Director: Vishal Furia
Cast: Kajol, Ronit Roy, Indraneil Sengupta, Kherin Sharma, Jitin Gulati, Gopal Singh
Runtime: 135 minutes
 
Vishal Furia’s Maa doesn’t scream for attention — it whispers its horror, lets it simmer, and then unleashes it with mythic force. It’s a rare beast in Indian cinema: a horror film that draws power not from jump scares or gore, but from centuries-old legends, generational grief, and the ferocity of a mother’s love.
 
Set in the mist-shrouded village of Chandrapur, the film follows Ambika (Kajol), a grieving widow whose sorrow uncovers more than just emotional pain. Her husband’s sudden death acts as a trigger, awakening buried secrets and a malevolent entity — a Daitya from myth, fueled by blood and centuries of silence. As Ambika digs into her family's past and the village’s shadowy lore, she stumbles into a cosmic battle between good and evil, framed through the lens of the goddess Kali and the demon Raktabeej.
 
At its heart, Maa is a story of motherhood — not as a soft, nurturing presence, but as a primal, divine force capable of destruction when provoked. Kajol delivers a powerhouse performance, dialed in and emotionally raw. There are no theatrics here — she carries Ambika’s pain like a second skin. Her transformation from broken widow to avenging force is as spiritual as it is psychological, and she commands the screen in a way that’s magnetic without ever being loud.
 
The supporting cast adds richness without stealing the spotlight. Kherin Sharma brings quiet strength as Ambika’s daughter, their relationship frayed yet full of unspoken love. Ronit Roy is solid as the village head, walking the line between ally and adversary. The rest of the ensemble — including Indraneil Sengupta in a brief but poignant role — give the cursed village of Chandrapur a lived-in, haunted feel.
 
Visually, Maa is a triumph. Cinematographer Shanker Raman paints the world in dusk and shadow, making the village feel both sacred and menacing. The production design leans into ritual and symbolism without becoming exoticized. Most importantly, the horror is never flashy — it's elemental. Fire, fog, blood, and silence do more here than any monster makeup could. The VFX is tasteful and restrained, especially during the film’s myth-heavy climax. The standout “Kali Shakti” sequence — both a song and a ritual — is a hypnotic, cathartic release, and marks one of Usha Uthup’s most memorable screen moments.
 
If Maa falters, it's in pacing. The film’s slow-burn structure occasionally drags, especially in its middle act where certain subplots don’t fully bloom. The script, while conceptually rich, sometimes tries to juggle too much — mythology, trauma, village politics — and not every thread lands with equal weight. Yet, even with its imperfections, Maa never loses emotional focus.
 
Where Maa excels is in its ambition. It reimagines horror not as spectacle, but as reckoning — with history, silence, and inner demons. It doesn’t just borrow from mythology; it treats it as sacred text, breathing new life into it with modern urgency. Furia’s approach is confident, meditative, and refreshingly devoid of cheap thrills. This is horror with soul — and stakes far beyond survival.
 
In a genre often overrun by clichés and borrowed scares, Maa stands out. It’s bold, spiritual, and anchored by Kajol’s commanding presence. For viewers seeking horror that lingers not just in the dark, but in the heart and conscience — Maa is more than a watch. It’s a ritual.