From Aarya to Mrs: Anu Singh Choudhary On Crafting Stories Of Quiet Rebellion

Anu Singh Choudhary’s stories stay with you — not just for their craft, but for their quiet power. A writer, screenwriter, journalist, and documentarian, Anu has spent her career telling stories that feel lived-in, honest, and deeply human. Whether it’s through her evocative fiction, award-winning journalism, or screenplays for acclaimed series like Aarya and Grahan, her voice remains grounded in the everyday — sharp with observation, and soft with empathy. Fluent in both Hindi and English, Anu moves fluidly between languages and mediums. From adapting The Great Indian Kitchen into Mrs and shining a light on overlooked truths she captures the pulse of contemporary India with remarkable clarity.

In this conversation, we speak about writing across forms, the silences between the lines, and how storytelling can both wound and heal.

Excerpts from the interview below

The original Malayalam film The Great Indian Kitchen was a deeply unsettling watch for many — myself included. What was your thought process while adapting it into Mrs?

When you watch The Great Indian Kitchen, you're stunned into silence. As a writer, the biggest challenge was figuring out how to make that story feel like it was unfolding in our homes and not just someone else's. It’s about everything — the dynamic between husband and wife, the expectations we place on women in families, the invisible hierarchies that define our daily lives. These exist not only in relationships, but also in class — who serves whom, who gets a seat at the table, and who stands in the kitchen. There's literally a food chain within the family. So, for me as an adaptation writer, the question was: how do I bring that home and make it feel intimate and accessible?

Many of the characters in Mrs are drawn from people around me. I used to joke in the writers' room that people would come after me once they saw the film, because so many lines in the script were lifted verbatim from things I’ve heard women around me say.
My grandfather was a patriarch, but also someone who shaped my value system, someone I loved deeply. Yet as a young girl, I was expected to run with his chappals so he could get comfortable after work. The entire kitchen operated around his tastes. And this was considered normal.

These were good men — loving, protective, often champions of women’s education and financial independence — yet, they were deeply patriarchal. Not out of malice, but because they didn’t know any other way.

I'm still trying to make sense of that paradox. And maybe that’s what Mrs is really about — the quiet contradictions we live with. The story only needed to reflect the truth. 

There’s a very powerful and metaphorical use of food in Mrs. From cooking to how power plays out around it — it really carries emotional weight. How did you weave that symbolism into the screenplay?

It started with the original setup, of course, but when I began adapting it, I focused on how food and the act of preparing it carries so much meaning in our homes. For instance, there’s this line my mother always said: “Cooking only takes 15 minutes. It’s the prep work and the clean-up that’s the real effort.” That stayed with me. How much care you put into preparation — it defines the final taste. And, metaphorically, it’s no different from relationships.

My mother still travels from Jamshedpur by train, not by flight — because she wants to carry 50 kilos of food items for us! Pickles, murabbas, homemade snacks — all these lovingly made things we barely have the time or mental space to appreciate.

And that’s the point, really. Food becomes a language of love, but also of invisible labour. The way people eat — whether gratefully, indifferently, or critically — reflects how they see the person behind the effort. It's a silent commentary on relationships, respect, and emotional labour. That dynamic became an independent narrative track in the film — a metaphor for how unseen and unacknowledged women’s work often is. Many of the food references in the film come from my Bihari roots—dishes like pedha ka murabba, besan ki sabzi, and kathal ki sabzi that I’ve seen my dadi, nani, and mother prepare. Even something as simple as chuda matar isn’t just a snack—it’s an evening ritual with chai, full of emotional meaning.

I’m grateful to the director and our brilliant food consultant for bringing these details to life. Even the subtle distinctions between nimbu paani, shikanji, and jaljeera matter—something I grew up hearing. That obsession with food and taste, while often ignoring the effort behind it, is exactly what the film explores.

Honestly, it’s not just our mothers’ generation. Even today, I catch myself doing it. Whenever I visit my son in London, I find myself cooking for him and I feel so happy when he eats what I make. Maa ke haath ka khana still holds emotional weight and is so deeply embedded in our psyche. I’ve never even looked at it the way you’ve just described it — and now, I am.

That’s the key difference. When your son eats what you make with gratitude, with love, and with an awareness of the effort, that’s what changes everything. It’s not about the act of cooking or feeding.

It’s about the emotions around it. It’s about how the person's cooking is seen, and how the one eating receives it. That’s where mutual respect needs to exist — in the act of feeding and being fed.

When someone eats what you’ve made with joy and acknowledgement, that’s when it becomes beautiful. You’ve truly reframed this for me, Anu. What's your take on the role of storytelling in today's media landscape? 

It’s incredibly tough right now, honestly. The attention span of audiences has shrunk so drastically — I mean, what are we looking at now, one and a half seconds? Two? We’re all just doomscrolling, jumping from one reel to the next. So the big challenge is: how do you engage someone long enough to actually tell a story?

This is across the board — journalism, fiction, screenwriting, everything in between. And sometimes I really wonder if people even sit through a 30-minute interview anymore. And if someone does, I feel like we should find them, hug them, and thank them for sticking around! Because patience has become rare, and yet storytelling demands exactly that — a little patience, a little stillness.

Stories like Mrs and Aarya don’t come along every day. I do feel incredibly lucky that I’ve had the chance to be associated with such stories that people come back to. They exist for posterity, and that’s rare and special. You’re constantly asking yourself — how do I say this differently? How do I learn the next thing? How do I keep up with this landscape that’s changing so rapidly? And now with the advent of AI… honestly, we don’t even know what the next six months will look like. Beyond that, even something as fundamental as copyright — how do you protect your own work anymore? It’s such an uncertain time in that sense, and yet, we’re in it, figuring it out as we go.

Women continue to face significant challenges in achieving equality, both personally and professionally especially when it comes to opportunities and respect. I know it’s a long journey and change doesn’t happen overnight, but I’m really glad that Mrs has sparked something important, and for the first time, people are actually talking about it. So, in your view, what are some of the immediate steps we can take to start bridging that gap and move towards real equity?

Let’s start from home because that’s where real change begins. If we want equality, our homes need to reflect that, in both opportunities and responsibilities. We’ve all heard things like, “I work 12–14 hours a day, what more do you expect?” But what about all the invisible work that happens at home? Who’s acknowledging that? I’m not saying this to point fingers or blame. But it does require honest reflection.

We all know households where both partners are working full-time, yet the woman is the one managing the home, even if there’s help. She’s the one thinking about whether there’s enough food in the fridge or if the clothes are sorted. And while yes, things are changing—I’ve had people write to me, both men and women, saying their homes are more equal—it’s still not the norm. Some data says for India to become a $7 trillion economy by 2030, we need around 5 crore women to return to the workforce. But is that possible if we don’t make small, consistent changes in our families and communities?

Women’s health is also rarely discussed. Menstrual pain, autoimmune issues like endometriosis, perimenopause—these are real, painful conditions that affect productivity and well-being, but they’re either brushed off or go completely unnoticed. There’s barely any research, no policy attention, and almost no conversation around it.

It starts at home, but it extends to our health systems, workplaces, and everyday interactions. Where’s the compassion? Even small things, like offering understanding or flexibility, can go a long way.

Like you said, this is a long journey. But if we want to move forward, let’s begin where we have the most power: in our own homes. Let’s raise more empathetic sons. Let’s build households where equality isn’t something we fight for—it’s just the way things are.

When a woman chooses to step back from her career for the family, isn’t that worth recognising? We don’t talk enough about compensation—not just in money, but in dignity, in recognition. And yes, while you can’t always put a price on that contribution, it still has value.

When a girl gets married, she often gives up her home, name, and identity—yet one of the first things denied to her is her inheritance. While people claim it’s “not about money,” it absolutely is. Property is reserved for sons, while daughters are sent off with appliances and jewellery, reinforcing inequality under the guise of tradition—even in modern, progressive families. This denial of rights conditions women to accept dependence as normal, often leading them to let others manage their finances. We’re told we don’t understand money—but we can learn, if given the chance. So keep questioning, especially the uncomfortable things, and reclaim your place in the conversation.

If there’s one thing you hope audiences will take away from Mrs, Anu, what would that be?

The most important thing, really, is to first recognise what’s resonating with you—and what isn’t. That awareness is everything. If you can find a support system, hold on to it. And if it doesn't exist, dig deep, find your own courage, and walk away from anything that chips away at your self-respect. Because truly, there is nothing more important than that. It may seem like a very individual, even selfish, act, but it’s not. The personal is political. When one woman chooses to leave a space that doesn't honour her worth, it’s not merely a personal choice—it’s an act of rebellion. And rebellions lead to revolutions.

When a woman walks away from a home that doesn't respect her, she’s walking towards something far bigger: her financial independence, identity, and agency. And that shift—no matter how small it seems—has a ripple effect. It impacts society. It even impacts the economy. So let’s not underestimate the power of one decision made in the name of dignity.

Mohua Chinappa is an author, poet and runs two podcasts, The Mohua Show and The Literature Lounge. She is also a member of a London-based nonprofit award-winning think tank called Bridge India.