Tere Ishk Mein: A Turbulent Storm of Obsession and Heartbreak – Dhanush and Kriti Sanon's Bold GambleIn the labyrinthine alleys of Varanasi, where the Ganges whispers secrets of eternal longing, Tere Ishk Mein unleashes a tempest of raw emotion that feels both timeless and perilously outdated. Directed by Aanand L. Rai, this 2025 Hindi-Tamil-Telugu romantic drama—clocking in at a sprawling 169 minutes—marks the third collaboration between Rai and Dhanush, following the obsessive highs of Raanjhanaa and the quirky lows of Atrangi Re.
Paired with Kriti Sanon in her first on-screen tango with the Tamil superstar, the film promises a spiritual successor to Kundan’s unrequited frenzy: a tale of class-divided love laced with violence, vengeance, and AR Rahman’s soul-stirring score. Released on November 28, 2025, under T-Series and Colour Yellow Productions, it arrives amid a wave of post-Animal toxicity debates, boasting advance bookings of Rs 3 crore and an 18% opening day occupancy. But does this ishq ignite or incinerate? My take: a visually intoxicating, performance-driven rollercoaster that glorifies dark romance to a fault, earning cheers for its intensity while drawing flak for romanticizing rage—ultimately, a flawed epic that demands your heart, even as it questions your sanity.
The narrative unfurls like a fever dream on the ghats, blending poetic realism with melodramatic excess. Shankar Gurukkal (Dhanush), a fiery student union president orphaned young and simmering with unresolved fury, locks eyes with Isha (Kriti Sanon), the poised daughter of a wealthy industrialist (Tota Roy Chowdhury). What begins as a chance encounter at a protest rally spirals into Shankar’s all-consuming obsession: he woos her with street poetry and stolen moments by the river, only for class barriers to slam shut. Isha, pragmatic and ambitious, chooses stability over passion, marrying a suave NRI (Priyanshu Painyuli) and relocating abroad. Years later, fate—or Rai’s contrivances—reunites them when Shankar, now a brooding labor leader, crosses paths with Isha during a factory strike. The embers reignite, but this time, Shankar’s love curdles into a volatile brew of betrayal and brutality. Flashbacks peel back layers of his trauma—a motherless childhood under the watchful eye of his doting father (Prakash Raj)—while Isha grapples with her own regrets, revealing a sinister edge that flips the Raanjhanaa script.
Rai, ever the maestro of magnified emotions, structures the film as a triptych: courtship’s madcap charm, separation’s silent agony, and reunion’s explosive reckoning. The first act crackles with Varanasi’s vibrant chaos—processions of sadhus, monsoon-drenched chases, and Shankar’s rabble-rousing speeches that echo real-world unrest. It’s here that Tere Ishk Mein shines brightest, evoking the bittersweet pangs of youth. But as the runtime stretches, the screenplay (by Himanshu and Neeraj Yadav) buckles under its own weight.
The second half devolves into a cacophony of glycerine tears and illogical twists: Shankar’s wrist-slitting relapse feels gratuitous, his alpha-male rampages excused as "passionate devotion," and Isha’s belated confessions strain credulity. It’s a uno-reverse on Raanjhanaa—where Kundan chased endlessly, Shankar now wields power, turning the victim into the volatile aggressor. Critics like those at India Today decry it as a "toxic ode to male victimhood," amplifying the very red flags Kabir Singh and Saiyaara waved, leaving viewers unsettled by its refusal to interrogate obsession’s cost.
Yet, for all its thematic misfires, Tere Ishk Mein is a testament to star power. Dhanush is a revelation as Shankar, channeling the same feral intensity that made Kundan iconic but layering it with mature menace. His physical transformation—bulked up for the laborer phase, eyes hollowed by heartbreak—mirrors the character’s descent, from puppy-eyed suitor to vengeful force.
Her chemistry with Dhanush simmers—playful banter in the early reels gives way to charged silences that speak volumes. In the climax’s soul-baring monologue, she overshadows him entirely, her vulnerability laced with defiance: "Why must love always demand blood?" It’s a performance that demands recognition, proving her mettle beyond Mimi’s accolades. Supporting roles add ballast: Prakash Raj’s paternal warmth grounds the frenzy, while Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub’s comic sidekick injects levity amid the gloom. Priyanshu Painyuli, as the cuckolded husband, brings understated pathos, his quiet unraveling a counterpoint to Shankar’s storms.
Technically, the film is a feast. Vikas Sivaraman’s cinematography paints Varanasi in golden-hour splendor—lantern-lit ghats reflecting fractured desires, drone shots capturing the city’s spiritual sprawl. The international segments, shot in misty European locales, contrast sharply, symbolizing Isha’s "logical" escape. Editor Bosco Martis keeps the pace taut in bursts, but the 169-minute sprawl begs for trims; redundant flashbacks and overlong songs disrupt momentum. And oh, the music—AR Rahman delivers his standout Hindi album of 2025.
The title track, a Sufi-infused lament with Clinton Cerejo’s soaring vocals, is a lifeline, its hook "Tere ishq mein doob gaya" echoing long after credits roll. "Deewana Deewana" pulses with qawwali rhythms during the rally romance, while "Jigar Thanda Re"’s jazzy melancholy underscores heartbreak. Rahman’s BGM elevates emotional peaks, blending folk motifs with orchestral swells, though some tracks feel shoehorned. The sound design, with its thunderous confrontations and whispered confessions, immerses you in the chaos.
Where Tere Ishk Mein falters is its unapologetic embrace of toxicity. In an era craving nuanced narratives, Rai doubles down on the "angry young lover" trope, excusing Shankar’s violence—choking threats, public humiliations—as "ishq ki aag." It’s politically incorrect, glorifying alpha aggression in a post-#MeToo landscape, as The Indian Express laments: "Back to the dark ages." The class commentary, teasing labor rights and patriarchal privilege, evaporates into melodrama, with metaphors like "majdoor ke paseene ka namak" landing as clunky.
Reactions mirror the divide: fans hail it as "the best emotional romantic love story of 2025," with goosebump climaxes, while detractors call it a "crash movie" devoid of logic. Public verdicts from Benaras screenings highlight the split: heart-wrenching for some, unnaturally violent for others. Compared to Raanjhanaa’s youthful exuberance, this feels jaded, a turbulent sequel that tests patience more than it tugs heartstrings.
Still, amid the noise, there’s magic. Rai’s flair for "messy and magical" proportions crafts moments of surrender: a midnight boat ride under fireworks, Isha’s tear-streaked dance to Rahman’s ballad. It’s a film that doesn’t seek approval; it demands immersion, bleeding emotion until you’re drenched. For Dhanush-Kriti devotees, it’s a must—raw, riveting, and ripe for debate. Box office-wise, expect a double-digit opener, buoyed by South Indian pull and Rahman’s pull, but word-of-mouth may polarize. In a year of sanitized rom-coms, Tere Ishk Mein dares to be unhinged, a dark mirror to love’s underbelly. It’s not flawless, but when it hits, it storms your soul.
Rating: 3/5 – Intense highs, toxic lows; a love story that loves to hurt.
Paired with Kriti Sanon in her first on-screen tango with the Tamil superstar, the film promises a spiritual successor to Kundan’s unrequited frenzy: a tale of class-divided love laced with violence, vengeance, and AR Rahman’s soul-stirring score. Released on November 28, 2025, under T-Series and Colour Yellow Productions, it arrives amid a wave of post-Animal toxicity debates, boasting advance bookings of Rs 3 crore and an 18% opening day occupancy. But does this ishq ignite or incinerate? My take: a visually intoxicating, performance-driven rollercoaster that glorifies dark romance to a fault, earning cheers for its intensity while drawing flak for romanticizing rage—ultimately, a flawed epic that demands your heart, even as it questions your sanity.
The narrative unfurls like a fever dream on the ghats, blending poetic realism with melodramatic excess. Shankar Gurukkal (Dhanush), a fiery student union president orphaned young and simmering with unresolved fury, locks eyes with Isha (Kriti Sanon), the poised daughter of a wealthy industrialist (Tota Roy Chowdhury). What begins as a chance encounter at a protest rally spirals into Shankar’s all-consuming obsession: he woos her with street poetry and stolen moments by the river, only for class barriers to slam shut. Isha, pragmatic and ambitious, chooses stability over passion, marrying a suave NRI (Priyanshu Painyuli) and relocating abroad. Years later, fate—or Rai’s contrivances—reunites them when Shankar, now a brooding labor leader, crosses paths with Isha during a factory strike. The embers reignite, but this time, Shankar’s love curdles into a volatile brew of betrayal and brutality. Flashbacks peel back layers of his trauma—a motherless childhood under the watchful eye of his doting father (Prakash Raj)—while Isha grapples with her own regrets, revealing a sinister edge that flips the Raanjhanaa script.
Rai, ever the maestro of magnified emotions, structures the film as a triptych: courtship’s madcap charm, separation’s silent agony, and reunion’s explosive reckoning. The first act crackles with Varanasi’s vibrant chaos—processions of sadhus, monsoon-drenched chases, and Shankar’s rabble-rousing speeches that echo real-world unrest. It’s here that Tere Ishk Mein shines brightest, evoking the bittersweet pangs of youth. But as the runtime stretches, the screenplay (by Himanshu and Neeraj Yadav) buckles under its own weight.
The second half devolves into a cacophony of glycerine tears and illogical twists: Shankar’s wrist-slitting relapse feels gratuitous, his alpha-male rampages excused as "passionate devotion," and Isha’s belated confessions strain credulity. It’s a uno-reverse on Raanjhanaa—where Kundan chased endlessly, Shankar now wields power, turning the victim into the volatile aggressor. Critics like those at India Today decry it as a "toxic ode to male victimhood," amplifying the very red flags Kabir Singh and Saiyaara waved, leaving viewers unsettled by its refusal to interrogate obsession’s cost.
Yet, for all its thematic misfires, Tere Ishk Mein is a testament to star power. Dhanush is a revelation as Shankar, channeling the same feral intensity that made Kundan iconic but layering it with mature menace. His physical transformation—bulked up for the laborer phase, eyes hollowed by heartbreak—mirrors the character’s descent, from puppy-eyed suitor to vengeful force.
Her chemistry with Dhanush simmers—playful banter in the early reels gives way to charged silences that speak volumes. In the climax’s soul-baring monologue, she overshadows him entirely, her vulnerability laced with defiance: "Why must love always demand blood?" It’s a performance that demands recognition, proving her mettle beyond Mimi’s accolades. Supporting roles add ballast: Prakash Raj’s paternal warmth grounds the frenzy, while Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub’s comic sidekick injects levity amid the gloom. Priyanshu Painyuli, as the cuckolded husband, brings understated pathos, his quiet unraveling a counterpoint to Shankar’s storms.
Technically, the film is a feast. Vikas Sivaraman’s cinematography paints Varanasi in golden-hour splendor—lantern-lit ghats reflecting fractured desires, drone shots capturing the city’s spiritual sprawl. The international segments, shot in misty European locales, contrast sharply, symbolizing Isha’s "logical" escape. Editor Bosco Martis keeps the pace taut in bursts, but the 169-minute sprawl begs for trims; redundant flashbacks and overlong songs disrupt momentum. And oh, the music—AR Rahman delivers his standout Hindi album of 2025.
The title track, a Sufi-infused lament with Clinton Cerejo’s soaring vocals, is a lifeline, its hook "Tere ishq mein doob gaya" echoing long after credits roll. "Deewana Deewana" pulses with qawwali rhythms during the rally romance, while "Jigar Thanda Re"’s jazzy melancholy underscores heartbreak. Rahman’s BGM elevates emotional peaks, blending folk motifs with orchestral swells, though some tracks feel shoehorned. The sound design, with its thunderous confrontations and whispered confessions, immerses you in the chaos.
Where Tere Ishk Mein falters is its unapologetic embrace of toxicity. In an era craving nuanced narratives, Rai doubles down on the "angry young lover" trope, excusing Shankar’s violence—choking threats, public humiliations—as "ishq ki aag." It’s politically incorrect, glorifying alpha aggression in a post-#MeToo landscape, as The Indian Express laments: "Back to the dark ages." The class commentary, teasing labor rights and patriarchal privilege, evaporates into melodrama, with metaphors like "majdoor ke paseene ka namak" landing as clunky.
Reactions mirror the divide: fans hail it as "the best emotional romantic love story of 2025," with goosebump climaxes, while detractors call it a "crash movie" devoid of logic. Public verdicts from Benaras screenings highlight the split: heart-wrenching for some, unnaturally violent for others. Compared to Raanjhanaa’s youthful exuberance, this feels jaded, a turbulent sequel that tests patience more than it tugs heartstrings.
Still, amid the noise, there’s magic. Rai’s flair for "messy and magical" proportions crafts moments of surrender: a midnight boat ride under fireworks, Isha’s tear-streaked dance to Rahman’s ballad. It’s a film that doesn’t seek approval; it demands immersion, bleeding emotion until you’re drenched. For Dhanush-Kriti devotees, it’s a must—raw, riveting, and ripe for debate. Box office-wise, expect a double-digit opener, buoyed by South Indian pull and Rahman’s pull, but word-of-mouth may polarize. In a year of sanitized rom-coms, Tere Ishk Mein dares to be unhinged, a dark mirror to love’s underbelly. It’s not flawless, but when it hits, it storms your soul.
Rating: 3/5 – Intense highs, toxic lows; a love story that loves to hurt.