Film critic Arnab Banerjee examines Ek Din, a Hindi remake of the Thai romantic drama One Day, questioning whether its poignant premise, emotional performances, and picturesque Japanese setting can overcome a romance that struggles to truly resonate.

A Love Story on Borrowed Time—That Overstays Its Welcome
Director: Sunil Panday
Cast: Sai Pallavi, Junaid Khan, Kunal Kapoor, Kavin Dave, Pragati Mishra
Cinematography: Manoj Lobo
Music by: Ram Sampath
Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
They say it is the mere conception of an idea—the first glimmer of narrative possibility—that sets a journey in motion. In the realm of creativity, that initial spark is often so invigorating that one feels half the battle is already won, especially when the ambition is to tell a story that reaches beyond the self and resonates with a wider audience.

The 2016 Thai romantic drama One Day, directed by Banjong Pisanthanakun and featuring Chantavit Dhanasevi alongside Nittha Jirayungyurn, rests on a premise as poignant as it is universally appealing: a woman afflicted with a rare, fleeting amnesia that lasts but a single day. It is the sort of narrative conceit that travels effortlessly across borders—after all, love, memory, and longing require no subtitles. Small wonder, then, that Aamir Khan Productions has chosen to reimagine it for Hindi audiences in Ek Din, starring Junaid Khan and Sai Pallavi—a remake that remains largely faithful to its tender source.

Romance Amid Snow and Secrets
At the heart of the story is Dinesh Srivastav (Junaid Khan), an IT professional whose life, much like his office cubicle, is orderly, functional, and regrettably devoid of romance. Enter Meera Ranganathan (Sai Pallavi), a colleague who inhabits the same workspace but seems to belong to an altogether brighter universe. Dinesh loves her quietly—so quietly, in fact, that one suspects even his own reflection might be unaware of it. Meera, meanwhile, is romantically entangled with their boss, Nakul Bhasin (Kunal Kapoor), a man whose moral compass appears to spin freely, unburdened by the trivialities of fidelity.

In a moment of equal parts desperation and daring, Dinesh tells Meera that they are a couple—if only to borrow, for a day, the life he has long imagined. Fate, with a flair for melodrama that would make any screenwriter proud, intervenes during an office excursion to Japan. There, Dinesh’s wistful prayer is granted: Meera falls in love with him—but only for a single, fragile day. Love, as cinema has tirelessly reminded us, can bloom anywhere, anytime; in this case, it chooses the postcard-perfect landscapes of Japan as its stage.

Japan, incidentally, is no mere backdrop but a character in its own right—particularly for Meera, who delights in its every detail, from snow festivals to charming Snow Miku dolls, ticking off items on a tourist’s wish list with infectious enthusiasm. It is also, rather inconveniently, the chosen setting for Nakul’s not-so-clandestine escapades, as he juggles his marital obligations with his extracurricular affections. (One might say he is a multitasker—though perhaps not the sort HR would formally commend.)

When Emotional Promise Turns Predictable

Amidst snowy slopes and laughter-filled misadventures, the idyll fractures. Nakul’s unsuspecting wife arrives, puncturing illusions with the efficiency of a well-timed plot twist. Meera, heartbroken and adrift, wanders into the treacherous cold, only to be found half-frozen—a state that, in cinematic logic, leads not merely to frostbite but to that most narratively convenient of conditions: temporary amnesia.
And thus, the stage is set—for love rediscovered, truths confronted, and the delicate question of whether a single day can hold the weight of a lifetime.

So far, so promising—the stage is set, the emotional machinery oiled, and the drama poised to unfurl with due flourish. And yet, somewhere along its two-hour stretch, Ek Din begins to feel like a performance that mistakes persistence for persuasion. The narrative, despite its inherently tender premise, struggles to rise above a certain syrupy predictability, as though it were content marinating in its own corniness rather than evolving into something more textured or profound.

Performances That Cannot Fully Rescue The Film
What may have appeared luminous on paper—bolstered, no doubt, by the proven success of its Thai progenitor—emerges here as intermittently unconvincing. The emotional beats land, but seldom linger; the story moves, but rarely stirs. Even the leads, Junaid Khan and Sai Pallavi, who bring an undeniable charm to their roles, seem at times like gracious guests at a party they cannot quite host. There is an elusive lack of chemistry—both physical and emotional—that prevents the romance from truly taking flight.

One cannot help but feel that the characters themselves are only half persuaded by the world they inhabit. It’s unfortunate that the sincere performances of Sai Pallavi and Junaid Khan may not fully connect with audiences of their own generation.

The result is a film that gestures earnestly toward poignancy but often lands in the realm of the implausible, its emotional stakes diluted by a premise that, while whimsical, demands a conviction the narrative never fully earns.

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