Baramulla: A Chilling Tale of Memory, Loss, and the Ghosts of a Homeland
Manav Kaul’s Baramulla , now streaming on Netflix, isn’t your typical horror film—it’s something far more haunting. It doesn’t rely on monsters hiding in the dark or sudden jump scares. Instead, it draws its horror from something far more real—the pain of separation, the loss of home, and the ghosts of memory that refuse to fade.
Set against the breathtaking yet melancholy snowfields of Kashmir, Baramulla tells the story of DSP Ridwaan Sayyed, played by Manav Kaul, who is called to investigate a string of mysterious child disappearances in the town of Baramulla. At first, it feels like a crime thriller—children vanishing, a town in panic, and a police officer determined to uncover the truth. But as the investigation unfolds, the story begins to peel away its surface mystery and dives deep into themes of exile, grief, and historical trauma.
Kaul’s Ridwaan is not just a cop; he’s a man quietly drowning in his own doubts and losses. Haunted by guilt and torn between duty and emotion, his journey becomes one of reckoning—not only with the crimes unfolding before him but also with the buried horrors of the land he serves. What begins as a procedural thriller slowly transforms into a poetic meditation on what it means to belong, and what happens when that belonging is ripped away.
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Alongside him, Bhasha Sumbli, known for her role in The Kashmir Files , delivers a quietly powerful performance as Ridwaan’s wife, Gulnaar. Her character embodies silent strength—the heartbreak of a woman trying to keep her family together while sensing that something unseen is creeping closer. The scenes between her and Kaul are understated yet profoundly moving, capturing a family caught between love and fear.
Director Aditya Suhas Jambhale and writer Aditya Dhar have crafted a story that builds its tension not through the supernatural, but through memory itself. The ghosts here are emotional, not physical. The film’s cinematography captures the icy stillness of Kashmir in a way that feels almost alive—the snow, the silence, the shadows—all becoming characters in their own right.
While the film’s first half falters slightly in pacing, the second half delivers a deeply emotional punch. The climax, in particular, is devastating yet cathartic—a reflection on the unhealed wounds of the Kashmiri Pandit exodus of the 1990s. Baramulla doesn’t dramatize that tragedy; it absorbs it, turning it into an elegy for those who lost everything, including the right to call their home their own.
By the end, you realize that Baramulla isn’t about horror at all—it’s about humanity. It’s about the pain of remembering when forgetting might be easier, and the power of stories that refuse to be buried. With a quiet, haunting beauty and Manav Kaul’s mesmerizing performance, Baramulla stands as one of Netflix’s most mature and emotionally resonant Hindi originals this year. It’s less a film and more a requiem—a cinematic prayer for peace, memory, and belonging.
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