The background score in the second half hits that exact same synthesized brass cue every single time a character looks concerned, and honestly, it gets grating by the third repetition. If I'm honest, that kind of lazy sonic repetition usually sinks a smaller production before it even reaches the intermission. Doctor G arrives with a premise that sounds like a standard Bollywood high-concept comedy on paper, involving a hapless male medical student accidentally landing in the gynecology department because orthopedic surgery was full. But Anubhuti Kashyap directs the material with an eye for granular social awkwardness rather than broad farce, refusing to let the institutional fluorescent lighting hide the actual sweat and tension of young men navigating spaces they have been conditioned to dominate or avoid completely. The screenplay, co-written by Sumit Saxena, Saurabh Bharat, Vishal Wagh, and Kashyap herself, manages to dodge the temptation of turning every single pelvic examination into a punchline. Instead, the narrative lingers on the quiet humiliations of its protagonist, Uday Gupta, as he stumbles through medical terminology while battling his own internalized misogyny. That focus keeps the picture grounded even when the plotting gets a bit creaky and predictable around the edges, especially during the third act romance subplot which feels bolted on because someone in the financing meetings probably demanded a commercial breathing room.

Ayushmann Khurrana plays Uday with a specific sort of hunched, defensive energy that recalls his earlier work in Anubhav Sinha's Article 15 rather than his lighter comedic outings. He does not play the character as an enlightened progressive waiting for his awakening, but rather as an annoyed, mildly entitled guy who is furious that the universe won't let him fix bones in peace. His comic timing relies heavily on micro-expressions—a quick blink, a slight tightening of the jaw, a posture that communicates absolute terror of female anatomy while trying desperately to maintain professional detachment. Rakul Preet Singh occupies the trickier role of Dr. Fatima Siddiqui, a senior resident who acts as both Uday's professional foil and occasional reality check, though the script doesn't give her nearly enough internal life outside of keeping him in line. She delivers her lines with a crisp, no-nonsense authority that cuts right through his whining, bringing a necessary ballast to scenes that might otherwise drift into self-pity. Then there is Shefali Shah as Dr. Nandini Srivastav, the head of the department who operates with a terrifying, calm precision that suggests she has survived decades of casual institutional sexism by simply being twice as competent as every man in the building. Shah has this one moment where she looks up from a patient chart while Uday stammers through an excuse, and her silent, dead-eyed stare does more heavy lifting than an entire monologue about gender politics could ever hope to achieve.

The visual language favors cramped hallways, sterile green scrubs, and harsh examination room lights that make everyone look slightly exhausted and sweaty. It is an aesthetic choice that works well for a hospital setting where privacy is a myth and personal boundaries are constantly being negotiated under fluorescent tubes. The cinematography by Eeshit Narain resists the temptation to soften the edges of the medical college, instead leaning into the institutional drabness of government-funded healthcare facilities where the paint is always slightly chipped near the doorframes. When the soundtrack steps away from those annoying brass cues, it relies on acoustic textures that mirror Uday's internal panic, letting percussion drop out entirely during scenes where he has to confront his own biases in front of actual patients. Hindi cinema has spent decades treating the medical profession as either a site for heroic melodrama or soapy romance, so seeing a film actually engage with the mundane, sweaty, bureaucratic realities of residency training feels oddly refreshing even when the jokes miss their mark. The supporting cast is packed with actors who clearly understand the assignment, playing ordinary hospital staff without the caricature that often plagues mainstream Hindi films when they venture outside of urban romance territory.

What saves the project from becoming just another lecture disguised as entertainment is its willingness to let the protagonist remain unlikable for long stretches of runtime. Uday isn't a hero who learns his lesson and transforms into a feminist icon by the time the credits roll; he is just slightly less ignorant than he was two hours ago, which feels infinitely more honest than the usual cinematic redemption arc. The themes of male entitlement and bodily autonomy are woven directly into the fabric of the medical procedures themselves, forcing Uday to confront the fact that his discomfort around women's bodies is a structural problem rather than an individual quirk. Yet the film never feels like a sociology textbook because the dialogue retains a colloquial bite, capturing the way young people actually talk in canteens and locker rooms without sounding like writers trying too hard to capture Gen-Z slang. It is a messy, occasionally frustrating viewing experience that refuses to offer clean emotional resolutions, choosing instead to let its characters sit in their discomfort.