Amaltaas - املتاس
Directed by Xoori K. Sarhadi
Screening at IL KINO, July 9th, 2026
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Set in a foreign home, a newly married woman drifts through incense smoke, chai rituals, and beauty masks. The echoes of wedding drums, once celebratory, now linger as haunting reminders of her displacement, silencing her beneath routines of obedience and
appearances. Through poetic imagery, Amaltaas becomes a portrait of many silenced and erased souls. A beauty mask peeling, eyeliner stinging, bangles shimmering, and a veil tightening around the neck all carry the weight of suffocation. |
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The film relies on poetic visual language rather than dialogue. How did you decide which everyday rituals and objects would best communicate the protagonist's inner world?
One of my favourite reactions to Amaltaas came from South Asian audiences noticing the smallest details. One moment many people mentioned is when she opens a bobby pin with her teeth because it instantly reminded them of their mothers, sisters, or themselves getting ready. I loved hearing that because those were exactly the kinds of memories I wanted to capture. |
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Every object and ritual in the film comes from years of observation. I grew up watching the women around me move through these routines every day. Making chai, applying kajal, lighting incense in the morning, peeling mangoes, arranging tomatoes on the kitchen counter, wearing bangles, folding a dupatta. They are gestures so ordinary that we rarely stop to notice them, yet they quietly become part of our emotional memory.
After moving overseas, many of those same rituals became deeply nostalgic for me. They reminded me of home while also making me think about the women I have met who leave everything familiar behind after marriage and slowly build a life somewhere new. I wanted the house in Amaltaas to feel like that emotional space where memories of home exist alongside the reality of displacement.
After moving overseas, many of those same rituals became deeply nostalgic for me. They reminded me of home while also making me think about the women I have met who leave everything familiar behind after marriage and slowly build a life somewhere new. I wanted the house in Amaltaas to feel like that emotional space where memories of home exist alongside the reality of displacement.
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I was also interested in how these objects could hold two truths at once. Rooh Afza is associated with sweetness and celebration, yet its deep red colour and sticky texture suggested something much more vulnerable to me. A dupatta is elegant, but it can also become restrictive. Even the Amaltaas tree itself is admired for its beautiful golden blossoms, yet parts of it can be poisonous. That contradiction became the emotional language of the film. From the outside, everything appears beautiful. Inside, she is quietly disappearing.
Rather than telling the audience how she feels, I wanted these rituals to speak for her. My hope was that audiences would recognise pieces of their own lives in these ordinary gestures, whether they had grown up in South Asia or not. The details may be culturally specific, but the emotions they carry belong to all of us. |
The title Amaltaas references the golden shower tree. Why did you choose this title, and how does it connect to the emotional journey of the woman in the film?
When I was writing the film, I kept thinking about the protagonist in shades of yellow and blue. Yellow was everything the world could see. Beauty, warmth, celebration, the image of a newly married bride. Blue was everything she carried within herself. Loneliness, displacement, and the gradual feeling of disappearing. That emotional contrast eventually led me to the Amaltaas tree.
The Amaltaas is one of the most beautiful trees in South Asia. When it blooms, it is impossible to ignore. Its golden flowers transform entire streets, almost like a bride on her wedding day. But the bloom is seasonal. It arrives, dazzles everyone for a brief moment, and then slowly fades. I found that parallel deeply moving because society often celebrates the bride in much the same way. There is immense joy surrounding the wedding, yet very little attention is given to the inner life of the woman once the celebrations are over.
The tree also carries another contradiction that resonated with me. Although it is admired for its beauty, parts of it are toxic. That duality became central to the film. From the outside, everything appears beautiful. Inside, something much more complicated is unfolding.
I never thought of Amaltaas simply as the title of the film. To me, it became the woman's name, her emotional landscape, and the film's quiet thesis all at once. Like the tree, she is admired for what people can see, while the parts of herself that are hurting remain hidden beneath the surface.
I wanted the title to carry that contradiction before the film even begins. Something beautiful can also hold sorrow. Something celebrated can also be slowly disappearing.
When I was writing the film, I kept thinking about the protagonist in shades of yellow and blue. Yellow was everything the world could see. Beauty, warmth, celebration, the image of a newly married bride. Blue was everything she carried within herself. Loneliness, displacement, and the gradual feeling of disappearing. That emotional contrast eventually led me to the Amaltaas tree.
The Amaltaas is one of the most beautiful trees in South Asia. When it blooms, it is impossible to ignore. Its golden flowers transform entire streets, almost like a bride on her wedding day. But the bloom is seasonal. It arrives, dazzles everyone for a brief moment, and then slowly fades. I found that parallel deeply moving because society often celebrates the bride in much the same way. There is immense joy surrounding the wedding, yet very little attention is given to the inner life of the woman once the celebrations are over.
The tree also carries another contradiction that resonated with me. Although it is admired for its beauty, parts of it are toxic. That duality became central to the film. From the outside, everything appears beautiful. Inside, something much more complicated is unfolding.
I never thought of Amaltaas simply as the title of the film. To me, it became the woman's name, her emotional landscape, and the film's quiet thesis all at once. Like the tree, she is admired for what people can see, while the parts of herself that are hurting remain hidden beneath the surface.
I wanted the title to carry that contradiction before the film even begins. Something beautiful can also hold sorrow. Something celebrated can also be slowly disappearing.
You describe the film as exploring domestic confinement and the experience of women displaced through marriage. Were you drawing from personal experiences, stories you've witnessed, or broader cultural observations?**
Like many artists, I inevitably drew from moments in my own life, but Amaltaas is ultimately a mosaic of many women, many observations, and countless conversations.
After moving overseas, I became more aware of the emotional adjustments that often go unnoticed. I observed women around me building new lives in unfamiliar places while carrying the weight of everything they had left behind. Although every woman's story is different, I kept noticing the same emotional thread of isolation, expectation, and the feeling of slowly becoming invisible within a life that appeared perfectly happy from the outside.
In many South Asian families, marrying someone who is settled overseas is seen as a dream. It is often viewed as an opportunity for a better future, and in many ways it can be. But that conversation often overlooks what she is leaving behind: her parents, siblings, friends, language, neighbourhood, and the ordinary rhythms that made her feel at home. A better life is often measured in practical terms, but emotional comfort matters too.
The film is not intended as a criticism of marriage or migration. Many women build joyful and fulfilling lives abroad. What interested me was the emotional space in between, the period where someone is trying to reconcile who they were with who they are now expected to become. It is a transition that often happens within a person and rarely becomes part of the conversation.
Like many artists, I inevitably drew from moments in my own life, but Amaltaas is ultimately a mosaic of many women, many observations, and countless conversations.
After moving overseas, I became more aware of the emotional adjustments that often go unnoticed. I observed women around me building new lives in unfamiliar places while carrying the weight of everything they had left behind. Although every woman's story is different, I kept noticing the same emotional thread of isolation, expectation, and the feeling of slowly becoming invisible within a life that appeared perfectly happy from the outside.
In many South Asian families, marrying someone who is settled overseas is seen as a dream. It is often viewed as an opportunity for a better future, and in many ways it can be. But that conversation often overlooks what she is leaving behind: her parents, siblings, friends, language, neighbourhood, and the ordinary rhythms that made her feel at home. A better life is often measured in practical terms, but emotional comfort matters too.
The film is not intended as a criticism of marriage or migration. Many women build joyful and fulfilling lives abroad. What interested me was the emotional space in between, the period where someone is trying to reconcile who they were with who they are now expected to become. It is a transition that often happens within a person and rarely becomes part of the conversation.
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I wanted Amaltaas to honour those emotions without reducing them to a single story. Instead, the protagonist became a vessel for many lived experiences, including fragments of my own. I hope the film encourages us to look beyond appearances and recognise that some of life's greatest transformations happen within someone and are almost invisible from the outside.
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As a Pakistani-Australian filmmaker, how has your cultural background influenced the stories you're drawn to tell and the way you approach filmmaking?
I often say that Pakistan taught me how to dream, and Australia gave me the means to fulfil those dreams. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where storytelling was simply part of everyday life. Some of my earliest memories are of being on film sets with my parents, watching actors, directors, and crew transform ordinary moments into something meaningful. Long before I knew I wanted to become a filmmaker, I was learning to observe. I realised that silence can be just as expressive as dialogue, and that the smallest human gestures often reveal the deepest emotions. |
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Growing up in Pakistan also made me deeply aware of the different expectations placed on women. Alongside incredible warmth, generosity, and community, I witnessed the unspoken compromises, resilience, and quiet strength that many women carry every day. Those observations continue to shape the stories I feel compelled to tell.
Moving to Australia gave me something equally valuable: distance. Living between two cultures allowed me to look at both with greater clarity. It challenged ideas I had accepted without question and made me appreciate the freedoms I now experience while also recognising the beauty and complexity of the culture I come from. That perspective has taught me to approach every story with curiosity rather than judgement.
When I make films, I am less interested in dramatic events than in what people carry beneath the surface. I am drawn to memory, ritual, grief, identity, and the ordinary moments that often go unnoticed. Whether someone is in Lahore, Melbourne, or anywhere else in the world, those emotions are universal. My hope is that my films encourage audiences to slow down, look a little closer, and discover meaning in the details we usually overlook.
Moving to Australia gave me something equally valuable: distance. Living between two cultures allowed me to look at both with greater clarity. It challenged ideas I had accepted without question and made me appreciate the freedoms I now experience while also recognising the beauty and complexity of the culture I come from. That perspective has taught me to approach every story with curiosity rather than judgement.
When I make films, I am less interested in dramatic events than in what people carry beneath the surface. I am drawn to memory, ritual, grief, identity, and the ordinary moments that often go unnoticed. Whether someone is in Lahore, Melbourne, or anywhere else in the world, those emotions are universal. My hope is that my films encourage audiences to slow down, look a little closer, and discover meaning in the details we usually overlook.
What's next for you? Are there any themes, stories, or projects you're especially excited to explore in your future work?
I don’t think I will ever stop being fascinated by the moments that shape who we become. The conversations left unfinished, the rituals we inherit without questioning, and the ways we carry grief, love, hope, or loneliness through everyday life. Those are the stories I find myself returning to again and again.
I want my films to be felt before they are understood. For me, emotion is the doorway to reflection. I don't think the heart and the mind work separately. When a film moves us emotionally, it also invites us to ask questions we may not have considered before. That is what excites me most about cinema.
I hope Dear Abu encourages someone to write the message they have been meaning to send. I hope Amaltaas leads someone to notice the emotional worlds of women they may never have truly seen before. If my films can stay with people long after the credits roll and continue those conversations, then I feel I have done my job.
I don’t think I will ever stop being fascinated by the moments that shape who we become. The conversations left unfinished, the rituals we inherit without questioning, and the ways we carry grief, love, hope, or loneliness through everyday life. Those are the stories I find myself returning to again and again.
I want my films to be felt before they are understood. For me, emotion is the doorway to reflection. I don't think the heart and the mind work separately. When a film moves us emotionally, it also invites us to ask questions we may not have considered before. That is what excites me most about cinema.
I hope Dear Abu encourages someone to write the message they have been meaning to send. I hope Amaltaas leads someone to notice the emotional worlds of women they may never have truly seen before. If my films can stay with people long after the credits roll and continue those conversations, then I feel I have done my job.
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Many of my stories centre on women, and I think that comes from the people who shaped me. I was raised by strong women, and by a father who deeply admired and championed them. Watching those relationships taught me that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it lives in resilience, tenderness, humour, and the simple act of continuing to move forward.
As I continue making films, I hope to keep exploring memory, ritual, family, identity, and the emotional landscapes that connect us across cultures. I want to create films that people do not simply watch, but carry with them. The world moves very quickly. I hope my films are an invitation to slow down. |
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Xoori K. Sarhadi is an award-winning Pakistani-Australian filmmaker born in Lahore, Pakistan. Raised in a family deeply connected to film and theatre, she developed an early fascination with storytelling and performance.
Surrounded by the world of cinema from a young age, she spent much of her childhood behind the scenes with her parents, sparking a lifelong connection to film. She studied documentary filmmaking at RMIT in Melbourne and refined her craft at NYFA in New York. With a background in art, design, psychology, and UX, she brings emotional depth and visual precision to her work. Her latest film, Amaltaas, is an experimental exploration of ritual, beauty, and domestic confinement, using poetic imagery to reveal the quiet suffocation experienced by women displaced through marriage. |
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