Andhera Review: Karanvir Malhotra And Priya Bapat Shine In A Flawed But Watchable Horror Saga

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Andhera Review: Gaurav Desai's atmospheric horror-thriller blends folklore, sci-fi, and urban myth into a chilling Mumbai-set tale.
The Indian streaming landscape has been courting shadows of late. Horror has found a new appetite here, fattened by the success of titles like Khauf and Mandala Murders, each bringing its own peculiar flavour of unease. Into this thriving gloom walks Andhera, Gaurav Desai's latest offering—ambitious, sprawling, and stitched from fabrics as disparate as folklore, science fiction, urban myth, and the private griefs we carry. It wants to terrify, to provoke thought, to be grand, and in its most hypnotic moments, it almost succeeds. It is a creature of familiar bones but fresh skin, imperfect yet difficult to turn away from.
Mumbai's skyline has never looked so complicit. Its towers glint in the sun while something unseen stalks its streets, an ancient hunger humming under the concrete. Inspector Kalpana Kadam, stubborn and sharp-eyed, finds herself staring into this abyss after a young woman, Bani Baruah, vanishes. But before she disappears from the city, Bani vanishes from herself—in a sequence that lingers long after it is over. A tranquil lake. A man named Prithvi Sheth, speaking like one who knows the language of despair. An invitation to 'let go." And then the daylight folds in on itself, the air turns heavy, and his voice belongs to something far older, far crueler. By the time Bani returns to her hotel room, the darkness is following her indoors. It whispers through the voice on her father's phone, calls her names that bruise, and begins snuffing out the lights one by one until she is swallowed whole.
The narrative fractures here, spilling into a rain-lashed police station where Kalpana pushes against the indifference and sexism of her male colleagues, and into the unsettled mind of Jay, a medical student who has seen Bani's death before it happens. His visions are dismissed as the junkyard dreams of trauma, but they throb with the kind of detail that refuses to be ignored. In his orbit drifts Rumi, a paranormal vlogger with a taste for the unseen, warning that the city itself is about to be pulled under.
Their search leads them to Aatma Healing, a wellness centre that feels more like a trap disguised as sanctuary. Ayesha, its chief consultant, greets them with the serenity of a still pond but denies knowing Prithvi Sheth. Patients here escape into virtual realms through silver coronets that promise peace but seem to open other, darker doors. And yet Prithvi is not supposed to be here at all—he has been lying in a hospital bed since an accident with his brother Jay, an accident in which Jay swears he wrestled Prithvi's soul from a shadow that wanted to keep it.
This revelation binds the three into a reluctant alliance. Their path through the city's back-alleys and high-rises is littered with figures who seem plucked from half-remembered dreams: Jude, a reformed convict whose yearning for his daughter makes him reckless; Darius, a killer whose eyes are as flat as shut windows; Kanitkar, the sardonic officer who lends Kalpana loyalty and laughter; Omar, a boy who has survived cruelty too soon; and Dr. Sahay, whose presence in the story is a riddle the series refuses to solve too quickly.
If Andhera has a single unassailable strength, it is the mood it builds. The city's light feels rationed, as though every beam has to earn its place. The darkness, meanwhile, is lush and sentient. Shadows curl in corners like listening animals. The VFX renders the supernatural with conviction, and the sound design treats silence like a weapon. Raaghav Dhar's direction understands the power of patience; he lets the fear grow roots before he asks it to bloom.
The cast wears its characters like second skins. Surveen Chawla and Priya Bapat give their roles a quiet, tensile strength. Karanvir Malhotra charts Jay's transformation from sceptic to reluctant believer without losing sight of his vulnerability. Prajakta Koli's Rumi is a warm ember in a story otherwise chilled to the bone. Vatsal Sheth, Pranay Pachauri, and Parvin Dabas inhabit their spaces fully, keeping the human stakes alive amid the encroaching strangeness.
Still, Andhera is not without its blemishes. The script sometimes wanders when it should run, circling back to points already made. Its blend of the supernatural, the speculative, and the folkloric can feel like too many flavours in one mouthful, muting the impact of each. The plot's intricacies, though rewarding for some, may leave others grasping for the thread. And when the ending arrives, it comes with more predictability than shock, softened by the clear intention to lead us into a second season.
What remains is a work that feels alive with possibility. Andhera is flawed, yes, but its ambition is a rare and necessary thing. It understands that horror is not only in the monsters we see but in the spaces they leave empty, the truths they make us whisper instead of speak. Should it return with a steadier hand and a sharper ear for its own rhythm, it could grow into something unforgettable. For now, it stands as a half-built cathedral to the genre, filled with corridors you cannot help but walk down, even as the light behind you goes out.
First Published:
August 14, 2025, 00:29 IST
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