Some movies entertain, some transport us to a different world, and some—like Mrs.—hold up a mirror so unfiltered that looking away feels impossible. A Hindi adaptation of The Great Indian Kitchen, Mrs. is more than just a retelling; it is a hauntingly immersive experience that lingers long after the credits roll.
Starring Sanya Malhotra in a performance so raw it cuts deep, Mrs. simmers like a slow-cooked dish, revealing layer upon layer of a woman’s struggles, her invisible labor, and the suffocating walls of domesticity closing in around her. Through silence, everyday routines, and quiet rebellion, the film paints an intimate yet universal portrait of gender roles deeply embedded in society.
A World Confined by Tradition
Richa (Sanya Malhotra) is a trained dancer, independent, and full of life. Her marriage to Diwakar (Nishant Dahiya)—a well-respected gynecologist—initially appears to be the start of a beautiful journey. But beneath the surface lies a stark reality. Diwakar, despite his modern profession, is a man shaped by age-old traditions. His home is a temple of patriarchy, where women’s roles have long been predetermined. The kitchen is their sacred space, their battlefield, and their prison.
The screenplay meticulously captures the slow erasure of Richa’s individuality. Her love for dance is first met with mild disapproval, then with quiet control. The once-affectionate Diwakar begins measuring her worth not by her dreams, but by the warmth of the phulkas she serves and the neatness of the home. His love, like the steam rising from the kitchen, evaporates into thin air—leaving behind only expectations and obligations.
The Weight of Silence
One of the most powerful aspects of Mrs. is its quietude. The film doesn’t rely on dramatic confrontations but thrives in unspoken words, lingering glances, and the crushing weight of silence.
Richa’s loneliness is amplified not by what is said, but by what is left unsaid. When she serves food, she stands on the sidelines—not awaiting appreciation, but bracing for criticism. When she requests a plumber, she is ignored, because a leaking sink is only an inconvenience to those who don’t have to clean it. And when she resists unwanted intimacy, she is reduced to an object—her presence acknowledged only in function, never in identity.
Diwakar’s transformation from a seemingly loving husband to an oppressor is not abrupt, but disturbingly gradual. His words, “You smell like the kitchen—the sexiest smell in the world,” initially seem affectionate. But later, that same phrase is weaponized: “You smell like the kitchen,” now a rejection, now a condemnation.
A Performance That Resonates
Sanya Malhotra delivers a career-defining performance. She does not just play Richa—she becomes her. Her silent rebellion, simmering frustration, and quiet despair feel so real that you don’t just watch her—you experience her.
Nishant Dahiya’s portrayal of Diwakar is equally unsettling. He is not a caricatured villain, but an everyday man—one who unknowingly perpetuates cycles of oppression under the guise of tradition.
Kanwaljit Singh, as the father-in-law who commands control without uttering a word, and Aparna Ghoshal, as the mother-in-law resigned to her fate, add further layers of realism to the film’s heavy atmosphere.
A Social Message That Lingers
Where The Great Indian Kitchen delves deeply into patriarchy intertwined with religious rituals, Mrs. softens its approach, shifting focus to the psychological and domestic toll of a woman’s servitude. While this may make the Hindi adaptation feel less hard-hitting, it also makes it more relatable to a wider audience.
In one of the film’s most poignant moments, Richa tells a young girl:
“A woman is like an undivided primary number. That’s her secret power.”
Though slightly metaphorical, the line encapsulates the film’s core message—women are not just supporting characters in the lives of men; they are whole, independent, and complete in themselves.
A Movie That Demands Reflection
Some films offer escape. Mrs. does the opposite—it forces you to sit with your discomfort, to confront the subtle and insidious ways patriarchy operates in everyday life.
For men, Mrs. is a lesson in awareness. For women, it is both a mirror reflecting their struggles and a call to reclaim their power. And for every viewer, it serves as a reminder that real change does not always come from grand gestures—but from the everyday choices we make when no one is watching.