Is Ajitpal Singh really just having his debut as a feature-length filmmaker? 

The question merits asking because “Fire in the Mountains” is a remarkable directorial effort, a movie whose suppleness and surety should be the envy of more experienced hands. The script, of which Mr. Singh is also the author, is notable for how fully it embraces complexity and contradiction. Here is a film that plays like a novel. 

“Fire in the Mountains” emphasizes both the bonds and frustrations engendered by family. As such, it proves knowing and generous in its sense of, if not forgiveness exactly, then understanding. One can’t help but wonder while watching: Where has this movie been all of my life? Yes, it’s that good.

The buzz surrounding “Fire in the Mountains” posits Mr. Singh’s film as a parable of feminism, and it is, I suppose. Cast a strong female lead, in this case Vinamrata Rai as Chandra, the unstoppable matriarch of a village family, and that’ll be a go-to assumption. But pegging the movie to one -ism or another burdens it with a political bent that sells short a profound focus on character and culture.

“Fire in the Mountains” takes place in Sarmoli, a ramshackle township in Uttarakhand, a state in northern India. The amenities are few and far between — an ongoing effort to establish a main road is, in fact, a sticking point of the narrative — but Sarmoli is situated in a stunning locale: a vertiginous landscape nestled within the Himalayas.

Among Mr. Singh’s signal collaborators is Dominique Colin, a Paris-based cinematographer who not only captures the encompassing sweep of the setting, but imbues the film with a sonorous range of color. Imagine a cross between the saturated palette of Raphael and Rembrandt’s tonal range, and you’ll get an idea of the visual splendor on display throughout “Fire in the Mountains.”

Chandra and her ne’er-do-well husband, Dharam (Chandan Bisht), operate “Swizerland Homestay,” a humble inn that sits up a steep and rocky pathway. They live directly next door with their adolescent daughter, Kanchan (Harshita Tewari), disabled younger son, Prakash (Mayank Singh), and Kamla (Sonal Jha), Dharam’s widowed sister.

Chandra spends a significant amount of time carrying Prakash on her back — the local terrain not being amenable to wheelchairs. Convinced that proper medical attention will enable her son to walk again, Chandra repeatedly takes Prakash to the nearest doctor. Dharam disagrees, preferring the ministrations of a local shaman. 

This collision between science and religion isn’t the only instance of modernity bumping up against deep-seated traditions. Hot-and-cold running water is a utility the good people of Sarmoli are without, but you can be damned sure they have cellphones. Kanchan, for instance, has discovered TukTuk — the Indian version of TikTok — and posts videos of herself lip-syncing pop songs while dancing in a sexualized manner. The neighborhood boys are fond of this; mom and dad aren’t.

There are other things afoot in not-so-quiet Sarmoli. A leopard is on the loose, Kamla goes missing, and, well, Prakash has a secret. But it is Jagar — a ritual that invokes ancestor spirits as a means of achieving penance — that is among the story’s overriding conceits. It’s mentioned repeatedly throughout “Fire in the Mountains,” and the film culminates, in a scene rife with irony and eroticism, with the ceremony itself. 

Which doesn’t necessarily mean that Jagar or, for that matter, “Fire in the Mountains” resolves much of anything. The mysteries inherent to the human animal, Mr. Singh suggests, are boundless and, though invariably consternating, infinitely worth retaining. He has brought us an exemplary film, one rife with insight, tenderness, and, almost against the odds, indissoluble optimism. It should not be missed.