Mishra, whose instincts for atmosphere are his strongest asset, opens with genuine menace. The forest sequences are shot with a hushed dread that suggests a director who understands that the best horror lives in the space between sounds. For roughly its first act, the film works. Malhotra underplays his scepticism nicely, and Nimrat Kaur brings a quiet gravity to a role that could easily have been a stereotype. Tamannaah Bhatia, too, gets moments of steel that hint at a more interesting character buried in the drafts.
Then the film remembers it has a supporting cast to service, and the tonal floor gives way. Maniesh Paul and Sunil Grover are gifted comic performers, but their scenes here play like they wandered in from an entirely different production. Shweta Tiwari is underused. And Yo Yo Honey Singh's Hardy Thakur is a casting decision nobody asked for and no one on screen seems sure how to handle. Every time the film builds momentum, a new tonal detour drains it.
Worse is the writing's refusal to commit. Is this a story about faith defeating fear? About logic's limits? About environmental trespass? The film gestures at all three and settles on none, so the climax - which wants to be rousing - plays as loud rather than earned. The visual effects are uneven, serviceable in the smaller scares and visibly strained whenever the goddess takes full form. For a film trading on the divine, that is a real problem.
And yet. There is a version of this movie, maybe twenty minutes shorter and one subplot leaner, that genuinely hums. The bones are there. The performances are there. The conviction is there. What's missing is the discipline to trust the story it actually has.