Shadows of Eternal Night: The Bloody Romance of Thamma
Whispers from the Grave
In the dim flicker of a lantern’s flame, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of monsoon-drenched earth and forgotten incense, a shadow stirs. It is not the wind rustling the banyan leaves, nor the distant howl of a jackal echoing through the mist-shrouded hills of rural Uttar Pradesh.
No, this is something older, hungrier—a presence that uncoils from the roots of ancient myths, slithering into the veins of the living like ink bleeding across parchment.
The year is 2025, but the tale Thamma unfolds as if time itself has folded backward, dragging the Partition’s ghosts and Vedic lore into a Diwali bonfire that burns with equal parts laughter and terror.
Thamma is a 2025 Indian Hindi-language romantic comedy horror film directed by Aditya Sarpotdar. It is produced by Dinesh Vijan and Amar Kaushik and written by Niren Bhatt, Suresh Mathew, and Arun Falara. The fifth entry in the Maddock Horror Comedy Universe is titled Thamma. Rashmika Mandanna,
Paresh Rawal, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, and Ayushmann Khurrana are all in it. The film follows a journalist who, after encountering a mysterious woman, turns into a vampiric creature called Betal and must save humanity from the bloodlust of an ancient evil.
In December 2024, principal photography began, primarily in Delhi, Mumbai, and Ooty, and lasted until the middle of 2025. The soundtrack album was composed by Sachin–Jigar.
Thamma opened in theaters on October 21, 2025, the day before Diwali, in standard, IMAX, 4DX, and D-Box formats.
Plot
Alok Goyal, a meek journalist who pretends to be a braveheart is stranded in a jungle where a mysterious woman named Tadaka rescues him from a bear and other bloodthirsty betals (vampires) and it is shown that they are not allowed to feast on human blood after seeing the horrors humans were capable of during the partition in 1947. The Thamma (leader) of the Betal sect, Yakshasan, opposed the ban on drinking human blood, resulting in him being held captive in a cursed cave for violating the rule.
Tadaka finds a way to send Alok back to his Delhi home. He takes her along despite initial refusals by her. There is a mysterious enigma around her which leaves Alok’s father suspicious. Tadaka becomes Tarika for Alok’s parents, and she struggles to find food.
Alok decides to take her out for dinner, where she can enjoy non-vegetarian food. At the party, she dances with unknown men. On their way home, the same group of men chase Alok and Tadaka, intent on assaulting her. Alok gets out of the car and attempts to solve the matter peacefully by talking. When he is unable to do so, Tadaka lets go of her inhibitions and unleashes upon them as a Betal.
While she leaves them alive, they are then killed by Yakshasan’s followers. Days later, a senior police officer who also happens to be a Betal visits Alok’s residence and thinks Tadaka has killed the men, and that she has to leave for Alok’s safety.
Alok follows her bus and when he is about to reunite with Tadaka, an accident kills him. She saves his life by injecting her powers into his blood, thus turning him into a Betal too. Yakshasan is rejoicing as he will be free from the cave due to a rule that if betals who protect humans were to turn those humans into a betal, then the former betal would take over his punishment.
Alok’s father notices his vampire-like teeth. When the truth is revealed to him, he refuses to accept it and takes his son to the exorcist Prabhakar, who says Alok’s condition cannot be reversed. Janardhan “Jana” is also with Prabhakar, seeking help for his werewolf cousin Bhaskar, who was severely injured during a fight with Sarkata, a headless monster. Prabhakar says Bhaskar can be cured with the blood of a Betal. Bhaskar finds Alok and fights him, achieving a next level hybrid form with just one drop of Alok’s blood.
Tadaka is captured and put in captivity for breaking the sect’s rule about drinking human blood. Alok finds his way to the land of the Betals where he and Yakshasan engage in a severe fight. Alok is beaten down and just as Yakshasan kills him, a miracle from their goddess brings him back to life. Alok gains the beating heart of the sect’s deity and defeats Yakshasan to become the new Thamma. Yakshasan is imprisoned back in the cave but Sarkata appears to free him.
Alok, Tadaka and other heads of the sect gear up to hunt Yakshasan. Alok is informed that he would need extra powers to fight him and only the blood of a werewolf can do that just. Bhaskar, in his new werewolf form, heads towards the betal’s area.
credited from (wikipedia)
Thamma is the latest pulse in the Maddock Horror Comedy Universe (MHCU), a cinematic vein throbbing with the irreverent spirit of Stree, Bhediya, and Munjya. Released on October 21, 2025, amid the festive clamor of firecrackers and sweets, this Hindi-language romp clocks in at 2 hours and 35 minutes—a sprawling canvas of romance, horror, and farce that pits star-crossed lovers against vampires, family feuds, and the inexorable pull of destiny.
Starring Ayushmann Khurrana as the bumbling yet brave Alok, Rashmika Mandanna as the enigmatic Tadaka, and Nawazuddin Siddiqui as the titular Thamma—a Vetala (vampiric spirit) born of folklore’s darkest crevices—the film is a bloody valentine to Indian mythology, wrapped in the glossy foil of Bollywood excess.
But Thamma is no mere genre mash-up; it’s a cinematic fever dream, where the camera lingers on dewdrops tracing veins on a lover’s throat, only to cut to a slapstick chase through paddy fields lit by bioluminescent fireflies.
In 6,000 words (or thereabouts), we dive into this film’s labyrinthine heart: from its script’s satirical bite on Partition-era divides to its VFX wizardry that conjures hellish hordes from pixels and practical effects.
We’ll dissect the performances that elevate schlock to sublime, the themes that thread folklore through modern malaise, and the reception that has audiences divided like the Radcliffe Line—half enchanted, half exasperated. Pull up a charpoy, dim the lights, and let the shadows play. The Vetala hungers.
Folklore Meets Flashback
Fade in: A sepia-toned prologue, 1947. The subcontinent fractures like a thunderclap. Trains rattle with the wails of the displaced, their cargo not goods but grief-stricken souls fleeing the birth pangs of two nations. Amid the chaos, a young woman—eyes wide with the terror of betrayal—clutches a locket to her breast. She is no ordinary refugee; she is the vessel for something profane. As British officers bark orders and mobs clash in the distance, she whispers a forbidden incantation, her blood mingling with the red earth. From this wound springs Thamma: not a man, but a Vetala, the shape-shifting ghoul of Sanskrit tales, condemned to roam between life and undeath, feeding on the unresolved sins of humanity.
Cut to 2025. The camera swoops over the lush, fog-kissed village of Chandauli, where the Ganges’ tributaries snake like veins through emerald fields. Here, Alok Sharma (Ayushmann Khurrana) arrives not as a hero, but as a punchline. A Mumbai-bred everyman with a degree in failed startups and a penchant for motivational podcasts, Alok is fleeing his own Partition of the soul: a botched engagement and a family legacy of petty tyrannies.
His uncle, the pompous Panditji (Paresh Rawal in a cameo that drips with overripe ham), presides over the village like a feudal lord, enforcing caste lines sharper than a khanjar. Alok’s mission? To mediate a land dispute that’s festering like an open sore—ironic, given the film’s central metaphor of bloodlines and borders.
Enter Tadaka (Rashmika Mandanna), a vision in crimson salwar that billows like flames in the wind. She’s the village’s outcast, rumored to be a descendant of the demoness from the Ramayana—fierce, untamed, with eyes that hold the storm’s fury.
Their meet-cute is pure MHCU mischief: Alok, mistaking her for a local guide, tumbles into a ritual pit during a midnight puja. As he flails in the muck, Tadaka hauls him out, their hands brushing in a spark of static that foreshadows the supernatural storm. “Tumhari zindagi mein ab thodi si maut aa gayi hai,” she quips, her Telugu-inflected Hindi a melodic lilt that cuts through the night.
But romance blooms in the shadow of horror. Thamma (Nawazuddin Siddiqui) awakens from his 78-year slumber, disturbed by the lovers’ inadvertent desecration of his grave—a banyan tree hollowed by time and termites.
Siddiqui’s Thamma is a masterpiece of menace and mirth: gaunt-cheeked, with prosthetic fangs that glint like scimitars, he quotes Kalidasa poetry one moment and belches garlic-laced burps the next. As the Vetala king, he’s no brooding Dracula; he’s a Partition phantom, his immortality a curse born of humanity’s partition—divided not just by maps, but by hatred that festers across generations.
The script, penned by Niren Bhatt, Suresh Mathew, and Arun Fulara, weaves this tapestry with audacious flair. Drawing from the Vetala Panchavimshati (Twenty-Five Tales of the Vampire), it reimagines the ghoul not as a mere monster, but as a mirror to societal fractures.
Thamma’s horde—lesser Betaals with cockney accents and rickety wings—represents the undead resentments of 1947: Hindu-Muslim schisms, refugee traumas, the violence that Partition etched into the subcontinent’s psyche. Yet Sarpotdar infuses it with comedy’s leaven: a chase sequence where Alok rides a buffalo like a derby steed, pursued by flying squirrels reimagined as mini-vampires, had test audiences in stitches.
Visually, cinematographer Saurabh Goswami crafts a world that’s equal parts Pan’s Labyrinth and Pyaasa. The film’s palette shifts like moods: golden-hour glows for Alok and Tadaka’s flirtations in mustard fields, where they dance to Sachin-Jigar’s “Khoon Ka Rang,” a track that mashes qawwali beats with dubstep drops.
Then, night falls, and the frame bleeds to indigo and crimson—lanterns casting long shadows that twist into claw-like forms. Practical effects shine in Thamma’s transformation scenes: hydraulic rigs puppeteer his bat-wings, while ILM-inspired VFX (courtesy of Red Chillies) animate swarms of spectral moths that devour light.
As Act I crests, the lovers consummate their bond under a blood moon, only for Thamma to crash the idyll. Biting Alok in a frenzy of fangs and fury, he curses him with half-vampirism: eternal thirst, but no flight. Tadaka, revealed as a latent sorceress with Partition-era blood magic, vows to break the spell.
Family intervenes—Alok’s clan decries the “impure” union, echoing caste taboos—while nature itself rebels: monsoons that drown villages, winds that howl prophecies. The stakes? If the lovers fail, Thamma will unravel the village’s threads, pulling all into his eternal night.
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Act II: The Lovers’ Labyrinth – Performances That Bleed Heart
At Thamma‘s core beats the romance, a forbidden fire that Sarpotdar stokes with the precision of a ghazal singer. Ayushmann Khurrana, Bollywood’s chameleon of the common man, sheds his Andhadhun cynicism for Alok’s wide-eyed wonder. Watch him in the film’s tender pivot: post-bite, Alok confronts his reflection in a shattered mirror, veins pulsing black under translucent skin.
Khurrana’s eyes—those soulful pools—widen in horror, then narrow in resolve. It’s a physical transformation worthy of Oscar whispers: subtle prosthetics elongate his canines, while motion-capture suits capture his awkward grace turning predatory.
Yet he grounds the supernatural in the everyday; Alok’s first blood-craving hits during a family sangeet, where he eyes aunties’ bindis like hors d’oeuvres. Khurrana’s comic timing— a strangled yelp as he spits out a chili-laced goat curry to quench his thirst—elicits guffaws that echo Vicky Donor‘s irreverence.
Rashmika Mandanna, crossing over from South Indian stardom, is Tadaka’s tempest incarnate. Her performance is a revelation: gone is the bubbly Pushpa sidekick; here, she’s a whirlwind of vulnerability and venom. In the rain-soaked confrontation with her estranged father (a grizzled Pankaj Tripathi), Mandanna’s sobs mingle with incantations, her body language a ballet of defiance—shoulders squared against the downpour, fists clenched like roots gripping soil.
The chemistry with Khurrana crackles; their love scenes, choreographed by Ganesh Acharya, blend Dilwale Dulhania‘s nostalgia with Twilight‘s bite. One standout: a midnight tango on a crumbling ghats, where Tadaka traces Alok’s fangs with her fingertip, whispering, “Tumhari pyaas meri hai”—your thirst is mine. It’s erotic without excess, horror laced with heartbreak.
Nawazuddin Siddiqui as Thamma steals every frame he’s in, a spectral showman who elevates the film from froth to fable. Siddiqui’s career is a gallery of grotesques—from Gangs of Wasseypur‘s feral Faizal to Sacred Games‘ haunted Sartaj—but Thamma is his magnum opus of the macabre.
He embodies the Vetala’s duality: eloquent sage by day, ravenous beast by dusk. In a monologue atop a minaret under lightning’s strobe, Siddiqui recounts Partition’s horrors—trains as charnel houses, rivers running red—not with bombast, but a whisper that chills the spine.
His physicality is poetry: elongated limbs via CGI extensions, a gait that slithers like smoke. Comedy creeps in slyly; Thamma’s aversion to garlic leads to a farcical feast where he disguises as a sadhu, only to sneeze holy ash into Alok’s face. Critics rave: “Siddiqui doesn’t play the monster; he is the myth,” notes The Hindu‘s reviewer.
Supporting turns add flavor: Paresh Rawal’s Panditji is a caricature of patriarchal piety, his monologues on “pure blood” a satirical skewer of honor killings. Cameos pepper the palette—Varun Dhawan as Bhediya bounds in for a wolfish brawl, his fur-shedding sprint a nod to MHCU lore that delights fans. Abhishek Banerjee’s bumbling sidekick, a village idiot with prophetic dreams, provides levity, his pratfalls echoing Stree‘s Rudra.
Sarpotdar’s direction is a tightrope walk: he balances horror’s hush with comedy’s clamor, using sound design (Resul Pookutty’s Oscar-winning touch) to masterful effect. A heartbeat thuds like war drums during pursuits; Vetala whispers slither through Dolby speakers like serpents in the grass. The score by Sachin-Jigar fuses folk fiddles with synth stabs, “Betaal Blues” a lounge lizard lament that Thamma croons mid-hunt.
Yet flaws flicker. The first half drags, pacing like a buffalo in molasses—setup scenes of village life meander, songs like “Pyaar Ka Partition” (a Partition pun gone awry) halt momentum. Screenplay lapses into trope: the “dumb lovers vs. smart monster” dynamic feels Frankenstein-lite, and emotional beats (Alok’s family reconciliation) ring hollow amid the hijinks.
Themes of Blood and Borders
Thamma transcends its genre trappings to probe deeper wounds. At its heart is a meditation on inheritance—not just genetic, but historical. The Vetala, in lore, is a restless spirit possessing corpses to unravel riddles, forcing kings to confront moral quandaries.
Sarpotdar adapts this for 2025 India: Thamma’s riddles aren’t puzzles, but provocations. “What divides a man more—sword or silence?” he poses to Alok, alluding to 1947’s massacres and today’s communal tensions. The film doesn’t preach; it pricks.
In one sequence, Thamma’s horde manifests as spectral refugees—ethereal figures in bloodied kurtas, chanting “Azaadi” as they claw at the living. It’s a gut-punch, blending CGI ghosts with archival footage for a visceral reminder that history’s horrors don’t decay; they metastasize.
Love, too, is Partitioned. Alok and Tadaka’s union defies not just class, but cosmology—Tadaka’s “demonic” lineage a metaphor for marginalized castes, Alok’s urban rootlessness a stand-in for diaspora drift.
Their arc echoes Veer-Zaara: separated by fate, reunited by fire. But Thamma adds bite; intimacy scenes pulse with peril, kisses interrupted by fangs grazing lips, a metaphor for love’s dangerous devouring.
Nature joins the fray—monsoons as divine wrath, banyan roots ensnaring lovers like familial nooses—evoking Lagaan‘s elemental epics.
Satire simmers beneath. The village’s “purity patrols” parody Hindutva vigilantism, Panditji’s rants on “foreign blood” a jab at xenophobia. Thamma himself mocks it: “Humans drew lines on maps; I draw them on throats.” It’s politically incorrect, unapologetic—Siddiqui’s delivery drips disdain, substantiating claims with folklore’s weight.
Yet the film courts controversy; X posts decry it as “woke propaganda,” while others hail its “brave truths.” Box office whispers of a Diwali dip cite backlash, but defenders argue it’s the universe’s boldest swing.
Environmentally, Thamma green-screens a cautionary tale. The village’s deforestation awakens Thamma, roots severed symbolizing cultural amnesia.
A climactic flood—practical tanks and digital deluge—drowns the horde, suggesting harmony with nature as exorcism. It’s subtle, woven into lore rather than lectured.
In MHCU context, Thamma expands the sandbox. Bhediya’s cameo teases crossovers—perhaps a Stree 2: Thamma’s Bride? Easter eggs abound: a Munjya doll in Tadaka’s hut, a Luka Chuppi poster on Alok’s wall. Fans geek out; detractors groan at “fan service overload.”
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Interlude: Behind the Veil – Craft and Chaos
Production tales from Maddock’s Mumbai ateliers paint Thamma as a Herculean hustle. Dinesh Vijan, the universe’s architect, greenlit it post-Munjya‘s 2024 triumph, budgeting ₹145 crore—a war chest for VFX (40% allocation) and shoots across Lucknow’s backwaters and Ramoji Film City sets. Sarpotdar, fresh off Munjya, assembled a dream team: editor Bunty Nagi trims 3 hours of dailies into taut terror, while costume designer Sheetal Sharma blends Partition rags with goth-glam—Thamma’s sherwani tattered like moth-eaten scrolls.
Challenges abounded. Monsoon delays flooded sets; Siddiqui’s allergy to latex fangs required 17 redesigns. Khurrana’s diet for the “vamp glow”—pale, veined—shed 8 kilos, crediting yoga and beetroot juice. Mandanna, dubbing in Hindi, infused Telugu fire, her ad-libs (“Betaal, tu toh bas ek bhootni ka bhoot hai!”) sparking reshoots.
Trivia titillates: The banyan tree grave? A 200-year-old prop from Pakeezah. Varun’s cameo filmed in one night, his Bhediya growl a callback to Bhediya‘s howls.
Soundstages echoed with qawwalis at dawn for authenticity—Pookutty layered 50 tracks for Thamma’s “throat-song,” a guttural aria evoking possession.
Post-production polish: DNEG’s Hyderabad wing rendered 1,200 VFX shots, blending practical puppets (Thamma’s wings) with digital swarms.
Color grading evokes Bram Stoker’s Dracula—crimsons for bloodlust, azures for longing. Test screenings in Delhi tweaked the climax: an original “heroic sacrifice” softened to ensemble triumph, averting tears for cheers.
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Act IV: Echoes in the Dark – Reception and Ripples
Diwali 2025 lit Thamma‘s fuse: ₹25 crore opening day, propelled by MHCU hype and star power. By Day 8, worldwide tally hit ₹150 crore, trailing Stree 2‘s fireworks but outpacing Munjya. North America lapped it up—$1.01M in a week, diaspora drawn to Partition pathos. Critics split: Times of India (3.5/5) lauds “visually sharp entertainment,” performances elevating a “noticeable dip.” Indian Express (2.5/5) sighs, “Ayushmann and Rashmika aren’t funny enough,” screenplay a “familiar fix.” 123Telugu (3/5) notes sporadic joys amid boredom, pacing the Achilles’ heel. Rotten Tomatoes: 65% fresh, audience 72%, fans forgiving flaws for universe ties.
X buzz is a cacophony: “Second half rocking, cameos on point!” vs. “Cringe movie, wasted Nawaz!” “Rashmika nailed it, first-time magic,” counters “Forced comedy, zero horror.” IMDb’s 6.5/10 from 43K votes mirrors the schism—strong acts buoy weak script.
Globally, it’s niche nectar: Sundance whispers of a midnight screening, Variety hails “Ayushmann’s bold bite.” OTT buzz brews—Netflix eyes rights, promising extended cuts with deleted riddles.
Flaws fester in discourse: “Uneven ambition,” pacing plods, songs superfluous. Yet strengths soar—Siddiqui’s “wasted no more,” VFX “decent dazzle.” For MHCU faithful, it’s connective tissue; newcomers? A bloody baptism.
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Legacy in the Mist
As credits roll, Thamma lingers like aftertaste of paan—sweet, sharp, slightly numbing. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel; it enchants it with runes. In an era of superhero slogs, Sarpotdar’s saga revives desi dread, proving folklore’s fangs sharper than capes. Themes of division resonate amid 2025’s headlines—border skirmishes, caste clashes—substantiating its bite with unflinching truth.
For Khurrana, it’s a pivot to the paranormal, post-Dream Girl 2. Mandanna’s Hindi leap catapults her; Siddiqui cements god-tier status. Vijan’s universe expands, teases abound: Thamma’s escape hints sequels, perhaps Thamma vs. Stree.
Is it flawless? Nay—pacing potholes, comedy craters. But in cinema’s grand bazaar, Thamma is a rare gem: a horror rom-com that howls at the moon, laughs at the abyss.
Watch it for the rush of blood to the heart. In the end, as Alok and Tadaka seal their vow under dawn’s reluctant gaze, the screen fades not to black, but to crimson promise. Love, after all, is the ultimate undeath—eternal, insatiable.
What divides us? Not maps or myths, but the silence we let fester. Thamma bites back. And in that wound, we find our reflection.