Songs Of Paradise Review: Saba Azad And Soni Razdan's Performances Lend The Kashmir-Set Film Its Charm

Some films don't scream to be heard; they hum gently, hoping you'll lean in closer. Danish Renzu's Songs of Paradise is one of those films. 

It doesn't arrive with the noise of conventional biopics, nor does it wear its politics on its sleeve. Instead, it drapes itself in melodies, silences and unspoken truths, asking the viewer to pause and listen to the story of a woman who dared to sing when the world insisted she remain quiet. 

Inspired by the life of Raj Begum, Kashmir's first female playback singer, this Prime Video release is less a straightforward chronicle of a legend and more a fragile memory, stitched together with song, nostalgia and restrained remembrance.

Set largely in 1950s Srinagar, the film introduces us to Zeba Akhtar, a young woman with a voice as luminous as the snow-clad mountains around her. 

Played with remarkable delicacy by Saba Azad, Zeba is raised by a gentle, supportive father (Bashir Lone) and a stern, orthodox mother (Sheeba Chaddha) who believes her daughter's place is in the kitchen, not behind a microphone. 

At a time when women were expected to stay invisible, Zeba wins a radio singing competition, inadvertently becoming the first female voice on Radio Kashmir. Her triumph, however, is met with loneliness: she eats lunch by herself, finds no women's washroom in the radio office and navigates spaces not built for her. 

As the film unfolds, Zeba's voice begins to echo across the Valley. She sings under the name Noor Begum and carves a space for herself in a society deeply suspicious of women who step beyond domestic boundaries. 

Along the way, she encounters men who guide and enable her, a benevolent teacher (Shishir Sharma), the progressive poet Azaad (Zain Khan Durrani) and even a radio director whose scepticism eventually melts away. 

What is striking, however, is how Renzu resists the temptation to paint these men as saviours. Zeba is never reduced to someone who succeeds because of them. 

Instead, Azad's careful screenplay presents her as someone who gets her way not through confrontation but by singing, a woman whose quiet rebellion takes place in front of a microphone.

The older Noor Begum, played with haunting restraint by Soni Razdan, looks back on this journey when a music researcher named Rumi (Taaruk Raina) comes knocking on her door. She initially dismisses him, but his persistence draws her into reminiscence. 

Razdan is exceptional here; her silences carry decades of struggle, triumph and regret. Her gaze alone holds the unsaid weight of a woman who was never allowed to falter publicly. 

There is a seamless continuity between Razdan and Azad, who together craft Noor as a woman both ordinary and extraordinary, timid and daring, a trailblazer who never set out to be one.

If there is a single heartbeat to Songs of Paradise, it is its music. Abhay Sopori's compositions, rooted in Kashmiri folk, are tender rather than flashy, perfectly suited to the era. 

Masrat-un-Nisa's vocals lend the songs an old-world timbre, as though they were always meant for crackling radios of the 1950s. These melodies aren't just decorative; they carry the narrative forward, becoming the language Noor uses to both resist and belong. 

The cinematography by Vincenzo Condorelli is equally evocative, capturing Kashmir not as a postcard paradise but as a place of stillness and constraints, its beauty layered with invisible barriers.

And yet, for all its strengths, the film does not escape its flaws. At just 106 minutes, Songs of Paradise often feels like it skims over conflicts rather than fully inhabiting them. 

Zeba's defiance against her mother and society is shown, but the full harshness of that rejection is softened. Her journey at Radio Kashmir sometimes unfolds too neatly, with obstacles appearing and disappearing without enough tension. 

The political and social turmoil of Kashmir in the 1950s and 60s is almost entirely absent, leaving the film floating in a timeless nostalgia that risks detaching it from its own soil. Characters occasionally speak in overwrought, hindsight-heavy dialogue, the kind that knows it is part of history rather than the uncertainty of lived life. 

The storytelling, as a result, sometimes feels inevitable, as though the film is less interested in how Zeba became Noor Begum and more in affirming that she did.

Still, what keeps the film afloat is its sincerity. Saba Azad delivers one of her finest performances, embodying Zeba with humility, grace, and flashes of quiet fire. 

Her body language - tentative at first, then more assured - reflects a woman growing into her own voice. Razdan's older Noor is no less compelling, her presence a bridge across generations. 

Zain Khan Durrani brings dignity to Azaad, even if his character occasionally feels too modern for the period. 

Ultimately, Songs of Paradise is not a perfect film, but it is an important one. It resists the rage and violence often associated with narratives about Kashmir, choosing instead to remember a moment of triumph, however understated. 

Its gentleness may frustrate those who crave sharper conflicts and deeper political engagement, but it is precisely this gentleness that gives the film its charm. In its quiet way, it reminds us that revolutions need not always roar; sometimes, they can sing.