Mahdi Ahmed

Some films don’t rush to dazzle you; they quietly earn your trust, then break your heart—gently. Saiyaara is that kind of romance. Structurally, it’s a clean three-act glide, anchored by an early motif—a diary—that threads private feeling into shared experience. Without giving anything away, the film treats time and memory like tides: always moving, sometimes generous, sometimes unforgiving. You sense it more than you “spot” it.

What gives the film its beating heart is not perfection, but fracture. Vaani enters the story carrying the sting of betrayal—her trust shattered at the very moment she expected stability. Krish, on the other hand, is marked by angst and distance, shaped by an uneasy relationship with his father. They meet carrying these quiet wounds, and the romance doesn’t erase them; it begins with healing. Their brokenness is the foundation, their small acts of mending the mortar. That’s why their love feels earned rather than scripted.

Casting fresh faces in a big-hearted romance is a risk that pays off. Ahaan Panday as Krish and Aneet Padda as Vaani bring unvarnished innocence, chemistry that feels observed rather than engineered. Their performances turn first love into something lived-in rather than lab-grown. This feels like the true launchpad of their careers, and you can see why.

Director Mohit Suri shoots the film with an ear for music and an eye for youth. His grammar has always been songs as story, not interruptions, and Saiyaara leans into this conviction. You don’t wait for the music here—you ride it. The lyrics often function as dialogue, filling spaces that words alone can’t.

From a writer’s chair, what impresses most is the use of plot devices with quiet precision. A personal belonging becomes an emotional compass. A chance encounter propels the story without feeling contrived. Minor misplacements and slips are gentle foreshadowing, never telegraphed. And a parallel family subplot mirrors the central romance, echoing bigger questions of love, silence, and expression. These devices never draw attention to themselves; they act as invisible scaffolding, holding up the emotional architecture.

Last night, I watched Saiyaara on Netflix with my wife—my muse, my first reader, my fiercest critic. And here’s the thing: we didn’t just tear up at the end. No, we cried almost through the entire duration of the movie. We turned into two people locked in a tear-wiping competition. If a tissue box had been nearby, dozens wouldn’t have been enough—we’d have needed wholesale cartons. It’s not our usual style, but then again, it’s very us. That’s this film’s trick: it makes crying together feel less like defeat and more like a strange, soggy victory lap.

As a title, Saiyaara belongs exactly where it points—up there with the brightest of stars. Yes, among the Bollywood, Hollywood, or any-wood constellations. And it gets there the honest way: with feeling, craft, and faces you’ll believe in.

A must-see.

P.S. The editing by Rohit Makwana and Devendra Murdeshwar is crisp and potent, never indulgent, with many sequences that had me grinning ear to ear, even when I was crying.