Khauf Review: Monika Panwar Anchors Khauf, A Haunting Tapestry Of Trauma, Terror And Ghosts That Never Leave
Title: Khauf
Director: Pankaj Kumar
Cast: Monika Panwar, Rajat Kapoor, Abhishek Chauhan, Geetanjali Kulkarni, Shilpa Shukla
Where: Streaming on Prime Video
Rating: 3.5 Stars
There’s something oddly comforting about horror when done right—it taps your shoulder, whispers in your ear, and reminds you that real monsters often wear familiar faces. Khauf, the eight-episode horror series that takes its name from the Hindi word for “fear,” delivers more than just the paranormal: it unearths trauma, loneliness, and the unrelenting grip of memory, all with a visual panache that’s both seductive and sinister.
Loneliness here is not worn like a costume; it's stitched into the characters' skin. It makes the horror stick—because long before the ghosts come knocking, the women are already haunted.
At the center of this spectral spiral is Madhuri Kiran, played with gut-wrenching restraint by Monika Panwar. A survivor of sexual abuse from Gwalior, Madhu seeks anonymity and healing in Delhi’s Pragati Working Women’s Hostel. But alas, respite proves elusive. Instead, she’s greeted with whispered warnings about Room No. 333—the numerical wink not lost on those of us attuned to genre codes. The room, predictably cursed, is also metaphorically loaded: a psychic echo chamber for every trauma that’s too polite to die.
Rajat Kapoor is deliciously unsettling as the Roohani Dawakhana–operating shaman, his Old Delhi clinic oozing with cultural texture and unease. Kapoor doesn’t just act; he glides like a man who’s seen things no sage should. Opposite him, Abhishek Chauhan as Arun, Madhu’s love interest, offers a steady, if somewhat underbaked, anchor to her unraveling world.
Chum Darang, Riya Shukla, Rashmi Zurail Mann, Asheema Vardaan, Gagan Arora, Geetanjali Kulkarni, and Shilpa Shukla infuse their roles with empathy and intrigue—especially Shukla’s Shohini, a psychiatrist who doles out cryptic wisdom like, “People have their ways to deal with trauma. It may not make sense to us, but to them, it makes perfect sense.” Indeed, the series is obsessed with the ways women carry the invisible weight of violation and loss.
What sets Khauf apart is not just its narrative, but its texture. The visual palette is moodily rich—blue-grey cityscapes, flickering lights, and shadows that stretch like secrets. The hostel is a character in its own right, suffering from what one might diagnose as “sick building syndrome” with a touch of poltergeist persuasion. The makers know their horror grammar: ouija boards, automatic mixers that thirst for blood and possessed inmates who won’t leave despite having every reason to run.
Yet for all its spine-chilling skill, the series doesn’t always stick to the landing. The initial episodes indulge in lingering shots and cinematic liberties that drain rather than build dread. Occasionally, it forgets that stillness is scarier than spectacle. But then comes the finale—a delicious gore-fest for the brave and the bloodthirsty—reminding you that this series was never meant to be subtle.
Beneath its jump scares and exorcisms, the series is ultimately about the fear women face —hunted, haunted, and often unheard. It’s horror not just for the thrill-seekers but for those attuned to the cultural codes of silence. Yes, there are ghosts. But the real terror lies in the things people survive and are expected to forget.
Brace yourself for a binge that bleeds.
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