I finally have a film I can show my friends to justify my obsession with clicking black-and-white photographs of the Himalayan mountains.
“Second Chance,” writer-director Subhadra Mahajan’s debut feature, is an achingly beautiful experience—one where every frame feels handcrafted, silence speaks louder than words, and grief dances quietly in the snow.
Shot in majestic monochrome by Swapnil Suhas Sonawane (ISC), the Pir Panjal range becomes more than just a backdrop—it’s a character. The contrast between shadows and light is so deliberate, so poetic, that you feel the crisp winter air on your skin. It’s not just scenic—it’s spiritual. This is one of those films that reminds us why we, in India, hold our mountains so close to the soul.
There’s a frame where it’s nighttime, and we look at the mountain ranges and at the moon, and let me tell you—you have never seen something so beautiful! Another one-shot that truly had me in awe is the fireworks shot, which is also available in the trailer. Such beauty!
At the centre of this solitude is Nia, played by Dheera Johnson, a 25-year-old woman grappling with the aftermath of a deeply personal trauma—an abortion. She arrives at her family’s remote summer home, seeking silence but not yet ready for stillness. As snow falls and phone signals disappear, she is forced to confront the chaos within.
What “Second Chance” understands so intimately is that healing is never loud. It arrives slowly, like fog rolling into a valley. It comes in the form of warmth shared with strangers, of food cooked on a wood stove, of a cat who insists on company. Nia begins to share her space with Bhemi, a 70-year-old caretaker played by the wonderful Thakri Devi, and her grandson Sunny, brought to life with effervescent joy by Kanav Thakur. Together, this unlikely trio builds a quiet bond across generations and class, held together by chai, cricket, and the occasional meow from Supercat.
There’s something sacred in the way Mahajan treats these relationships. Bhemi is full of grit and grace, her hard work softened by humour and wisdom. Sunny, with his wide eyes and Superman cape, is both a memory of innocence and a mirror to Nia’s forgotten joy. Even without heavy exposition, each character is fully alive, carrying within them their past, their culture, and their small, stubborn hope.
The use of natural sound—rustling wind, bird calls, Sunny’s laughter—is masterful. There’s no need for a sweeping score. The mountains provide their own music. But when the moments demand it, Quan Bay’s subtle, tender score appears like breath on a frozen window—fragile, warm, fleeting. Although, would like to mention that the silence at times reminded me of what exactly I was looking for all the times in the past when I was trying to shoot something. As someone so caught up between the content world and the dream of becoming a filmmaker, I found the silence relieving. I felt as if it wasn’t Nia but me looking in those mirrors, reminding myself that this is what was missing from my life. This is silence on film and I love it so damn much!
And then there’s the dance. When Nia moves, whether alone in the room or out in the open, it feels like an exorcism of emotion—an attempt to reclaim her body from the sorrow it houses. These sequences are spellbinding. No dialogue is necessary.
Language shifts—Kullavi, Hindi, English—are woven naturally, grounding the film in its lived reality. The casting of local non-actors, under the eye of Dilip Shankar, is inspired. Not one moment feels staged or performed. It’s a portrait of life in the hills—slow, unforgiving, but not without love.
If there’s a single thread I didn’t fully connect with, it was the narrative inclusion of Kabir, a character from Nia’s past. His presence, while not intrusive, felt like a remnant from a more traditional plot structure. The film already thrives in its minimalism, and Nia’s emotional journey didn’t necessarily need that added context, or maybe it does, but it doesn’t hit me as much. But this is a minor quibble in a story that otherwise flows like a mountain stream—unhurried, clear, and deeply reflective.
There’s a moment in “Second Chance”—no spoilers—where the camera lingers long enough on Nia’s face as she looks out at the mist. That stillness, that quiet reckoning, is what cinema is all about. It’s not about plot. It’s about truth. And this film is full of it.
Subhadra Mahajan, with her deeply personal script and serene direction, has given us a gift: a reminder that healing isn’t loud, grief isn’t linear, and life—when given a second chance—can bloom again even in snow.
“Second Chance” isn’t just a film. It’s a meditation. On pain. On people. On the places we go to find ourselves again.
