Baramulla is a supernatural horror thriller directed by Aditya Suhas Jambhale. The film stars Manav Kaul as DSP Ridwaan Sayyed, a police officer investigating a series of child disappearances in Baramulla, Kashmir. As the case unfolds, Ridwaan and his family face increasingly disturbing supernatural events linked to their new villa and the town’s hidden traumas. Bhasha Sumbli plays Ridwaan’s wife, contributing to a cast known for its authentic, quietly powerful performances.
The movie masterfully blends supernatural mystery, psychological drama, and crime investigation against the backdrop of Kashmir’s haunting beauty. Baramulla uses chilling visuals and evocative sound design to explore themes of grief, memory, and resilience, earning praise for both its authenticity and emotional weight.
Baramulla premiered on November 7, 2025, and is currently streaming exclusively on Netflix. It is available in Hindi, English, Tamil, and Telugu, and has quickly gained global traction, trending in the top ten non-English films on the platform.
I watched the movie Baramulla alone, late at night, with the sound barely audible.
By the time the credits faded, my shirt was damp—not from tears, because men learn early that tears are indulgence—but from something heavier: recognition. The film does not cry out; it seeps. Quietly. Relentlessly. The way the Valley itself has bled for thirty-five years.
This film is remembrance, clothed in cinema. If Doctor Zhivago spoke for exiles, Baramulla is the voice of those who never had a choice. That is why it hurts deeper.
The film does not accuse, but it subtly exposes and peels away many layers. Indian viewers will leave uneasy. Pakistani viewers, too. But Kashmiris? For the first time in decades, we will feel seen as people whose ordinary lives were hijacked.
Baramulla stands as a rare, authentic film to emerge from Kashmir precisely because it feels made by Kashmiris, for Kashmiris. Yet, it speaks to the world in a language older than politics. It is not entertainment; it is testimony.
Watch it. Watch it with your children, if they are old enough to know that some stories contain only casualties, not villains. Watch it with your parents, if they still pretend 1990 never happened. Or watch it alone, if—like me—you carry the Valley inside you, unhealed.
When it ends, do not applaud. Sit in the dark. The tulips will return. The house will not.
Baramulla is both a gut-punch and an elegy. It is unflinching in truth, fragile in empathy, luminous in its depiction of a people trapped between memory and loss. If you have ever wondered why Kashmir bleeds, this film offers an answer stripped of slogans. It is neither propaganda nor pity. It is only the ache of being human.
The imagery endures: tulips and snow, not as an ornament, but as the film’s poetic spine. Those who know Kashmir will understand. Tourists see blossoms. Those exiled dream of them. The locals plant them. The metaphor blooms and withers in silence, representing a cycle of rebirth and burial, resilience, and rupture.
Have you liked the news article?