Riteish Deshmukh wears a shade of beige in this movie that I genuinely cannot get out of my head, mostly because it matches the exact drywall color of my dentist's waiting room, which is not the best mood to project when you are playing a cynical divorce lawyer who spends his evenings smoking cigars and looking like he has just been asked to pay for someone else's parking ticket. It is a small thing, but it bugged me from the second he walked into frame, setting this weirdly mundane aesthetic tone that the rest of the production keeps trying to fight off with high-contrast lighting and costumes that look like they were pulled straight from an ad for an upscale credit card. You can tell they wanted something slick and metropolitan, but the reality on screen is a lot closer to the corporate office parks of western suburbs on a Sunday afternoon when the canteen is closed and everybody has already gone to the mall.

Shashanka Ghosh directs with the sort of breezy detachment that usually works when you have got stars who can chew up the scenery just by raising an eyebrow, though here things feel curiously flat, like a rehearsal where everybody is keeping their voices down because the crew is hungry. He handles the meet-cute stuff—if you can call two people aggressively bumping into each other over dropped paperwork a meet-cute—with about as much enthusiasm as an accountant filing an extension on April fifteenth, moving the camera around just enough to remind you that yes, this is a motion picture and not a long-form commercial for a dating app. The screenplay by Rajat Arora tries to land these snappy, zippy one-liners that sound like they were workshopped in a writers' room where no one was allowed to leave until someone used the word 'vibe' at least three times, but the rhythm of the dialogue keeps tripping over itself because the actors are pausing for laughs that simply are not coming from the room, or at least they weren't coming from my living room while I sat there with a cold cup of tea.

Tamannaah Bhatia does what she can with a character whose entire personality profile is basically just carrying around a clipboard and looking disappointed by men, bringing a certain crisp energy that almost convinces you she is playing a real person and not a concept dreamt up by a focus group of lifestyle influencers. She has this way of tossing her hair back whenever Deshmukh says something particularly obnoxious that becomes the most reliable visual punctuation in the entire second act, a small physical tic that I started counting around the forty-minute mark just to stay awake through yet another scene set in a coffee shop with terrible acoustics. When she and Riteish are trading insults, there are flashes of that old-school romantic comedy chemistry you remember from movies like Jab We Met, though those moments tend to evaporate the second the camera cuts away to a reaction shot that lingers for two whole seconds too long, freezing the momentum dead in its tracks.

Poonam Dhillon shows up as the mother figure, and honestly, she looks like she wandered in from a much better family drama on Doordarshan, bringing a warmth and a lived-in ease that makes everyone else look like they are trying way too hard to be modern and relatable. The supporting cast otherwise consists of people who exist solely to nod at exposition or ask probing questions about the protagonists' love lives while pouring lukewarm water from a pitcher, fulfilling that classic requirement of modern romantic comedies where nobody is allowed to have an inner life that doesn't directly service the central pairing. The soundtrack leans heavily on acoustic guitars and these breathy female vocals that seem designed to play softly underneath someone scrolling through Instagram on their phone, blending into the background so thoroughly that I genuinely could not hum a single bar of the theme song right now if you paid me.

The central conceit pits a cynical divorce attorney against an upbeat matchmaker who rents out the office space right above his, a setup that belongs in a dusty paperback from 1994, which wouldn't necessarily be a crime if the film bothered to update the gender dynamics or find something new to say about how people actually date in the era of swiping left and right. Instead, it trots out every single cliché in the book—the rain machine outside the window, the shared late-night takeout over documents, the sudden realization that they actually like each other despite their professional differences—without ever once interrogating why these two professionals are so aggressively bad at their respective jobs. It sits comfortably in that vast, strange middle tier of Hindi films that get made because an algorithm decided audiences wanted a light romance on a Thursday night, perfectly fine for folding laundry to, but utterly vaporous the second the credits start to roll.

There is a recurring voiceover by Riteish that feels like it was recorded in a closet on an iPhone, thin and tinny and completely disconnected from the room tone of the scenes it is supposed to be commenting on, which is the kind of post-production oversight that drives you slightly mad when you are watching closely. You start looking at the background extras just to see if anyone is actually eating their food or just pushing it around with a fork, and spoiler alert, nobody ever takes a bite because continuity in the dining scenes is apparently optional. It is not a disaster, exactly, because no one is really trying hard enough to make a disaster; it is just a product that exists because a contract was signed and a budget was spent and a server in some cloud somewhere needed a new file to host.

By the time they end up at the mandatory airport sequence—because of course there is an airport sequence where someone has to run through security without a boarding pass—you are just tired, not from emotional exhaustion, but from the sheer predictability of the architectural choices, right down to the blue glass panels on the terminal walls that look like they were bought on clearance. Tamannaah looks great in her trench coat, and Riteish has finally switched to a dark jacket that suits him better, but the narrative fuel ran out about twenty minutes into the second half, leaving them to coast entirely on muscle memory and whatever goodwill the audience brought with them from watching better things. If I am being completely fair, I have seen much worse entries in the modern streaming library, films that actively offend you with their laziness or their terrible politics, whereas this one just sort of exists in a grey zone of harmless mediocrity, slipping out of your brain the second you reach for the remote to turn the TV off.