Mrs and The Great Indian Kitchen: Women and the politics of the "Kitchen"!

Even though Mrs, the adaptation of the film The Great Indian Kitchen falls short of the original movie, it is a remake that was very necessary. Let's discuss why!

From the start of the year, it seems fair to say that 2025 may be dedicated to adaptations. We've already seen Black Warrant transition from fact to fiction through a book adaptation, followed by Bollywood films with remakes like Deva (from Malayalam’s Mumbai Police), Loveyapa (from Tamil’s Love Today), and now the highly anticipated Mrs., adapted from The Great Indian Kitchen. Remakes or adaptations aren’t inherently bad. First, they allow a story to reach a wider audience, especially since many viewers prefer culturally familiar content. Second, they provide a platform to explore how storytellers can reshape familiar narratives, bringing new layers to established material. Ultimately, stories are retold versions of universal truths. When adapted with authenticity, they can resonate with anyone, whether they originate in a Malayali household or a home in North India.

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The film Mrs., adapted from The Great Indian Kitchen, was scrutinised when it initially did not credit Jeo Baby or their own technicians. Although it eventually acknowledged its source material, this highlights a broader issue in the industry—giving credit where it’s due. Despite these challenges, I applaud the courage of co- writer and director Arati Kadav for approaching this highly critically acclaimed project and trying to add a women’s lens to a female-centric film. While I had hoped for more, Mrs. works for those encountering the story for the first time. However, suppose you’ve seen The Great Indian Kitchen. In that case, you might wonder whether the shift toward making content more “second-screen” friendly on OTT platforms compromises the depth of visual storytelling.

Nevertheless, here’s where the main differences between the two films lie, despite them telling the same kitchen-centric story:

The Haunting Silence of The Great Indian Kitchen vs. the Talkativeness of Mrs.

TGIK envelops its story in silence from the start. Small, wordless details—the awkwardness of an arranged marriage meeting, the wedding night, the husband's struggles with the mangalsutra, wedding customs—all speak volumes, giving viewers space to interpret what they see unfold. In contrast, Mrs. fills its gaps with dialogue and music, guiding the audience toward specific moments and leaving little room for personal reflection. In TGIK, the father-in-law’s demand for everything to be made from scratch is about upholding tradition, whereas in Mrs., it’s presented as more of an obsession with enzymes and eating right. Even the husband in TGIK is a social science teacher who preaches family values to a class of girls, while in Mrs., the husband is a gynaecologist, yet his conversations are more about medical matters with his father, leaving little space for engagement with the women in his life.

Both films tackle the way patriarchy hides behind so-called family values and traditions. Yet, their execution differs, with TGIK allowing silence to reveal subjugation, where the father-in-law doesn't speak to his daughter-in-law but complains about her to his wife. At the same time, the husband repeats the same cycle with the second wife, whereas Mrs. opts for a more overt expression where the men of the house directly speak as father-in-law complains to Richa while her husband talks about correcting mistakes with the second wife. 

The Lived-In Experience of The Great Indian Kitchen vs. the Explanations in Mrs.

In TGIK, the suffocating routine of a woman’s life post-marriage is conveyed through unspoken, repetitive actions! From witnessing the mother-in-law's life of handing the husband his toothbrush, keeping his slippers out, cooking all day long in the kitchen, eating at a disgustingly leftover dining table after the men to daughter-in-law doing the same cooking on fire, grinding chutneys on stone, washing clothes by hands, the drudgery of cleaning the house, and having painful sex with the husband at night. It feels as if a camera has been placed inside someone’s home, observing real life without interruption. The editing reflects this, with the wife moving in and out of the still frame, consumed by chores. Even when a cousin enters with a so-called sense of reliving the women, his left-up mess in the kitchen remains an unspoken but ever-present prison for women.

In Mrs., we see similar patterns: Richa learns cooking from YouTube, picks up leftover chicken pieces, cleans the overflowing wash basin, and dies a slow death under the weight of her husband at night. However, the tone is more explanatory, with memorable quips and moments—like her comments about kitchen solutions to wash the Kurta and 'jiska kitchen wohi hi jaane'. Even the talk about going to work, husband’s mannerisms, and foreplay become more of a verbal sparring match in Mrs., while in TGIK, the same moments simmer under hurtful cutthroat insults with painful silence persisting over. 

Nimisha Sajayan’s Subtlety vs. Sanya Malhotra’s Playfulness

Both women in these films find joy in dancing; through it, they reclaim their voices, standing against a system that tries to guilt them into servitude. From being shamed for their periods—one of the few times they find respite from household burdens—to having their cooking critiqued as though it reflects their worth. The films delve into a guilt-shaming culture where women feel obligated to keep working, even when in pain, until they almost become invisible, their existence reduced to serving others.

Nimisha Sajayan’s portrayal in TGIK is subtle and restrained. Her character is a simple, dutiful woman who accepts the roles of being a good wife and daughter-in-law without ever realizing she has a voice—until she's pushed to the edge by the constant grind, the suffocating smells, the sweat, and the leakage in the kitchen. Her rebellion builds until it reaches a point of eruption when she offers her husband and father-in-law drain water as tea and then throws it at them. The tension of her disgust is masterfully built throughout the film, making the audience long for that cathartic moment when she finally breaks free. On the other hand, Sanya Malhotra’s portrayal of Richa in Mrs. follows more or less the same patterns, yet it is an overt journey of self-discovery. Richa is playful, fun, and capable of standing up for others but struggles to find the courage to speak up for herself. Her boldness and ambition are nurtured through her love for dance, her troupe, and her envy of her friend. This makes her final performance, where Sanya herself dances with her group, a symbolic moment of self-assertion. In contrast, Nimisha’s character is seen teaching a group of women to dance—her final act of rebellion liberates her and empowers others.

Both women find their voices in ways that suit their personalities and circumstances. Sanya’s Richa finally stand up for herself as she draws a powerful line between being a beta (son) and a beti (daughter). Nimisha, on the other hand, breaks the oppressive cycle in her own quiet way—not only by uplifting herself but also by preventing her younger sister from serving the men and sharing a knowing, painful glance with her mother- a moment that signifies shared suffering but also the hope of breaking free from the generational chains.

The Politics of the Kitchen in TGIK vs. the Politics of Marriage in Mrs.

Jeo Baby’s portrayal of a woman’s life after marriage in The Great Indian Kitchen exposes the politics of the kitchen, which gradually silences her voice and diminishes her existence. His narrative is deeply rooted in the cultural and religious framework of Kerala, where a woman’s purity and impurity dictate her place in the household. Here, religious customs reinforce her subjugation, confining her behind closed doors. The debate over women’s restricted temple access during their periods, a prominent issue in southern India, further underscores this societal control.

In contrast, Arati Kadav’s perspective in Mrs. centres around the cultural politics that come with the title "Mrs." Her focus shifts to the inherent expectations accompanying a woman’s married life, rooted more in North Indian customs. Practices like Karva Chauth and fasting are portrayed not as outdated patriarchal traditions but as lifestyle choices, disguising the underlying expectation that only women should bear such responsibilities. Kadav’s lens captures a more familiar Northern experience, where the rituals surrounding marriage may appear modern but still reinforce the exact gendered expectations.

Both films reflect on the lives of married women, but their titles reveal the stark contrast in their approaches. Jeo Baby emphasizes the oppressive kitchen politics in households, where women are often reduced to their roles as caretakers. At the same time, Kadav focuses on the broader identity politics attached to being a "Mrs." Each director explores how marriage confines women. Still, their narratives originate from the same place: the kitchen, where many women’s stories begin and, for some, where they remain.

Ultimately, both films are crucial in sparking conversations about how the politics of the kitchen intertwine with the politics of being a woman, particularly within the confines of marriage. Each story carries its own weight and urgency. If you enjoyed Mrs., I highly recommend watching The Great Indian Kitchen, as the original leaves you with a visceral and raw experience, giving a profound sense of discomfort. This haunting realization lingers long after the credits roll. In contrast, Mrs., with its more polished, accessible narrative, offers a more digestible yet crucial social commentary. Neither film is inherently better or worse than the other; the distinction lies in the depth of their impact—one unsettling and transformative, the other insightful and thought-provoking!

Mrs. is currently streaming on Zee5, and The Great Indian Kitchen is available on Amazon Prime Video! 

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