Mrs. movie review: A woman's battle against patriarchy, told in silence

A Hindi adaptation of The Great Indian Kitchen, Mrs. does more than just retell a story. Read on to find out its review

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. Starring Sanya Malhotra in a performance so raw it cuts deep, Mrs. is an experience. It simmers like a slow-cooked dish, revealing layer upon layer of a woman’s struggles, her invisible labour, and the suffocating walls of domesticity that close in around her.  

 

A Hindi adaptation of The Great Indian Kitchen, Mrs. does more than just retell a story. The movie’s brilliance lies in its ability to make the ordinary seem extraordinary. The clinking of utensils, the stubbornness of a leaking sink, the smell of sweat mingled with spices — little details become a language of oppression, one that Richa (Sanya Malhotra) comes to understand all too soon.

 

 

A woman’s world, confined 

Richa is a trained dancer, vibrant, independent, and full of life. Her marriage to Diwakar (Nishant Dahiya), a well-respected gynecologist, initially appears to be the beginning of a beautiful journey. But beneath the surface, a different reality awaits. Diwakar, despite his modern profession, is a man shaped by tradition. His home is a temple of patriarchy, where the roles of women have long been decided. The kitchen is their sacred space, their battlefield, and their prison.  

 

The screenplay captures the slow erasure of Richa’s individuality. Her love for dance is met with disapproval — first subtle, then overt. The once-affectionate Diwakar begins to measure her worth by the warmth of the phulkas she serves, the neatness of the home, and her compliance with the unspoken rules of their household. His love, like the steam from the kitchen, disappears into thin air, leaving behind nothing but expectations and obligations.  

 

The weight of silence 

One of the most profound impacts of Mrs. is its quietude. The movie doesn’t rely on loud confrontations; rather, it thrives in unspoken words and glances and the spaces between dialogue. Richa’s loneliness is amplified not by what is said, but by what isn’t. When she serves food, she stands on the sidelines, waiting — not for appreciation, but for criticism. When she asks for 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 the scent of a kitchen — a place where she belongs, but never as a person, only as a function.  

 

Diwakar’s transformation from a seemingly loving husband to a man who dehumanises his wife is chilling, not because it is sudden, but because it is so painfully gradual. His words, “You smell like the kitchen — the sexiest smell in the world,” initially seem affectionate. But later, when desire turns to disdain, he weaponises the same words: “You smell like the kitchen,” now a rejection, now a condemnation.  

 

A standout performance 

Sanya Malhotra does not only play Richa — she becomes her. Her emotions, her suppressed tears, and her weary sighs feel so effortless and natural that you forget she is even acting. Her silent rebellion, simmering anger, and ultimate awakening feel so deeply personal that you don’t just watch her journey — you become a part of it.

 

Nishant Dahiya is as disturbingly effective as Diwakar. He doesn’t play an outright villain; he plays an everyday man — a reflection of countless husbands, sons, and fathers who unknowingly perpetuate cycles of oppression under the guise of tradition. 

 

Kanwaljit Singh, as the father-in-law who commands respect without uttering a word, is remarkable. Aparna Ghoshal, as the mother-in-law who has long surrendered to her fate, adds quiet tragedy to the movie’s already heavy atmosphere.  

 

A social message that lingers  

Where The Great Indian Kitchen delves deeply into the intersection of patriarchy and religious rituals, Mrs. softens its edges, focusing more on the domestic and psychological toll of a woman’s servitude. While some may argue that this makes the Hindi adaptation less hard-hitting, it also makes it more universal. The movie’s message is clear: a woman’s value is not determined by how well she serves others.  

 

In one of the movie’s most poignant moments, Richa tells a young girl: “A woman is like an undivided primary number. That’s her secret power.” It is a beautifully constructed line, though it feels a little too deliberate. Still, its meaning holds true. Women are not just supporting characters in the lives of men. They are whole, independent, and complete — despite a world that constantly tries to reduce them to mere fractions.  

 

A movie that demands reflection 

Some movies stay with you long after the credits roll. Mrs. is one of them. It doesn’t offer easy solutions or dramatic conclusions. It doesn’t give Richa a fairytale ending. Instead, it forces you to sit with your discomfort, to confront the everyday injustices that we so often overlook.  

 

For men, this movie is a lesson in awareness. For women, it is both a mirror reflecting their struggles and a call to reclaim their power. And for everyone watching, it is a reminder that true change doesn't always start with grand gestures, but with the little, everyday choices we make — the ones we make when no one is watching.