Abhay Deol wears a leather jacket in this film that looks like it cost thirty bucks at a Delhi market and honestly, it bugs me more than it probably should. Hindi movies love their slick fashion statements, yet here we have a regular guy shaking down people for property money who dresses like he just rolled off a sleeper bus from Chandigarh. That sort of grit is hard to maintain when the narrative swerves from a real estate extortion racket into a gentle ghost story about a spirit haunting an apartment. Nanu Ki Jaanu tries to juggle these disparate tones with the grace of a toddler carrying a pile of wet plates. If I'm honest, the genre mashup was dead on arrival. We are supposed to laugh at the roughneck protagonist getting thrown around his own bedroom by an unseen force, then pivot instantly to genuine emotional stakes involving a tragic hit-and-run.

Faraz Haider directs with a strange sort of hesitation, shooting dialogue scenes in flat medium shots that just sit there and absorb dialogue without any visual momentum. The screenplay by Manu Rishi Chadha keeps dropping awkward exposition right when the scene is starting to gather some actual steam. Characters explain their motivations to each other while standing in kitchens and hallways, turning what should be lived-in spaces into soundstages where information gets unloaded. There is a running bit involving a local politician and some thugs that feels like it belongs in an entirely different picture, something much louder and less concerned with ghostly romance. When you watch how the camera treats the apartment interiors, you notice a distinct lack of geography. You never quite know where the kitchen is relative to the front door, which makes the supernatural interventions feel disconnected from any actual physical space.

Abhay Deol brings a certain tired authenticity to the title role that saves several poorly written sequences from collapsing entirely. He doesn't play Nanu as a charming rogue or a standard Bollywood hero with a heart of gold, but rather as someone who is genuinely bewildered by his own life choices. He mumbles his lines and looks away during emotional confrontations, which feels closer to actual human behavior than the usual chest-thumping we get in these parts. Patralekhaa plays the titular ghost with a cool detachment that contrasts sharply with Deol's bluster, though she spends a lot of time looking mildly annoyed rather than hauntingly tragic. Her performance relies heavily on floating hair and blue-tinted lighting cues rather than any physical commitment to the uncanny. Supporting actors drift in and out of the frame with varying degrees of conviction, and at least one local goon is clearly dubbed by someone standing three feet away from a cheap microphone in a basement studio somewhere.

The cinematography by Satyendranath Patra relies on that murky, digital sheen that makes every street in Delhi look like it was scrubbed with bleach five minutes before the cameras rolled. Shadows lack depth, and nighttime scenes possess a weird, milky glare that kills any lingering sense of dread the premise might have generated. Then the soundtrack hits you with another generic Punjabi remix just when the narrative needs a moment of quiet reflection, drowning out the actors and forcing the audience to process generic party energy during a funeral. It reminds me of watching Shaadi Ke Side Effects where the aesthetic choices seem dictated by a committee trying to hit every demographic quad simultaneously. Sound design fare no better, with the footsteps of the invisible spirit sounding suspiciously like a Foley artist tapping wooden blocks on a hardwood floor.

Beneath the messy plotting and the tonal whiplash, the film wants to examine how men in the capital treat women who are vulnerable, using the supernatural premise as a metaphor for urban guilt and buried conscience. Nanu is essentially haunted by his own complicity in a broader culture of casual cruelty, and the ghost becomes a physical manifestation of a city refusing to let its perpetrators off the hook. That thematic ambition gets buried beneath slapstick routines involving local priests, neighbors who yell through doors, and endless scenes of men shouting on cell phones in traffic. Hindi cinema has occasionally pulled off this mix of social commentary and supernatural nonsense, but here the seams are constantly fraying under the weight of too many narrative detours. The resolution arrives with a rushed, sentimental thud that ignores all the messy moral ambiguity established in the opening hour, opting instead for a tidy emotional payoff that feels completely unearned.

The secondary characters get sidelined for long stretches while the plot catches its breath, leaving Manu Rishi and Rajesh Sharma to chew whatever scenery is left standing after Deol has wandered out of the room. It is a small thing, but the editing keeps lingering on reaction shots for one beat too long, draining the comedic timing right out of the room before the next line can land. You find yourself watching the background extras to stay entertained during the slower stretches, noticing how a waiter in a roadside dhaba never actually pours any tea into the cups he is carrying. By the time the closing credits start to roll, the film has exhausted its goodwill through sheer narrative repetition, leaving behind the distinct impression of a project that was edited by committee in a hurry to meet an arbitrary theatrical release date.