We have seen the 26/11 attacks unfold on television, revisited them through news coverage, television programmes and films, and witnessed the tragedy from the perspectives of both the terrorists and their victims. But what about the legal battle that followed? Why did India spend years establishing Ajmal Kasab’s guilt when photographs, eyewitness accounts and the horrors of that night were already evident? And why was keeping a terrorist alive considered more important than delivering immediate justice?
Prahaar: The Untold Story of Ujjwal Nikam explores these questions by taking viewers inside the courtroom and presenting a different perspective on one of India’s deadliest terror attacks. At the centre of the film is a powerful line attributed to the prosecutor himself: “Justice delayed is justice denied, but justice hurried is justice buried.” Even when the accused is Ajmal Kasab, the Constitution cannot be pushed aside in response to public anger.
The film begins with Nikam celebrating his victory in the 1993 Bombay blasts case. Years later, while preparing for his daughter’s wedding, he is drawn into the 26/11 case, a battle that would become a defining chapter in his career. Rajkummar Rao plays the fiery prosecutor, known for his temper and his firm belief that the samvidhaan, or Constitution, must take precedence above everything else.
One of the film’s central arguments concerns why Kasab had to be captured alive. He was a crucial piece of evidence, a living connection to the terror network operating across the border and a potential source of information about how young men were radicalised, trained and sent to India to murder innocent people.
Prahaar also tries to portray the terrorist as a human being without excusing his crimes. Kasab, played by Lalit Prabhakar, hears the azaan, the Islamic call to prayer, and is told that it is Eid. His confused response, “India mein Eid manane ki ijazat hai?”—meaning, “Is it allowed to celebrate Eid in India?”—exposes the extent to which his worldview has been distorted. It is a disturbing moment that illustrates how radicalisation can transform people into obedient killing machines who no longer question the hatred instilled in them.
Unfortunately, the film takes a while to reach the heart of its story. The courtroom proceedings and legal arguments establish what is at stake, but the emotional connection remains weak until a 10-year-old victim, portrayed brilliantly by Diorr Varghese, takes the witness stand and testifies against Kasab. This is when the film becomes most affecting, confronting viewers with the innocent lives destroyed by the attacks. However, just as the drama appears to have found its emotional centre, the screenplay veers away once again.
The narrative turns towards Nikam’s private life, his strained family relationships and the personal sacrifices demanded by his profession. He stays in a hotel room, missing his children’s formative years and precious time with his wife. In one scene, he blesses his grandchild and tells the child always to love the family, only for his son to respond with a mocking laugh. The exchange reveals a relationship marked by years of absence and emotional distance.
Although these details offer insight into Nikam’s life, the film devotes so much attention to them that its central narrative loses momentum. There is a compelling courtroom drama waiting to emerge, but the screenplay repeatedly strays from it. The result is an uneven, stop-start experience that builds momentum just as viewers begin settling into the story, only to lose it again.
Another compelling character is lawyer Kazmi, played by Sikandar Kher, who faces hostility for defending Kasab. His questioning of police officers, photographers and witnesses provokes anger in the audience. Ostracised by sections of his own community, Kazmi also observes that his Muslim surname has made his professional life more challenging. This is an important perspective in a film that recognises, at least in these moments, that defending someone’s legal rights does not amount to defending their crimes.
Jaideep Ahlawat leaves a strong impression in a cameo as Pakistani lawyer Chaudhary Zulfiqar. His courtroom confrontations with Rajkummar are driven by clashes of ego, taunts and professional rivalry. Yet, a charming scene involving Bombil fish briefly softens their relationship. The two lawyers discuss the personal lives they have sacrificed for their careers, while Ahlawat’s character quotes poet Sahir Ludhianvi to reflect on the ultimate cost of conflict: human life. It is one of the few moments in which the film achieves subtlety without overexplaining its message.
Rajkummar is clearly dedicated to the role, but his performance sometimes feels overly constructed. An actor celebrated for making his characters appear natural seems so focused on reproducing Nikam’s mannerisms that the portrayal occasionally comes across as an imitation. His climactic speech about waging war against India is likely to earn whistles and applause, but dramatic intensity does not necessarily translate into emotional resonance.
Wamiqa Gabbi faces similar difficulties. Her stiff expressions and mannerisms make her portrayal of Mrs Nikam feel more like an act than a natural performance. Sumit Roy’s dialogues have their effective moments, while Kasab’s confession provides a disturbing glimpse into how a terrorist is created. Ultimately, however, the screenplay needed sharper editing and a more cohesive flow.
For a film centred on the 26/11 attacks, its greatest shortcoming is how rarely it conveys the full horror and emotional weight of the tragedy. This cannot simply be a story about Ujjwal Nikam. It must also be about the attack itself, the attacker and the people who suffered, rather than focusing primarily on the man in the black coat fighting the case.
Yet the film remains so preoccupied with Nikam that it fails to deliver the impact it sets out to achieve. The subject had enough emotional power to leave audiences devastated, but Prahaar repeatedly falls short of reaching that potential.
