How Thamma revived the legends of Kali, Ashwatthama and Vikram & Betaal, stirring nostalgia across India

Indian cinema is turning back to the stories it once held close. After years of chasing global spectacles and foreign backdrops, filmmakers are now rediscovering the tales that lived in our homes—tales whispered by grandmothers, legends etched in the margins of our memory about gods, spirits, and as always, demons.

Films like 'Stree', 'Tumbbad', and 'Kantara' have already begun to explore this territory, breathing life into folklore for modern audiences. Thamma, the latest Diwali release featuring Ayushmann Khurrana and Rashmika Mandanna, dives even deeper.

What sets it apart is how it doesn’t rely on a single story or text. Instead, it threads together multiple strands of Indian mythology: the furious Goddess Kali and the demon Raktabeej, the cunning spirits of Vikram and Betaal, and the immortal warrior Ashwatthama.

Timing That Echoes the Myth

The makers of Thamma clearly knew what they were doing with the release date. Diwali, the festival of lights, coincides in many regions with Kali Puja, especially in West Bengal and Assam. During this time, Mahakali is worshipped as the fierce protector who destroys evil and safeguards the overlooked. Releasing a story steeped in Kali’s wrath, rebirth, and cosmic power during these days gives the film an almost spiritual resonance. Let’s step into the myths that form the backbone of Thamma’s universe.

At the heart of this universe lies the terrifying legend of Raktabeej, the demon whose blood could spawn armies — and the goddess who dared to drink it to save the world.

The Terrifying Boon of Raktabeej: Blood That Spawns More of Itself

Long before the idea of good and evil took human form, there was Raktabeej — a demon born from arrogance and blessed with a curse disguised as a gift. His name meant the seed of blood, and his power was as dreadful as it sounds. Every drop of his blood that touched the earth gave rise to another Raktabeej, identical and just as vicious. The more he bled, the more invincible he became.

Soon, the battlefield was no longer earth but a garden of his own making — filled with copies of himself, each hungrier than the last. The gods, beaten back and breathless, turned to their last hope.

Out of the shadows rose Kali — a goddess of storm made flesh, her eyes burned like molten suns, her tongue scarlet with fury, her hair unbound, swallowing the wind. She saw the futility of weapons and she swallowed every drop of demon’s blood before it could give birth again.

Consumed by fury, Kali kept dancing —her dance became the rhythm of destruction itself. A dance so fierce it threatened to destroy the world she had just saved. Shiva entered the battlefield not as a warrior, but as calm itself. He laid down before Kali’s furious dance, letting her next step fall upon him — a jolt that pulled her back from the edge of madness. It was only when she stepped on Shiva, her consort, lying still beneath her feet, that she paused. Shocked by her own destruction, she bit her tongue as a gesture of shame and restraint.

From that moment rises the myth’s quiet truth — that even the fiercest force needs a heartbeat to remind it why it fights. Thamma uses the demon’s regenerative power as a metaphor for the cycle of violence in the story, where each act of aggression by characters leads to escalating consequences.

Yakshashan: The Ancient Guardian

In the shadows of Thamma’s world lurks Yakshasan, the king of Betaals, whose journey from protector to predator is both tragic and unforgettable. Long before the events of today, there was Yakshasan, the ancient king of the Betaals. In the lore of Thamma, Betaals are not the vampires of Western stories, but supernatural beings tasked with maintaining cosmic balance. They drink the blood of evil itself, ensuring that dark forces do not spread unchecked. Yakshasan, their leader, was once noble and devoted to Goddess Kali’s divine mission, protecting the world from chaos and evil.

He witnessed the Partition and the horrors of this time shook Yakshasan’s faith in humanity. The same hunger that had once been directed only at demons twisted into a thirst for vengeance against humans themselves. He became a predator, turning on those he once swore to protect.

For his rebellion, the gods intervened. Yakshasan was imprisoned, sealed away for centuries, so the world could heal from his fury. His story became a cautionary tale: even the noblest guardian could fall if consumed by disillusionment and rage. This ancient tragedy forms the mythic heartbeat of Thamma, reminding audiences of the thin line between protection and destruction.

The Rise of the New Thamma

Centuries later, Alok Goyal, a journalist played by Ayushmann Khurrana, stumbles into this hidden world. A bite from the Betaals transforms him: he inherits their strength but retains his human heart. Unlike Yakshasan, Alok learns to wield his powers with conscience, balancing supernatural ferocity with empathy. He becomes the new Thamma – a bridge between the past’s ancient vengeance and the present’s moral responsibility.

Betaal, The Ghost Who Tests Human Integrity

Deep within the shadows of Thamma’s tale is Vikram and Betaal, where a clever spirit clings to a corpse, spinning riddles and tales that push humans to weigh justice against temptation.In Thamma, the figure of the Betaal draws from the legendary Vikram Aur Betaal tales.

In the original story, King Vikramaditya, known for his courage and unwavering sense of justice, is tasked by a cunning tantric to retrieve a corpse hanging from a banyan tree in a lonely cremation ground. The corpse is possessed by Betaal, a sly and mischievous spirit whose cleverness masks a deeper moral purpose.

Every time Vikram attempts to carry Betaal, the spirit begins telling a story, often filled with betrayal, loyalty, moral dilemmas, or ethical puzzles. Each tale ends with a riddle, designed to test the King’s judgment. Bound by principle, Vikram always responds—if Vikram knew the answer to Betaal’s riddle and stayed silent, his head would burst, enforcing the moral law that knowledge must be acted upon. Yet the moment he answers, Betaal slips back onto the tree, forcing the King to start again. This cycle repeats twenty-five times, with each story a new test of patience, wisdom, and moral clarity.

In the final, twenty-fifth story, Betaal tells a riddle that even Vikram cannot answer immediately. What often gets overlooked is how the legend underscores patience and endurance. The repetitive, almost Sisyphean task is a meditation on how moral clarity is not easy; it demands repetition, trial, and reflection. Meanwhile, the tantric’s hidden agenda—to sacrifice Vikram to gain supernatural power—is foiled when Betaal, the very spirit of challenge and morality, intervenes.

In Thamma, the Betaal is reimagined: it may not narrate stories directly, but its essence is preserved. The ghost forces humans to reckon with their choices, confront the weight of their actions, and recognize that courage and integrity are tested repeatedly.

The Legend of Ashwatthama

In Thamma, the title itself draws inspiration from Ashwatthama, the immortal warrior of the Mahabharata. In the movie’s tapestryt, Ashwatthama’s story threads through—a hero whose endless exile marks him as both feared and tragic—a figure whose punishment outlives his victories.

In the Mahabharata, Ashwatthama is no ordinary warrior—he is the son of Dronacharya, the revered teacher of the Pandavas and Kauravas, and one of the few who could match the legendary heroes in skill. Yet his story is marked not only by valor but by tragedy. After the great Kurukshetra war, in a moment of rage and grief over the death of his father, Ashwatthama unleashed a devastating act: he attacked the remaining Pandava camp, even killing the unborn sons of the heroes.

For this act of vengeance, the gods cursed him with immortality. He was condemned to wander the earth for eternity, carrying the weight of his sins, unable to find peace or death. His immortality is— not freedom— but endless penance binding him to the consequences of his wrath. Every dawn brings the memory of sins he can never undo.

In Thamma, this myth finds a new echo. Ayushmann Khurrana’s character, Alok Goyal, like Ashwatthama, inhabits a space between mortality and immortality, gifted with extraordinary abilities yet bound by responsibilities and moral choices; immortal yet haunted, mighty yet burdened. His existence bridges worlds, just as Ashwatthama roams between the realms of gods and humans. The story mirrors Ashwatthama’s struggle with power and conscience and the tension between vengeance and redemption.

Ancient Tales, Reimagined

Thamma does not just borrow folklore—it reinvents it. The film honors the original myths while giving them a cinematic language that feels contemporary and vibrant. There’s no need to lean on Western fantasy tropes; the characters remain morally complex, and their dilemmas retain the shades of gray that make Indian mythology so compelling. The result is a supernatural world that feels both familiar and startlingly fresh for the Indian audience.

Why This Film Resonates Beyond the Screen

Thamma is more than just a blockbuster—it reflects a cultural moment. Indian cinema is rediscovering its own stories, not to lock them in the past but to let them breathe and evolve. Sometimes, a myth must be reborn. Sometimes, the future of storytelling can come from the whispers of the old legends.