” watermelon—never the ones conveniently on the way, but the one seller tucked away at the very end. He had a shop for everything, a logic for every detour, and zero patience for my protests. It was all deeply irritating then.
But memories are strange shape-shifters. What once felt unbearable now returns with warmth. The sight of his content face after a good day at the bajar, the pride in his choices, the quiet joy he took in the ritual—that image refuses to leave me.
Growing up, I had always seen my father as deeply spiritual. He’d often say he was a rebel in his younger days, but I never saw that version of him. What I did see was a man who was well-read, an All India CA rank holder, and a devoted book lover who never missed a single day of the boi mela. Years of recurring illness had slowly made him god-fearing. The first of these came early—a brain tumour diagnosis when I was just seven. He survived, but more such episodes followed.
On his way back from office, he would often stop by Gol Mandir for a quiet moment of prayer. Tuesdays, though, were more elaborate. He’d visit both Gol Mandir and Shitala Mandir, where the crowds swelled and the rituals took longer. For my brother and me, the devotion meant little at the time—our focus was mostly on securing the prasad from Panditji before it ran out.
My father could hardly speak Malayalam before he married a pukka Malayalee from Palakkad. His love for Calcutta echoed in all his choices, and in every conversation. I remember watching my mother struggle in those days—everything from the language to the culture and food felt unfamiliar to her. Yet, over the years, she quietly adapted and found her rhythm in the city. With a man so completely in love with Calcutta, I don’t think she ever really had a choice.
For my father, leaving Gokhale Road would have been like leaving a part of himself. He stayed on until 2017. After that, my parents split their time between my brother’s house in Rajarhat and mine in Bangalore, before eventually finding a house in Palakkad. But all through those years, the flat at Gokhale Road remained. We let it go only in 2023—after he was gone.
The year was 1999. I was fifteen. Calcutta was still called that, though its rechristening was already on the horizon. That September, a single bout of torrential rain brought the city to its knees. From our third-floor flat, I watched nervously as the water on Gokhale Road rose inch by inch, swallowing the street below. Schools were shut, and office-goers hitched rides on hand-pulled rickshaws just to reach dry land, where a bus, a taxi, or the metro might rescue them. The spitting rain continued for two more days, and we rejoiced at the unexpected school holidays.
Floods were common back then, but school closures weren’t. This was as close to a bandh as we could get, which, in those days, wasn’t all that rare either. Unlike that brief celebration, most of my monsoon memories of Kolkata are murky: waterlogged streets, a constant stench, clouds of mosquitoes, and a sky that never cleared. I don’t think many liked the rains back then, except on weekends, when the smell of khichuri in the afternoons or telebhaja in the evenings drifted from one house to another, bringing momentary comfort.
Now, as I sit on my balcony in Bangalore with a cup of tea, watching a gentle drizzle fall, memories of Calcutta’s torrential monsoons and my childhood in Bhowanipore come rushing back. Unlike the rains, those memories remain warm and dear.
I grew up in Bhowanipore, largely unaware of the historical weight the neighbourhood carried. That awareness came much later. Back then, life revolved around casual addas with friends and weekend rituals: cricket matches at the Maidan in the morning, and evening strolls through the neighbourhood. These walks took us past some of the city’s iconic landmarks such as Nandan Cinema, Rabindra Sadan, Victoria Memorial, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Nehru Planetarium, and were often punctuated by street food stops—Kolkata-style chowmein, Kathi rolls, puchkas, bhel puri, and, on better days, momos from Tibetan Delight.
Tucked between the bustling arteries of Shambhunath Pandit Street on one end and Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose Road on the other, Gokhale Road offered a rare pocket of calm. Even as the neighbourhood around it pulsed with commerce and traffic, this narrow street remained something of an oasis: shielded and remarkably quiet.
But perhaps the most defining space of that time was a rectangular stretch called Chowringhee Terrace, a lane branching off Gokhale Road, opposite the Institution of Engineers, and tapering off near the police barracks. That quiet end hosted the Gokhale Sporting Club Durga Puja—familiar to locals but never crowded enough to descend into the chaos that marked the city’s more prominent pujas in South-Central Kolkata. At the other end, near the post office and Institution of Engineers, was where we spent most evenings in adda and gully cricket, using a heavy plastic ball that could travel the distance, and could wake the locality up if it hit a metal gate.
In many ways, though, Gokhale Road always felt dwarfed by the commercial and cultural landmarks that surrounded it. When returning from other parts of town, we often struggled to explain its exact location to taxi drivers. It was usually nearby landmarks such as Ganguram, Gol Mandir—that came to our rescue.
Yet Gokhale Road quietly held its own. It was home to several important institutions: the Institution of Engineers, the Army’s Recruitment Centre, Calcutta Club, the Police Housing Estate, and the Mahavir Digambar Jain Temple tucked into Chowringhee Terrace. And despite its proximity to the city’s beating heart namely Park Street, Esplanade, and Elgin—it somehow retained a hush, a kind of quiet that the grander, more restless parts of Kolkata could never quite manage.
My father never left Gokhale Road. Though we lived in a small apartment and could well afford a larger one elsewhere, he’d brush off the suggestion, saying, “This is where everyone wants to live. Why should we leave?”
Part of it, I think, was his deep resistance to change—he was never much of an adventurer. Although, as a chartered accountant working in a private firm in Old Court House Street, he had traveled extensively auditing banks. I believe it was memory that anchored him. His entire childhood was woven into the fabric of this neighbourhood.
Boman Irani’s directorial debut, The Mehta Boys, which he has co-written with Alexander Dinelaris, the Oscar winning screenwriter of Birdman, doesn’t feel like the work of a first-time filmmaker. A celebrated actor with a career spanning 25 years, Irani steps behind the camera to tell a story of a father and son navigating a complicated relationship. But aren’t all father-son relationships tricky? What sets this film apart in a genre well-explored in Hindi cinema? This is where the film’s sharp screenplay shines, offering a fresh perspective. The Mehta Boys is often funny but turns serious when it needs to, refusing to dilute its social commentary with humor.
When Boman Irani debuted as a Hindi film actor at the turn of the millennium, he didn’t look like a newcomer. Perhaps it was because he was already 40, bringing with him a wealth of life experience that shaped his performances. It’s something today’s young actors could learn from. This approach gave us unforgettable characters like Dr. Asthana (Munna Bhai M.B.B.S.), Kishan Khurana (Khosla Ka Ghosla), and Viru Sahastrabuddhe (3 Idiots), among many others. Now, at 65, he remains at the top of his game—both as an actor and, with The Mehta Boys, as a director.
The film opens with evocative shots of Amay’s home, played by an excellent Avinash Tiwary. His house, much like him, is flawed yet functional, holding itself together despite its problems. The first thing that stands out is the meticulous production design. Each room has a distinct personality, telling its own silent story. Much of the film unfolds within these walls, making the space almost a character in itself.
Another standout aspect of The Mehta Boys is its cinematography, which instantly reminded me of Birdman—not just in the way the camera moves, but in how light and color are used to heighten emotions. The camerawork is dynamic, adapting seamlessly to the film’s tonal shifts. In the chaotic, comedic moments, it moves swiftly, almost playfully. But when the film demands weight, the camera slows, locking into tight close-ups to amplify emotion before gradually pulling back to reveal multiple perspectives. There’s an old-school simplicity to the way scenes are framed, yet it blends effortlessly with modern techniques, ensuring that not a single moment feels dull.
But the true strength of The Mehta Boys lies in its performances. Boman Irani as Shiv Mehta, Avinash Tiwary as his son Amay, Puja Sarup as daughter Anu, and Shreya Chaudhry as Amay’s love interest, Zara—all are impeccably cast, delivering pitch-perfect performances. With the film relying heavily on tight and extreme close-ups, every expression had to land, and the actors rise to the challenge.
At its core, the film is an intense exploration of the father-son dynamic, where every scene carries weight. This makes the chemistry between Boman and Avinash crucial—and it crackles with energy. Yet, the most striking moment for me is Anu’s meltdown at the airport. As she realizes that neither her father nor her brother will budge, even in the face of crisis, her frustration erupts in a way that is agonizing, hilarious, and utterly human. It’s a scene that perfectly encapsulates the film’s emotional depth and sharp writing reminding me of earlier gems in this genre like Kapoor & Sons.
In an interview with ET Now, Boman Irani shared that The Mehta Boys doesn’t offer solutions to father-son conflicts—because that was never the film’s intent. Instead, it embraces the complexity of these relationships, capturing their highs and lows with honesty. And in doing so, it takes the audience on an emotional roller coaster. I laughed wholeheartedly. I cried just as much. I saw glimpses of my own relationship with my father—the love, the friction, the unspoken words.
But what lingers most is the realization that Boman himself never met his father, having lost him six months before he was born. And yet, he writes the character of Shiv Mehta with such depth, nuance, and style. That, more than anything, tells me this is a man who has truly lived and observed life. This is a stellar directorial debut by a brilliant actor.
Verdict:
IMDb rating – 7.3/10
My Rating – 4/5
The Mehta Boys is streaming on Amazon Prime Video.
Horror is my favorite genre because it’s fluid and adaptable, like water—filling any shape, taking on any tone. Its strength comes from something primal: fear, a pulse that flows through every living being, often in ways we barely recognize. It waits quietly beneath the surface, until some trigger—pain, grief, or madness—brings it flooding out. As Guillermo del Toro says, “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win.” Horror endures because fear is universal, a constant that binds us all.
Yet horror is also a genre worn thin; tropes are overused, sub-genres fully explored and jump scares have begun to bore. But every so often, a filmmaker breaks through, pushing the boundaries and bringing fresh depth to the screen. This list celebrates 13 such films from around the world, all available on streaming (except one). Selected for their craft, impact, and originality, these aren’t big-budget spectacles but films that redefine the genre’s limits. Some had quiet releases but have since found a devoted cult following. Each deserves a place on any horror fan’s must-watch list.
Warning – None of the films in this list are for the faint of heart.
13. Longlegs (2024) : Language – English, Country – USA, Director – Osgood Perkins, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
Longlegs introduces a chillingly real villain, Dale Ferdinand Kobble—a character so disturbing he could be the twisted sibling of Hannibal Lecter and Pennywise. Played by an unrecognizable Nicolas Cage, Kobble is the only non-supernatural villain on this list, making him even more terrifying.
The story follows FBI Agent Lee Harker, who is assigned to a long-cold serial killer case. As Harker delves deeper, new evidence emerges, hinting at occult involvement. Soon, Harker discovers a haunting personal connection to Kobble and must stop him before he strikes again.
IMDb rating – 6.7/10
My Rating – 7/10
12. Vivarium (2019) : Language – English, Country – USA, Director – Lorcan Finnegan, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
Gemma (Imogen Poots), a high school teacher, and her boyfriend Tom (Jesse Eisenberg), a landscaper, visit a bizarre suburban development called Yonder. They’re shown house number 9 by an unsettling real estate agent, Martin, who vanishes after learning they don’t have children. As they attempt to leave, they find themselves trapped in a nightmarish maze—no matter the route, they end up back at house 9. With no choice but to stay, they’re supplied with tasteless packaged food by an unknown source. Desperate, Tom sets the house ablaze and spends the night outside with Gemma, only for them to receive a chilling package the next morning: an infant and a note reading, “Raise the child and be released.” What ensues is an absurd, terrifying descent into the surreal, where reality bends in disturbing, darkly humorous ways.
IMDb rating – 5.9/10
My rating – 7/10
11. Babadook (2014) : Language – English, Country – Australia, Director – Jennifer Kent, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
Amelia, an exhausted single mother, struggles to cope with the trauma of her husband’s tragic death, which occurred as he drove her to the hospital while she was in labor. Now, she faces the daily challenge of raising her troubled six-year-old son, Sam, who exhibits erratic behavior and is fixated on an imaginary monster he believes is haunting them. One night, Sam asks her to read a disturbing pop-up book called Mister Babadook, which seems to appear out of nowhere and eerily describes a menacing creature. As the story convinces Sam that his monster is real, a series of terrifying events blurs the line between reality and nightmare, binding Amelia’s past, her grief, and her fears into a haunting tale of psychological horror.
IMDb rating – 6.8/10
My Rating – 7.5/10
10. The Platform (2019) : Language – Spanish, Country – Spain, Director – Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, Streaming – Netflix
The Platform is a Spanish dystopian thriller that explores human nature through a brutal, thought-provoking lens. Set in a massive tower with hundreds of floors, inmates are fed by a descending platform that starts fully stocked at the top but dwindles to scraps—or nothing—by the lower levels. Each floor must survive on the leftovers of those above, and anyone who defies the system faces horrific punishment. Adding to the chaos, residents are randomly reassigned floors each month, thrusting them from privilege to desperation. What unfolds is a harrowing tale of survival that, while not strictly horror, taps into our deepest fears and lays bare the darkness of human behavior in a world of scarcity.
IMDb rating – 7/10
My Rating – 7.5/10
9. The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017) : Language – English, Country – USA, Director – Yorgos Lanthimos, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
The Killing of a Sacred Deer, directed by the audacious Yorgos Lanthimos, follows Steven, a cardiovascular surgeon, who crosses paths with a peculiar 16-year-old boy named Martin after performing an open heart surgery. Steven invites Martin for dinner, where he meets Steven’s wife and two children and quickly becomes unsettlingly close with the family. As Martin’s presence in their lives intensifies, he begins to invade Steven’s world in increasingly disturbing and inexplicable ways. A series of bizarre, even supernatural events unfold, forcing Steven to confront Martin’s dark, enigmatic motives. Lanthimos crafts a chilling, surreal narrative that leaves audiences with haunting questions—and no intention of offering any answers.
IMDb rating – 7/10
My rating – 7.5/10
8. Talk to Me (2022) : Language – English, Country – Australia, Director – Danny and Michael Philippou, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
Talk to Me, an Australian horror film, breathes new life into the well-worn theme of spirit channeling which includes—Ouija board, table seance etc. The story follows Mia, a teenager grappling with her mother’s death, who attends a high-stakes party seeking escape. There, the kids toy with a sinister new method of contacting the dead—a disembodied hand that allows them to become mediums. What begins as a thrill quickly spirals into horror as they lose control, crossing into dangerous, unseen realms. With clever twists, stylish camerawork, a trippy background score and razor-sharp editing, Talk to Me delivers a gripping, nightmarish ride that reinvents the genre.
IMDb rating – 7.1/10
My rating – 8/10
7. Lamb (2021) : Language – Icelandic, Country – Iceland, Sweden & Poland, Director – Valdimar Jóhannsson, Streaming – MUBI
On the absurdity scale, few films rival the Icelandic film, Lamb. The story follows farmers Ingvar and Maria, a grieving couple, who live a solitary life, unable to move beyond the loss of their only child. Their days are filled with the hard, numbing work of tending to their farm—until a shocking event disrupts their routine. A sheep gives birth to a creature that is part lamb, part human. The couple decides to raise this hybrid as their own child, creating a life that’s as tender as it is unsettling. What unfolds is an eerie, darkly humorous tale that’s hauntingly original.
IMDb rating – 6.3/10
My rating – 8/10
6. Midsommar (2019) : Language – English, Country – USA & Sweden, Director – Ari Aster, Streaming – Apple TV for rent
In Midsommar, director Ari Aster weaves a disturbing tale of grief, psychological torment, and cultural horror. After a tragic family loss, Dani (Florence Pugh) accompanies her distant boyfriend, Christian, and his friends to a secluded Swedish commune’s midsummer festival. What begins as a peaceful celebration soon descends into a nightmarish ordeal. The group is subjected to brutal rituals, psychological manipulation, and strange communal customs, including sacrificial ceremonies and hallucinogenic trips. As Dani is drawn deeper into the cult’s world, she finds herself torn between horror and acceptance. The final scene’s shocking twist reveals Dani’s unsettling transformation, challenging viewers with its potent blend of folk horror and emotional vulnerability.
IMDb rating – 7.1/10
My rating – 8/10
5. Goodnight Mommy (2014) : Language – Austrian, Country – Austria, Director – Veronika Franz, Severin Fiala, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
In the Austrian psychological thriller Goodnight Mommy, twin ten-year-old boys are unsettled when their mother returns to their idyllic lakeside home after facial surgery, her face swathed in bandages with only her eyes and mouth exposed. Her behavior is cold and unrecognizable—she imposes silence, demands the blinds stay drawn, and insists they only play outside. Convinced this is not their mother but an imposter, the boys take matters into their own hands, tying her to the bed and subjecting her to disturbing acts to make her confess. Far from a simple “torture fest,” the film explores identity and trust in a nuanced, yet chilling descent into horror, made even more haunting by the fact that the perpetrators are children.
The film was remade in English with the same name and released in 2022, starring Naomi Watts.
IMDb rating – 6.7/10
My rating – 8/10
4. Bramayugam (2024) : Language – Malayalam, Country – India, Director – Rahul Sadasivan, Streaming – Sony LIV
Bramayugam draws deeply from the folklore, myths, and legends of Kerala, telling the haunting story of Thevan, a low-caste court singer who narrowly escapes slavery only to find himself in a mysterious, ominous mana (mansion). Its owner, Kodumon Potti, is a menacing figure whose words and intentions are shrouded in deceit. As the story unfolds, it slips into the supernatural, revealing Kodumon Potti’s dark identity and malevolent plans. Set entirely in black and white, director Rahul Sadasivan’s choice evokes nostalgia, recalling tales passed down through generations, while intensifying the story’s eerie, oppressive atmosphere. Bramayugam is both a chilling supernatural thriller and a profound commentary on power, greed, and social oppression, set against the backdrop of a surreal world.
IMDb rating – 7.8/10
My rating – 8.5/10
3. The Witch (2015) : Language – English, Country – USA & Canada, Director – Robert Eggers, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video on rent
Robert Eggers’ haunting directorial debut and a breakout role for a young Anya Taylor-Joy, is a chilling New England folktale set in the 1630s. After a Puritan family is banished over a religious dispute, they build a farm on the edge of a dense, foreboding forest. Soon, sinister forces seem to close in, as their newborn mysteriously vanishes—taken, it seems, by a witch lurking in the shadows. What unfolds is far from a typical supernatural tale; it’s a slow-burning descent into dread, artfully shot and rich with subtext. The film’s use of animals to amplify terror creates an unsettling atmosphere.
IMDb rating – 7/10
My rating – 8.5/10
2. Tumbbad (2018) : Language – Hindi, Country – India, Director – Rahi Anil Barve, Streaming – Currently not streaming since it was re-released in theatres
Tumbbad is arguably India’s finest horror film in recent years—original, intelligent, and hauntingly crafted. Set in 1920s Tumbbad, it follows three generations of a family suffering the consequences of their greed after building a forbidden temple for Hastar, the first-born of the Goddess of Prosperity. Hastar, a cursed entity, can grant gold but brings ruin to those who seek it. Legend has it that when the Goddess created the world, she bore Hastar first, favoring him, but his insatiable greed led him to seize both wealth and food. In fury, his divine siblings overpowered him, sparing his life only on the condition that he would never be worshiped.
The story centers on Vinayak, a man consumed by poverty and desperate for wealth, who uncovers the dangerous secret of accessing Hastar’s riches. Tumbbad explores the boundless depths of human greed with a chilling allegory, underscored by breathtaking cinematography and masterful production and sound design. It’s a timeless tale of temptation and consequence, both eerie and unforgettable.
IMDb rating – 8.2/10
My Rating – 9/10
1. Hereditary (2018) : Language – English, Country – USA, Director – Ari Aster, Streaming – Amazon Prime Video
Ari Aster’s debut film, Hereditary, is a modern horror masterpiece that exemplifies nuanced storytelling. The story follows Annie, a miniature artist, and her family as they grapple with the death of her secretive mother. Soon, buried family secrets begin to surface, and the family’s grief opens a door to the supernatural, pulling both Annie and her family into dark, otherworldly experiences. As they confront generational trauma and sinister legacies, evil forces entwine their lives with terrifying consequences. Haunting cinematography, impeccable framing, and Toni Collette’s powerful performance elevate Hereditary, making it one of the most unforgettable horror films of the last decade.
IMDb rating – 7.3/10
My Rating – 9.5/10
You’ll notice some big-ticket films like Get Out, Train to Busan, and IT aren’t on this list. These movies have already gained massive attention, so instead, this list spotlights hidden gems that may have flown under the radar of horror fans. In terms of craft and originality, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the best. Hoping it’s of some use.
It’s not easy to put loss into words. More so for eventualities like death, which are permanent. It’s not that they can’t be worded, but they cloud our minds so much that we lose the ability to think logically, to the point where we lose a sense of reality. I guess it’s the permanence of the loss that makes us feel that way. It’s also perhaps the reason why, within our species, the death ritual is the most ancient, at least that’s what science tells us.
I lost Joshua in July of 2021. It took me a while to understand the loss.
***
After Joshua’s first arthritic attack, recovery was slow but steady. It had taken him six months to just stand. So we knew it wasn’t going to be easy thereafter. A strict diet, daily walks, therapy, and massages gradually helped him regain strength. He had lost a lot of weight, and his gaunt frame was a constant reminder of the battle he had fought. But dogs don’t dwell in misery for long. Joshua, resilient and stubborn, was young at heart. Within a few months, he was ready to go on his walks.
We moved again, this time to an apartment in a quiet colony with wooden floors—perfect for him. The floors gave him better traction than the slippery tiles of our earlier house, and the absence of stray dogs meant he wouldn’t get agitated or risk further injury. Even so, he remained unpredictable.
On sunny days, we’d go out for slow walks. He’d stop often, mesmerized by the rustling leaves, the birds in the distance, or a new scent carried by the wind. Sometimes, he would just lie down, letting the breeze tousle his fur. These walks weren’t about covering ground anymore; they were to keep him engaged, a part of the world. He barked less—just a low grumble now and then—but mostly, he was quiet, and observant.
Rainy days were the hardest. On those days, our walks were confined to the basement. He’d often collapse on the driveway, too tired to get up right away, forcing cars to wait. But most of the time, the neighbors were kind. They understood his condition.
His spirit, though, never waned. And in those quieter moments, watching him look at the world, I realized he was teaching me something—about aging, about resilience, about letting go. He was 11 years old then.
My father’s health was also failing during this time. He had been dealing with limited mobility for over a decade, the aftermath of a stroke and a recurring vertigo. He would watch Joshua’s struggle closely, as he dragged himself across the floor, or when he had an accident and needed help, or when he slowly made his way to the balcony.
He rarely spoke about it, but once in a while, he’d break his silence. “He’s struggling a lot. It’s difficult to watch.” I never knew how to respond to that. I would just nod and leave the room, unsure of what he was really feeling as he sat there, blankly staring at Joshua’s struggle.
Pain, both mental and physical, is difficult to put into words. And even when you do, you quickly realize how inadequate it sounds—like you’ve diminished something that can’t be contained in sentences. It’s easier to talk about happiness or hope. Those moments may be fleeting, but they’re far easier to describe.
A year passed. Joshua was now 12, and we noticed he was losing his vision. In hindsight, the long stares during his walks—those moments when he seemed lost in thought—may have been the first signs. But dogs, they say, can live happily without sight; their noses guide them well enough. Still, his steps had become more cautious, more hesitant.
He had also developed small lumps on his legs. At first, we assumed they were a result of his reduced mobility over the past few years. They weren’t soft or painful, so we didn’t worry much until the vets suggested they could be tumors. Fortunately, they didn’t seem malignant, and surgery, at his age, was too risky. We were told to let it be.
Amid all of this, we tried to preserve some normalcy. Joshua still had a strong appetite, and whenever he ate, there was that familiar joy. In times like these, you learn to celebrate the little wins, to find hope in small moments of happiness. It’s what keeps you going.
We invited friends and family who knew him well to visit often. They would sit with him, cuddle, or just lie next to him—nothing fancy, just company. That’s all he ever wanted. Well, except for those moments when the scent of tandoori chicken wafted through the air during get-togethers. Then, out of nowhere, that familiar bark would resurface, a reminder of the dog he always was—alert, hopeful, and never too far from the next treat.
It was then that a tiny, invisible force entered the world of humans, a harbinger of ruin. They called it COVID-19. It struck like a blow from behind, knocking the breath out of us. And when we came to our senses, the world had changed—everything we once knew had to be done differently. Some fortunate souls reveled in the novelty of working from home, but for others, it felt like staring down the barrel of a gun. We were confined to our ghettos, our bubbles grew thicker, and life became smaller.
But amidst the chaos, the shift was especially cruel for our pets—particularly for a dog like Joshua. What would become of his walks now that the world had shut its doors? He didn’t have much time left as it was. How would this isolation, this disruption, impact his already ailing body?
We didn’t have to wait long to find out. A second arthritic attack struck him down, harder and faster than we’d expected. Time, it seemed, had made its decision.
Fortunately, during the pandemic veterinary services were deemed essential. Despite continuing his earlier medications, we felt the need for someone to check on Joshua’s progress. Luckily, we found a vet who was willing to visit our home during those uncertain times. This was nothing short of a godsend.
The silver lining of the pandemic was that we were all home, able to tend to him. This wasn’t just a comfort for Joshua—it became a source of strength for us as his caregivers. The shared presence and attention gave us the collective support we needed.
However, a lot happened during the first wave of Covid. The morning after the first lockdown was announced, my father suffered a minor stroke. He was in Kolkata with my brother, and I had no way to travel to him. Fortunately, he recovered and was out of hospital in a day. Soon after, my sister-in-law contracted Covid. She too pulled through, without vaccines and—miraculously—without spreading it to the rest of the family.
It was a time that reminded us of how fragile life really is. Everything we had once taken for granted suddenly felt precious. The reality of our own mortality loomed large, and we knew it was only a matter of time before the virus reached our doorstep. The question was: how long could we hold off the inevitable?
As the first wave of Covid subsided, Joshua was well into his 13th year, and by some stroke of luck, we had emerged largely unscathed. The pandemic had forced the world to reassess its priorities. People began to rediscover forgotten dreams, lost hobbies, and the finite nature of everything became strikingly clear. I managed to publish the book I had been working on for two years—a small victory amidst the chaos. Marketing it without bookstores or face-to-face interactions was a nightmare, but I never expected miracles from my first book. Just getting it into the hands of readers and having them share their thoughts felt like a win. Over time, it found a small, loyal reader base. For me, the greatest satisfaction was in proving I could finish what I had set out to do.
But this period took a heavy toll on Joshua. Much like how we now talk about the long-term effects of isolation on children—physically, behaviorally, and mentally—it was also a difficult time for our pets. Though Joshua survived the worst of his second arthritic attack, it aged him considerably. He could still stand and move around for a few minutes, but the effort left pain etched across his face. His legs would eventually give out, and he’d collapse. The medications, while necessary, were taking their toll. His once-strong body had become frail, emitting a persistent odor suggesting his health was slipping away. He frequently injured himself, leaving bloodstains on his feet and other places. The writing was on the wall—he was in the final stretch of his life.
At no point did we want to prolong Joshua’s suffering. Yet, much like how a person with dementia might experience brief moments of clarity, Joshua too found a sudden surge of energy—echoes of his old self. For a while, there was renewed vigor in his steps, a spark that gave us hope. In hindsight, it was a fleeting illusion. But as caregivers, we cling to such moments; they become our own source of comfort, a kind of pill to keep us going.
We were living in a dream—one that quickly crumbled. As the first wave of Covid faded, humanity reverted to its old habits. People disregarded social distancing, ignored caution, and the virus returned in a more virulent, deadly form. The second wave came crashing down, relentless and unforgiving. It overwhelmed us, catching everyone off guard, just when the weight of the first wave had begun to lift.
It was the worst possible timing. Any glimpse of normalcy felt like a cruel mirage. The world seemed to spiral deeper into despair. Headlines screamed of crumbling relationships, surging mental health crises, suicides, alcohol and drug abuse, domestic violence—anger and hopelessness consumed the masses. We were drowning in it all, and amidst this, Joshua’s final chapter was unfolding.
The Closure
Attachment that drives us to madness, fear that paralyzes us from letting go, and stories that shield us from facing reality—these are the fiends that whisper in our ears, convincing us to cling to convenient lies rather than confront the inconvenient truth.
For me, it was accepting that truth that proved hardest. For Kavita, it was the act of letting go. For Advay, our son, it was the pain he saw in us and his fear of what it would mean for our family. The bubble of these intertwined fears became our shared story, but no matter how tightly we held onto it, the truth loomed before us, relentless.
Now in his 14th year, Joshua in body was a faint shadow of his younger self. I don’t know if there was a younger soul in him or not. Maybe? But there was hardly any life left in him. How long were we going to keep this going?
In July of 2021, the inevitable decision was made. It was Kavita who had to voice it—not because I couldn’t, but because it was her right. She had been his mother, the one most bonded to her baby. For a long time, until then, she had been in denial, unwilling to let go. But in the end, it was her courage that broke the silence. She broke it, just like on the day she got him. It was clear and precise. I know how difficult it was for her, but it was a final act of love. Joshua had always been her dog, her companion, and his loyalty to her was unmatched.
That day is still as vivid as daylight. We chose to euthanize Joshua at home, not in a sterile hospital. It felt right—only we, his family, should be there to see him off. He deserved to leave this world lying in our laps, with our whispers of love surrounding him. The vet, who had been with us through the last two years of Joshua’s decline, agreed to help. As the injection entered his veins, he slipped quietly into a sleep from which there would be no waking. The pain that had etched itself on his face for so long finally vanished. He was free from everything—both the joys and the suffering.
We buried him close to his friends at the boarding house, the place he loved when we were away. In our hands, we carried letters that tried to capture the depth of our loss, and photographs filled with memories. As we placed these tokens into his grave, a gentle drizzle began to fall. The rain mixed with our tears, masking our grief, but not the cries of agony we could no longer hold back. For Kavita and me, Joshua wasn’t just our dog; he was a chapter in our lives, a chapter of growing up—from wild, carefree days to learning what it means to love deeply and to let go.
When I reached home, I was overwhelmed with the loss. I had always believed I was the one more prepared for it, but I was shattered. All that had transpired in the last few years flashed before my eyes. It took me a while to truly understand the depth of the loss.
Dogs can’t do anything material for you, and yet they leave an impact on your life that’s beyond measure. They are always there for you, and that’s all they can do for you. Their entire lives are spent observing us, trying to please us. This is why I could see Joshua in every corner of the house, after he was gone. It’s because he was everywhere, following us wherever we went.
This friendship between our species has shaped not just their evolution, but ours as well. But their love is more unconditional than ours, because they know how to live in the moment, to experience life to the fullest. We’ve lost that ability, and I have no doubt about it. After all, which other animal can love another species more than its own?
Here’s a quote that has me in tears every time I read it. It also sums up my thoughts at this moment.
“A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes, or designer clothes. A water log stick will do just fine. A dog doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart and he’ll give you his. How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?” – John Grogan – Marley & Me (2008)
***
Two days later, a puppy came home. He was just 35 days old. We had no intention of picking him up, but he chose us—he ran right toward me, as if he had been waiting for that moment. His eyes were the most expressive, marble-like that was hard to resist. That rainy night, with the deluge pouring down, we took him home. It felt like the rain was washing away the pain, making way for the next chapter.
We named him Nimbus. He’s three years old now. Last year he became a father to a girl we named Nola. I try not to see Joshua in Nimbus. He is beautiful, and unique in his own way. But what am I supposed to do with these stories in my head?
