Amaran, inspired by the life of Major Mukund Varadarajan, revels in these realistic spaces. We see evidence of this emotional richness repeatedly. Initially, for instance, Mukund’s mother resists, even trying to sabotage the romantic union by hinting at the dangers of her son’s army life. But soon enough, Indhu and his mother become thick as thieves, bound by love and the shared ache of separation from Mukund. It’s all so beautifully, understatedly done.
In another film, Mukund’s mother and Indhu’s father might be reduced to mere caricatures, stepping in and out as needed by the film. But here, they stay part of the film’s fabric, making the universe of Amaran fuller, more real, more detailed.
At the film’s heart beats the love between Indhu and Mukund. In a world growing more cynical, theirs feels like an idealised romance—one that doesn’t rely on proximity, that endures even in absence. Much like Mukund prioritises his duty, it seems to me that the Mukund-Indhu romance too thrives under the discipline of duty. Indhu isn’t just passively accepting of her role as an army man’s wife; she revels in it, as though she wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s a throwback to a simpler kind of love, a love that asks few questions and demands fewer reassurances.
Sai Pallavi and Sivakarthikeyan share effortless chemistry, a mutual affection that breathes through the screen, a relationship that allows each other to channelise the child within them—like when Mukund leans on Indhu, seeking rest, like when Indhu runs and leaps at him with the exuberance of a child. In a particularly tender scene, they fall asleep over a video call, a beautiful idea in the script that allows us and them to briefly forget the thousands of kilometres between them. The “I love you”s flow naturally between them, not as declarations, but as affirmations woven into daily life. Even when Mukund casually introduces Indhu as his girlfriend, it’s without cinematic fanfare—unpolished, and all the more endearing and lifelike for it.
Sai Pallavi’s performance is deliberately animated and lively. She’s Indhu, a woman who embraces her near-single parenthood with resilience, a cheerleader for a husband she cannot always reach, a mother to a daughter who tries to figure out why her father keeps disappearing. I enjoyed the ease of her Malayali-Tamil dialect (“Mukunthay!”) and how the film doesn’t resort to subtitles unless it’s absolutely needed. She shines in every scene, be it when she sees Mukund on the terrace, or when she’s on the phone with him and there’s mayhem on the other side, or when she’s breaking down at the end, remembering to control herself to respect his wishes, but realising that she’s unable to.
Sivakarthikeyan will no doubt secure many plaudits for his physical transformation, for owning the action scenes and the motivational speeches… but I caught myself being especially impressed with how he seemed to radiate an effortless sense of goodness and vulnerability, despite his job requiring him to be an alpha male at all times. Watch him tear up as he pleads for a teammate’s life. Watch the joy in his eyes during his OTA ceremony, with Indhu smiling softly in the background in a beautifully composed shot. Watch him hug Indhu and daughter and walk away, but change his mind to return to steal another embrace from them both. These are powerful, heartfelt moments.
If I’ve lingered as long on the romance in this film, it’s because that’s the soul of Amaran. There’s pulse-pounding action, yes—gunfights seen from sweeping top angles which capture streaking bullets, close-combat choreography that pulls you in, with G.V. Prakash Kumar’s rhythmic percussions creating tension. I’ll remember that moment when Mukund’s companion leaps onto a grenade with only a wooden board as shield, or the dim, yellow-lit confines of the climax as Mukund hunts his target.
Yet, in its quest to glorify Mukund’s heroism, Amaran stumbles into uncomfortable territory, romanticising kills and eager to echo the cadence of a ‘mass’ action film. When Mukund exclaims “Avana podanum!” it rings familiar, straight from the mass-hero playbook, and his desire to boost the “kill count” made me shift uncomfortably. Also, the film’s excitement over each kill feels at odds with its somber premise; it’s one thing to honour a man’s bravery, but quite another to revel in the taking of lives, no matter which side you represent. Note that sequence where the kills are juxtaposed with shots of the soldiers celebrating by throwing colours at each other.
The Kashmir conflict, in Amaran, is starkly binary, reducing a decades-long upheaval to simple good-versus-evil tropes. Stone-pelting, for instance, is interpreted solely as terrorism, overlooking its symbolic role in global contexts as a form of protest by the powerless. Amaran misses these nuanced shades, painting a compelling portrait of valour but without the richness of complexity. In its focus on Mukund’s bravery, it also glosses over the silent struggles of the civilian (even if it briefly contrasts the portrait of Kashmir children with Mukund’s own daughter, comfortably sleeping in her bed).
There’s a cycle of violence here, where one death leads to another, where justice seems to become justification. The film, in its passion, risks suggesting that certain forces, certain actions, are beyond question. But there’s room to love a soldier’s dedication without succumbing to bloodlust, to honour bravery without idolising brutality. This, after all, is why the greatest war films stand as silent testaments against war itself. And so, Amaran gives us a romance that touches the heart, an action film that stirs the pulse. As a political piece though, it raises questions. It’s uplifting, yet uneasy, stirring, yet simple. Ultimately, Amaran’s true legacy may be as a love story—one that lingers after the echoes of battle have faded. It’s its own sort of lesson on this premise.