Mrs. Movie: A Brutal Reality Check on Indian Households—But Did Richa Handle It Right?

There are films that entertain, films that make you think, and then there are films like Mrs.—films that hit you in the gut, films that make you uncomfortable because they show you a truth you would rather not see. Sanya Malhotra’s Mrs. is not just a movie; it is a reflection of millions of Indian women who live lives that are never truly their own. It is a mirror to the silent suffering endured within the four walls of a so-called “happy” home.

But as much as the film is a powerful portrayal of patriarchy in Indian households, one thing lingers in the mind—why did Richa never speak up? Why did she keep swallowing her anger, her frustration, her pain, until it erupted into a shocking outburst? Was her final act of rebellion justified, or could she have fought back in a different way?

Richa enters her husband’s home not as a partner but as a maid, a cook, a caretaker, a background figure whose only job is to serve and stay silent. She is expected to give up her dreams, her ambitions, her identity. She is a trained dancer, yet no one in the house cares. Instead, they care about whether she knows how to roll out perfect rotis, whether she can cook biryani in a kadhai instead of a pressure cooker because “that’s how it has always been done.” They care about whether she can grind chutney on a silbatta instead of using a mixer, about whether she can wash clothes by hand instead of using a washing machine—because in this house, modern conveniences are only meant for the men, not for the woman whose suffering is seen as tradition.

The way the men of the house behave is not just cruel—it is infuriatingly entitled. They leave their dirty plates, leftover bones, and food scraps right there on the dining table, expecting Richa to clean up after them like a servant. Not once does anyone thank her. Not once does anyone ask if she is tired. Not once does anyone acknowledge that she, too, is a human being. The father-in-law, waiting for someone—either his wife or his daughter-in-law—to place his footwear in front of him, because bending down to pick up his own slippers is apparently beneath him.

And then there’s her husband, the man who is supposed to be her partner, her equal. But he is not interested in love, in intimacy, in understanding her as a person. He is only interested in his own pleasure. He does not care if she is comfortable, does not care if she desires him back—because in his mind, as long as she is his wife, he has a right over her body. There is no romance, no tenderness—just an expectation. Sex, not love. Control, not partnership.

But perhaps the most disgusting reality that Mrs. exposes is the hypocrisy surrounding menstruation. The moment Richa gets her period, she is treated as “impure.” She is not allowed to enter the kitchen, not allowed to cook, not allowed to serve food. The family, so obsessed with homemade meals, suddenly has no problem eating food prepared by the maid or by the restaurants. The irony? The men in the house are literally counting the days of her period, eagerly waiting for her to become “pure” again—not because they care about her health, but because they need her back in the kitchen to cook the lavish and different meals all the time. This is not about hygiene. This is about power. She is only given “rest” when her body is deemed unfit to serve them, and the moment she is considered “clean” again, there is no concern for how she feels—only an expectation that she gets back to work.

But through all of this, one question haunts the viewer—why doesn’t Richa say something? Why doesn’t she tell her husband that she feels neglected? Why doesn’t she confront her mother-in-law about the endless burden placed on her shoulders? Why doesn’t she call her own parents and tell them the truth about what she is enduring? She absorbs every insult, every unfair demand, every humiliation, until it builds into something ugly, something explosive. She serves dirty water to the guests, an act that feels both shocking and petty, because it does not lead to a confrontation—it only makes her look bad. And then, finally, she throws a bucket of dirty water on her husband’s face.

But should it have come to this? Shouldn’t she have raised her voice long before reaching this breaking point? Silent suffering does not bring change—it only delays the inevitable. If she had spoken earlier, if she had set boundaries instead of waiting for her anger to consume her, would the result have been different? Maybe. Maybe not. But the truth is, this is not just Richa’s story—it is the story of countless Indian women who endure in silence because they have been conditioned to believe that suffering is a virtue.

And here’s where Mrs. delivers its most powerful message—if you think this film is exaggerated, go and ask the women in your life what they are going through. Ask your mother how many years of unpaid labor she has done without a single complaint. Ask your sister if she is expected to help in the kitchen while the men in the house are not. Ask your female colleagues how they are balancing office work and home life, and whether they are ever truly appreciated for the double burden they carry.

Many men believe that the humiliation women face exists only in the workplace, that gender discrimination is about salaries and promotions. What they fail to see is that for many women, the greater humiliation happens at home. A working woman fights for equality in the office, then comes home only to be told that her real duty begins now. She must be the perfect employee at work, the perfect wife at home, the perfect daughter-in-law in front of the family. There is no room for mistakes, no space for exhaustion. If she struggles, she is accused of not adjusting enough. If she asks for help, she is made to feel guilty.

The most frustrating argument against Mrs. is, “Our mothers and grandmothers did all of this happily. Why are women complaining now?” But the real question is—did they ever have a choice? Just because previous generations suffered in silence does not mean that suffering should continue. Tradition should evolve, not enslave.

The truth is, Mrs. is not just a film—it is a much-needed conversation starter. It forces men to look beyond their own comfort and ask the difficult questions they have ignored for too long. But it also forces women to realize that silence is not strength—speaking up is. The message is clear: Do not wait until you break. Set boundaries. Demand respect. Speak before your suffering turns into rage.

And if you are still defending the system shown in Mrs., go and talk to the women in your life. Listen. Understand. And then ask yourself—do you really think this film is just fiction?