The Ishq Review: Why ‘Gustaakh Ishq’ and ‘Tere Ishq Me’ Met Such Different Fates
By Shivanya Anurag on December 21, 2025
Romantic Dramas and love stories are making a much-needed return to Hindi Cinema. This genre welcomed two new contenders in 2025. I am talking about none other than Anand L Rai’s Tere Ishq Me and Vibhu Puri’s Gustaakh Ishq. While being released on the same date and revolving around the ever-popular Bollywood theme of ishq (love), the two films stand worlds apart, and so do the ways audiences have responded to them.
Spoilers Ahead!
Let’s start with the Dhanush and Kriti Sanon starrer. Like its parent film, Raanjhanaa (also starring Dhanush), Tere Ishq Me too revolves around a male lead who presumes the heroine’s love for him without ever being explicitly told so. Set in Delhi, the film introduces us to Shankar, a violent young man, the son of a modest notary lawyer, and Mukti, a radiant, privileged, and self-centred woman pursuing a PhD in Psychology, who also happens to be the daughter of an IAS officer.
Mukti proposes a thesis arguing that violence is like the appendix: purposeless, painful, and removable with the right psychological intervention. This however gets rejected, courtesy of Shankar’s dramatic entrance, where he is seen publicly beating up his opponent in the upcoming DU Students Union presidential elections. Mukti comes up with the brilliant idea of using him as her experimental subject, taking the “I can fix him” trope to its literal extreme. But this illusion lasts only for the first half. The two leads whose primary characteristic seems to be horrible decision making, soon end up in a whirlpool of obsession, ego and lastly their twisted definition of love.
For a film that makes such a mockery of Psychological studies, it surely does make a great subject for the same. Mukti begins with a god complex, convinced she can diagnose and cure violence; Shankar is driven by unresolved childhood trauma. As the film progresses, Mukti’s illusion of control collapses into addiction, confusion, and emotional dependency, as she struggles to understand why she desires Shankar at all. This descent edges disturbingly close to a form of Stockholm syndrome. It is in this downward spiral that she transforms into the film’s female Devdas; no longer the observer of Shankar’s obsession, but the one consumed by her own.
Another interesting aspect is the class commentary in the film and how it affects love, especially for women. Mukti says, and I quote: Girls are used to being intelligent in love, they are taught to dream of Princes and not labourers. Yet they fail to find the namak (salt) in a prince’s love, that you only find in a labourer’s sweat. I promise you, I am not making this up. Watch the film, and maybe you will find yourself as entertained as the viewers in my theatre were.
Setting aside the absurdity of this entertainer, let’s move to Gustaakh Ishq, produced by ace designer Manish Malhotra. The film is set again in Delhi, but in the 1990s. The film follows Nawabuddin, played by FTII graduate Vijay Varma, a kadardaan of shayari, and a young man who inherits nothing from his father but a failing printing press. Determined to save it, he sets out to publish the work of a shayar named Azeez, whose life stories seem grander than his poems, yet whose fame remains undiscovered. Nawabuddin’s search leads him to Malerkotla, where he meets Azeez Baig (played by the legend, Naseeruddin Shah), a valiant old man and a reclusive poet who refuses publication. Posing as his shaagird or student, Nawabuddin stays on, hoping to win his trust and ultimately, his heart: his poetry.
Azeez, however, is firmly opposed to this idea, uss shayar ko mashoor hona gawara nahi. The resistance poses a question to the viewer: Is a poem only worth it when it is published? Is a poet only great when marketed?
Before Nawabuddin’s gustaakh plan can unfold, he finds his own heart taken by Azeez’s daughter Mannat Baig (played by Fatima Sana Shaikh), beautiful in her silences. What begins as a promising premise eventually feels forced, like a vehicle being pushed forward by sheer effort rather than running on its own momentum.
The beautiful frames, excellent cinematography, the perfection of an album and a cast dripping with talent, altogether could still not make up for the saddeningly flat screenplay.
That said, ask Naseeruddin Shah to recite Urdu on the big screen and people would call it cinema for centuries to come. His presence, especially in scenes of poetic recitation, becomes so commanding that the film momentarily feels secondary to the performance itself. The film is true to what it says, that while English is the wings that help you reach heights, Urdu ghosla hai, shaam ko isi me aana hai. The film’s protagonist and antagonist are its simplicity. Depends which side you view it from.
Now that you are caught up on the storyline of both films, let’s do what the box office does best: compare.
One is a 25 crore budget film, and the other is 85 crores, and I hardly need to tell you which is which. Tere Ishq Me has made a whopping 150 crores, and Gustaakh Ishq, just like its screenplay, fell flat on its face with an overall collection of only 2.2 crores till date.
While being under the genre of romantic drama-love story, Tere Ishq Me feels more like a hate story, and neither love nor drama ever fully blooms in Gustaakh Ishq.
Gustaakh Ishq’s art-house aspirations collapse under forced plot devices like a random accident used as rising action and Mannat’s loosely told backstory. While Tere Ishq Mein embraces its commercial excesses without apology.
Anyway, neither film is half bad and here is what’s worthy of full appreciation.
Rai’s film felt like a dip in the Ganga to wash off his prior sins committed in Raanjhanaa, where Zoya’s character was literally a victim. Here, Mukti’s character is worthy of all the hate that will come its way, and a certain audience will appreciate the female Devdas, drowning in her own guilt. And yet, the film’s most assured moments are its throwbacks: Murari’s cameo, the iconic mar jaoge pandit, and fleeting images of Kundan and Bindiya. The film works best when it is quite literally looking back.
Another telling detail is the film’s reimagining of Bindiya, now embodied in Mukti’s husband, Jassi, played by Paramvir Cheema. He emerges as the only truly sane character in this otherwise unhinged narrative: mistreated, sidelined, yet ironically the only one who technically ends up with the person he loves.
As promised in love, Dhanush set both Delhi and the screen on fire. Kriti Sanon’s performance is compelling, delivering a character that stays with the viewer even in rage.
Puri and Prashant Jha craft dialogues so rich that one almost feels compelled to offer daad at every line. Yet, for all the poetry on display, the audience never quite rises to match it with equal enthusiasm. As Azeez said, jitne achhe sher the, utni achhi daad koi de na saka. What disappoints most is Fatima not being given enough stage to shine, yet she portrays her weakly written character with utmost grace and honesty. Contrary to previous performances, Vijay explores a new charm beautifully on screen. You leave the theatre smiling at the thought of Sharib Hashmi’s Bhoore and his innocence. I am hardly qualified to comment on Naseeruddin Shah’s performance. His artistry speaks for itself, independent of any market approval.
With all that said, and considering the critics’ views, the general consensus is that neither film lived up to the promises their trailers had made. The box office numbers clearly reveal what the audience loves, yet a curious detail in Gustaakh Ishq’s performance goes ignored. Despite being a fairly average film, it has received an 8.4/10 on IMDB. While all this appreciation may be true, it still feels like an attempt to stay commercially relevant by those who claim to know what cinema is all about. One that reflects how film school and cinephile circles often rally around their own, sometimes blurring the line between genuine admiration and collective allegiance.
Is the Indian audience doomed and destined only to appreciate spin-offs like TIM and then crib about mainstream cinema being repetitive? Are we, as an audience, too used to Masala content to ever appreciate a film that feels like daal with ghee on a cold December afternoon? These are questions I only wish to propose to you and not answer. That’s all. See you after another movie.
