The Politics Of Domesticity in ‘Mrs.’: A Sociological And Cinematic Reckoning With Invisible Labour

Cinema, as a medium, often extends beyond storytelling, becoming a reflective lens that forces us to confront realities we have been conditioned to ignore. Mrs. does precisely that. It captures the insidious monotony of domestic labour, there are no grand moments, no breaking points, no cries for help, just an unrelenting, quiet exhaustion. A woman waking up before everyone else, cooking, cleaning, serving, and then doing it all over again the next day and continuing for generations. This is not a narrative of rebellion but of suffocation, of a life consumed by duty rather than choice.

Arati Kadav, the director of Mrs., reinterprets The Great Indian Kitchen with a unique sensibility, weaving a narrative that goes beyond repetition and silence to foreground the protagonist’s evolving consciousness. While staying true to the original’s themes, Kadav enhances the internal conflict, making the protagonist’s realisation of her oppression more gradual yet deeply unsettling. Unlike the Malayalam film, which leans on subtlety and lingering frames, Mrs. employs a more expressive storytelling approach, using dialogue and sound design to highlight the protagonist’s stifled emotions.

The slow dissolution of warmth in her relationships reflects her growing awareness of the crushing burden she carries, and the loss of intimacy in these spaces amplifies her entrapment. The film not only critiques the ceaseless cycle of domestic labour but also underscores how isolation and duty intertwine, creating an existence where emotional alienation becomes inevitable.

Mrs. does not dramatise or exaggerate; instead, it dwells on the mundane, allowing the weight of repetition to settle in. Each chore performed is not an isolated act but part of an endless cycle of service, where personal desires are secondary to familial obligations. The protagonist’s exhaustion is not merely physical but existential, stemming from the realisation that her efforts, however vital, are neither acknowledged nor rewarded. She exists within a space where her identity is reduced to her utility, where her work is necessary but invisible. The kitchen becomes a site of both labour and confinement, the dining table a space of service rather than sustenance, and the household a domain where her worth is defined by her ability to keep things running seamlessly.

Mrs. lingers in spaces where we rarely pause: the sound of a knife hitting the chopping board, the clinking of utensils, the steam rising from a pot, a hand wiping down a table only to dirty it again in a matter of minutes. These are the rhythms of an existence dictated by expectations, where autonomy is sacrificed to sustain an illusion of familial harmony. And yet, the protagonist moves through them as if there were no alternative, as if this were the only way life was ever meant to be. This is the politics of domesticity, not a dramatic event but an unending loop of invisible labour that no one applauds and no one questions. It is a reality so normalised that it does not even need to be explicitly addressed; it exists in the silence between actions, in the weight of repetition, in the absence of recognition.

From the screen to the living room: the unseen labours of women

There is something deeply unsettling about watching Mrs. because, at some point, it stops feeling like a film and starts feeling like a mirror. The protagonist is not a singular character, she is our mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters. She is the woman next door. She is the woman in our homes. And yet, for all the familiarity, her exhaustion has remained invisible, neatly tucked away behind the veil of this is just how things are.

We think of our grandmother, who woke up at 4 AM every day to begin cooking for a family of eight. Her hands constantly smelled of turmeric and onions; her hair, always tied back, bore the weight of oil and time. She never sat down to eat before everyone else had finished, and by the time she did, the food was cold. We never once heard her complain. Not because she was content, but because no one had ever asked her how she felt about it. There was no room for exhaustion in a world where her labour was simply expected.

And therein lies the paradox of domesticity: its invisibility. The protagonist of Mrs. walks the same path. She moves from the kitchen to the dining table, from the sink to the stove, from the grocery list to the laundry pile. There is no applause, no recognition, only an unspoken rule that this is her role to fulfill. And she fulfills it. Day after day, meal after meal. Like our grandmothers, like countless women whose work is unseen because it is omnipresent.

The burden of the grihani and the economics of unpaid labour In Mrs.

In Indian households, the grihani or housewife is not just a role, it is an identity, a legacy, a badge of honor wrapped in sacrifice. A woman who runs her home well is respected, even admired, but never truly seen. The work she does is essential, but it is never considered labour. It is love. It is duty. It is tradition. It is everything but work.

The grihani is expected to embody selflessness. She is the keeper of culture, the silent backbone of family stability. Her worth is measured not by her dreams or ambitions but by how well she serves others. She must maintain a spotless home, cook elabourate meals, uphold familial traditions, and care for children, elders, and husbands. And yet, for all the work she does, she holds no financial power, no institutional recognition, and no real claim to autonomy.

This erasure of domestic labour has serious economic and social consequences. Feminist economists like Marilyn Waring have long argued that this labour is not just work, it is unpaid, undervalued, and foundational to economic productivity. Bina Agarwal (1997) expands on this by framing household labour as an act of economic negotiation. Domestic work is not merely caregiving; it is a site of power, shaped by access to financial resources, education, and social mobility.

The protagonist of Mrs. lacks these bargaining chips, making her labour both expected and inescapable. In the absence of independent income or external support, her position in the household remains fixed, reinforcing a structure where women’s work is essential yet invisible.

Arlie Hochschild’s (1989) concept of the second shift is deeply relevant to Mrs., except in the Indian context, for many women, there is no first shift. Domestic labour is not something they return to after paid work. Even when women step outside for formal employment, their primary identity remains tied to domestic duties, creating an exhausting dual burden. Mrs. makes this tangible, not only through dialogue, but through the weight of repetition.

What now?

There is no resolution in Mrs., because there is no resolution in reality. The cycle continues. The work continues. The exhaustion continues. But perhaps, now, we can no longer pretend not to see it.

And maybe that is where change begins, not in loud proclamations, but in the simple act of witnessing. Of asking the questions we have never asked. Of recognising the labour we have long ignored. And of realising that love, duty, and sacrifice are not substitutes for justice.