Haq is based on the real-life case of Shah Bano vs. Mohammad Ahmad Khan (1985), a landmark judgement that exposed the injustice faced by Muslim women under the triple talaq system. The film beautifully portrays the clash between secular law and Muslim personal law, raising vital questions about gender equality and social reform. The 2025 Hindi-language courtroom drama follows Shazia Bano (Yami Gautam Dhar), a young woman who falls in love with advocate Mohammad Khan (Emraan Hashmi), a man portrayed as loving, loyal, and protective of his wife.
The first few years of Bano’s marriage to him are beautiful, with two children and pregnant with her third child, even though the responsibilities of a growing family are already weighing them down. The film subtly explores themes of patriarchy, social norms, shame, male ego, power, money, authority, and even the assumed right to act under religious or cultural expectations as a man. There is something here we, as men and as human beings, need to learn and grow from, because the shift from love to control does not happen suddenly. It happens quietly, through pride, entitlement, and silence.
Nine years later, Mohammad brings another woman into their house. It turns out he had loved this second wife even before marrying Shah Bano. Feeling humiliated, Bano leaves the house with her three children, still hoping Mohammad will help with their education. After some time, he stops sending any money. That is when Bano decides to return, to claim her Haq. The matter goes to court, and Bano is protected by IPC 125, which allows her maintenance and alimony for her children. Mohammad does not stop there. He divorces her by saying “talaq” three times, following the Muslim ritual, leaving Bano completely shattered. She then decides to fight the male dominance and outdated traditions that have made the lives of many Muslim women miserable. Now, it is not just her case. It is the case of every Muslim woman. The question is, will she be able to fight this patriarchal system and reclaim her rights?
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The core of the film’s immense power lies in the fabulous acting by Yami Gautam Dhar. As Shazia Bano, a woman fighting for her rights and dignity against a system rigged against her, Gautam delivers a career-defining performance. Her portrayal is a masterclass in controlled intensity; she is fiercely resolute yet heartbreakingly vulnerable. The quiet rage and unwavering strength she channels, particularly during the explosive courtroom monologues, are magnetic and undoubtedly award-winning.
For me, the best part was the husband’s character and Emraan Hashmi’s brilliant performance. He played the role with such confidence, portraying the man exactly as he was, without guilt or pretence. His character appears decent and respectable, yet turns from grey to dark when his ego is hurt. His expression of love and care becomes tricky in the second half, shifting towards selfishness and self-preservation as he tries to protect his social image. His character has real depth, and Emraan Hashmi brought it to life in a believable and layered way. Through him, we see not just a man, but a reflection of how society, ego, and pride can shape love, marriage, and dignity.
Each supporting performance adds to the film’s emotional and narrative weight. Vartika Singh, as Saira, delivers a decent performance and does what the role demands, even though the character itself offers little range. Danish Husain, playing Maulvi Basheer, brings compassion to Bano’s father. Sheeba Chadha, as Bano’s lawyer, is dependable as ever, and Aseem Hattangady, as Faraz Sayeed, makes a strong impression. Sheeba Chadha, especially, carries her usual quiet magic. The moment she appears on screen, you already know she is going to play someone you cannot dislike.
One standout feature of this film is that it ends with text about the triple talaq case that took almost three decades to become law. Ironically, that is where the real film seems to begin, and it ends within twenty seconds when that text fades out. Just before this, the climax shows Shah Bano winning maintenance for her children at the Supreme Court, and I honestly wish that had been the interval point or the pre-climax. Suparn Verma repeats a mistake he made earlier in The Trial. In that series, most of the major arguments, twists, and verdicts happened inside the courtroom. Here, some of the courtroom tension is pushed into drawing rooms and social spaces. You can clearly see a shift in the tone of arguments as the case moves from the sessions court to the High Court and finally to the Supreme Court. By the time we reach the highest court, legal reasoning steps aside, while issues of minority identity, secularism, religious science, and Muslim traditions take centre stage. I understand that shift, because it heightens drama, but a courtroom drama should not lean more on sentiment than on legal substance.
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For example, there is a scene where Yami Gautam’s character approaches the Muslim board to argue her case, but walks out defeated, despite clearly proving her point. I could not quite understand how that scene connected to the High Court case or the larger narrative. Why does she and her father leave as if they have achieved something? The bigger issue in that scene, that there is not a single woman on the board, is deeply important, yet the film does not highlight it clearly until much later. It is only when she reaches the Supreme Court that she speaks directly about equality; by this time, the film has shifted from her personal struggle to a broader commentary on the community’s existence. In one scene, Emraan Hashmi’s character delivers a long speech before the Chief Justice, turning a domestic dispute into a community threat. Strangely, no one in the courtroom challenges this diversion. The same happens when Yami’s character speaks. Her speech is powerful and emotionally charged, but it barely redefines anything legally. That is where the film falls short. Otherwise, it remains a gripping and emotionally engaging story built around a crucial issue.
Another concern is the film’s timeline. It ends in 1985, and we are watching it in 2025. That gap naturally reduces its sense of urgency. Triple talaq was indeed a highly charged issue even a decade ago, but the intensity has faded somewhat. The social and legal landscape has changed, so the film feels a little late in trying to make a groundbreaking statement.
Suparn Verma’s storytelling keeps you invested. He builds cinematic tension and makes you feel genuine anger towards the arrogance of the male-dominated Muslim community, and especially towards the practice of triple talaq. For a while, that frustration hits hard. But soon after that emotional peak, you remember that this is India of the 1970s and ’80s. In today’s context, where laws and rights have improved considerably, that anger softens into reflection. So yes, applause to Verma for creating that emotional pull, and hats off to Yami Gautam for strengthening his vision with her performance and presence.
Haq may not be a perfect courtroom drama, but it is certainly an important film. It matters to the Muslim community, both men and women, because it revisits a historical struggle that shaped modern personal laws. Still, I am not sure the wider audience will connect with it in the same way. Even so, it is a film worth watching. It may not redefine cinema or courtroom dramas, but it reopens a conversation we tend to forget. And that alone counts for something.
Overall, Haq is a watchable, thought-provoking drama driven by a stellar Yami Gautam, a decent Emraan Hashmi, and a director who understands emotion better than craft. It is flawed but honest, dated but meaningful, and above all, a reminder of how one woman’s fight for dignity can echo through generations.
