Whether you call it a necessary provocation or a paranoid fever dream, The Tashkent Files succeeds in one thing: it refuses to let a dead prime minister rest in peace. And as long as people watch it on Netflix, Shastri’s ghost will keep knocking, asking for a truth no file may ever hold.
But here’s the strange thing about watching The Tashkent Files on a streaming platform decades after the event: the facts matter less than the feeling. The film is less a documentary and more a political Rorschach test. Depending on your beliefs, you’ll see either a courageous exposé of a covered-up assassination or a speculative polemic that confuses suspicion with evidence.
What makes it compelling—and frustrating—is its raw insistence that history is not neutral. Characters argue, almost shouting, about whether Shastri’s simplicity made him a threat to powerful elites, or whether his sudden death simply saved the establishment from a leader too honest to control. The film’s thesis, unsubtle but potent, is that the official narrative suits someone, and the truth, whatever it is, has been buried under diplomatic carpets for half a century.