The story of Real Kashmir Football Club, an eight-episode series streaming on SonyLIV, unfolds against the backdrop of the Kashmir valley in 2016—a region as famous for its breathtaking beauty as for its persistent turmoil. Released in December 2025 and directed by Mahesh Mathai and Rajesh Mapuskar, the series has quickly captured the attention of critics and audiences alike, not with bombast or spectacle, but with a determinedly low-key, heartfelt approach. According to The Indian Express, the series is "much more impactful" for its restraint, letting the weight of its subject matter speak for itself.
At the heart of the narrative is Sohail, played by Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub. Sohail is a journalist who abandons his compromised career to pursue a vision: creating a local football team that could offer hope and dignity to a fractured community. His journey begins in a bureaucratic office in Delhi, where, in a rare stroke of luck (or perhaps sheer stubbornness), he convinces a government official to sign off on the necessary permissions to establish the club. As The Indian Express notes, anyone familiar with India’s labyrinthine bureaucracy knows these processes can drag on for months or even years, but the show is determined to keep its feel-good momentum rolling, sweeping aside obstacles so the real story can begin.
That story is as much about the people of Kashmir as it is about football. The series, inspired by the real-life partnership of Sandip Chattoo and Shamim Meraj—the actual founders of Real Kashmir FC—dives into the daily struggles and hopes of a community striving for normalcy. The word ‘izzat,’ or respect, is a recurring motif. Sohail seeks it not only from his chief sponsor, Shirish (Manav Kaul), a Kashmiri Pandit liquor baron, but also from Mustafa, the best coach in Kashmir (Mu’Azzam Bhat), and from the wary parents of young men reluctant to let their sons trade studies for sport.
The partnership between Sohail and Shirish is particularly noteworthy. As The Bridge highlights, their dynamic is inspired by the real-life Hindu-Muslim partnership behind the club’s founding. The series resists the temptation to sensationalize their relationship, instead allowing identity and difference to simmer beneath the surface—present in glances, in discomfort, in the pointed question from Aman, a young local: “Why are you working for that Pandit?” This nuanced approach reflects the show’s understanding of Kashmir’s complexities, letting politics and history breathe through subtle texture rather than heavy-handed speeches.
The series opens with a scene that is both absurd and poignant: during a crowded protest, Aman tosses what appears to be a grenade, sending people fleeing in terror. But the grenade turns out to be fake, and a young boy kicks it away as if it were a football. This moment, as described by The Bridge, perfectly captures the paradox of life in Kashmir—where fear is ever-present, yet the impulse to play, to dream, and to claim space persists.
Building the club is no smooth ride. The first trials are beset by uniquely local challenges: a printing error lists the time as 7 PM, and the trial ground is nothing more than a dumping yard for seized vehicles. These details, raw and unpredictable, ground the series in the lived reality of everyday Kashmir. The financial constraints of Indian football are laid bare as well, with player contracts starting at ₹10,000 and the club surviving more on stubbornness than resources.
As the team comes together, the series widens its lens to explore a range of personal and social tensions. There’s a privileged goalkeeper whose parents balk at him playing with "boys from low areas of Kashmir," and a local superstar whose ego tests the patience of the coaches. The arrival of a Scottish coach, Douglas (Mark Bennington), introduces another layer of drama, leading to friction with Mustafa and adding to the show’s textured exploration of identity and belonging.
Yet, as both reviews point out, Real Kashmir Football Club is careful not to over-romanticize its subject. It avoids the glossy adrenaline of traditional sports dramas, choosing instead to focus on the beginnings—the mess, the vulnerability, and the fragile hope that sport can provide. The football matches themselves, while not always filmed with the most convincing flair, are secondary to the emotional and social stakes at play. The series ends not with a triumphant championship, but at the moment when the club finally feels real, resisting the temptation to fast-forward to easy victories.
One of the series’ standout strengths is its cinematography. As The Bridge observes, this is not the snow-capped, postcard Kashmir of tourist brochures. Instead, viewers are treated to cramped lanes, peeling walls, and football grounds carved from urban neglect—a city that functions in spite of perpetual tension. The show’s visual storytelling gives it a textured, lived-in feel that sets it apart from other portrayals of the region.
The performances anchor the series, with Manav Kaul delivering understated gravitas as Shirish and Zeeshan Ayyub embodying Sohail’s weary idealism. The supporting cast, too, brings a rough-edged authenticity that makes the fictionalized drama feel real. As The Indian Express notes, "there’s nothing loud or unnecessarily rah-rah in the way things proceed: being determinedly low-key is much more impactful." The writing, by Simaab Hashmi, Danish Renzu, and Umang Vyas, sometimes papers over the cracks in Kashmir’s fabric, but it never loses sight of the healing power of sport.
Of course, the series is not without its flaws. Some subplots, such as player power struggles and marital tensions, drag on longer than necessary, and the Scottish coach’s transformation from cynic to believer feels a bit too polished. Yet, as both reviews agree, the show’s sincerity and emotional core more than compensate for these shortcomings.
Above all, Real Kashmir Football Club makes a compelling case for why football matters in Kashmir. In a place where identity is often contested and daily life shaped by suspicion, football becomes a rare language that everyone—Hindu, Muslim, rich, poor—can speak without fear. On the training ground, hierarchies blur, rivalries dissolve, and boys who would never otherwise meet end up sharing jerseys, victories, and failures. The unity is fragile, hard-earned, and often temporary, but it is real. As the series gently but firmly insists, "How can any Indian league be complete without Kashmir?"
In telling the story of a football club’s improbable birth, the series offers a glimpse of hope and healing—a reminder that sometimes, the simple act of playing together can achieve what politics and policing cannot.
