‘Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani’ Re-Release: Does Ranbir Kapoor and Deepika Padukone's 2013 Rom-Com Live Up To Its Cult Status Today?

The theatrical re-release of Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani (YJHD) has felt inevitable. Ayan Mukerji’s second film, starring Ranbir Kapoor and Deepika Padukone, has grown into quite the cult hit since its big-screen debut in the summer of 2013. Aided by its streaming shelf-life, the nostalgia value remains strong. Kapoor was at the peak of his craft and alt-stardom; there were no bitter nepo-baby accusations or Dharma trolling because social media was a saner place. It marked a breakout period and evolution arc for Padukone. It furthered Aditya Roy Kapur’s red-letter year; his other musical blockbuster was Aashiqui 2. Kalki Koechlin was thriving in glossy ensemble casts. It was the dialogue-writing breakthrough of Hussain Dalal. Pritam’s peppy soundtrack and Amitabh Bhattacharya’s slang-literary lyrics became instant classics. Badtameez Dil and Balam Pichkari invaded weddings, parties and festivals across the country; Illahi and Kabeera scored solo trips, long drives and millennial heartaches; Dilliwaali Girlfriend became everyone’s favourite drunken-but-almost-indecent dance anthem.

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However, there was more to the cult status of YJHD than being the modern Bollywood buddy package. It symbolised a time when vintage love stories were being phased out — and upgraded — by coming-of-age romantic dramedies. (Kapoor was the face of this transition; you could add “Wake Up” to any of his characters’ names and it’d be the perfect film title). The tale of Kabir “Bunny” Thapar and Naina “Scholar” Talwar signified a contemporary makeover of the Raj-and-Simran syndrome from the 1990s. It was the same chalk-and-cheese template, except now these characters had actual careers and social identities. The tropes were just as primal. For him, her simpleness was exotic; for her, his flamboyance was exotic. The extrovert was intrigued by the introvert and vice versa. They had no families to overcome; they had themselves to overcome.

I remember watching YJHD when I was more or less the same age as the protagonists. As a bonus, my circumstances were eerily similar to Bunny’s. I had just gotten back from my first globe-trotting adventure. I had a childhood friend’s fancy wedding to attend in Udaipur. I was the absconding out-of-towner ‘returning’ for a quick break; there was a bit of history with someone there, too. So I enjoyed much of the film… until I didn’t. As someone starting to embrace the agency of adulthood, the ending left me feeling cheated. Bunny merely shows up at Naina’s house on New Year’s Eve and convinces her that they’ll work it out. She agrees. They reach an understanding. Just like that, years of gender conditioning and lifestyle differences are resolved. Love becomes a narrative crutch — equipped with a neat conflict and a fake resolution — rather than a complex feeling. I don’t blame YJHD for having a fairytale climax after the lukewarm reactions to Shakun Batra’s daring Ek Main Aur Ekk Tu (2012), but it felt dishonest.

A still from 'Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani'

The truth is that Bunny and Naina were romantically incompatible. Just like Sid and Aisha were in Mukerji’s first film, Wake Up Sid (2008). They’d have never lasted beyond the next spat. At best, they were infatuated with each other. But commercial compulsions reframed their bond as an unlikely love story. Naina is right when she suggests that Bunny might regret the decision and resent her. But he has a Bollywood quick-fix: they’ll travel together and be boring together. That way, they get the best of both worlds. YJHD sold a real-world clash of priorities as an aspirational opposites-attract story. It seduced a growing digital generation of doers and dreamers with the traditional idea of meeting midway. A wander-lusting man learns the merits of being grounded, while a grounded woman learns the merits of cutting loose. The yin-and-yang lovers can have their cake and eat it too.

For me, it was also hard to escape the sense that Bunny was settling. It felt like the narrative was judging him for being an explorer. He is made to face the consequences of being a free spirit: a missed funeral, a bitter friend’s spiral into gambling and alcoholism, a soulmate’s physical and mental transformation. His weekend in Udaipur is sprinkled with life lessons and raps on knuckles, but also with the connotation that he had strayed far; he realises his “mistake” and has to win his way back into his friends’ and Naina’s forgiving hearts. He sees former tomboy Aditi (Koechlin) all grown up and happy with a boring-but-stable companion, and decides he wants boring and stable too. He apologises to his stepmother and feels guilty for not bidding goodbye to a compassionate father.

The implication is that the recklessness of his Jawaani (youth) is over, and now he’s ready to make amends and settle down. He returns, homesick and lost, but also narcissistic enough to believe that he’ll get what he needs. His father wanted him to live life on his own terms without caring for societal shackles and expectations — who can forget that beautifully performed scene by the late Farooq Sheikh? (a version of Anupam Kher’s opening scene in DDLJ) — but Bunny succumbs to precisely those things. He conforms. It has the vibe of a gap year ending, order being restored, and an errant traveler reintegrating himself into the critical folds of civilisation.

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It’s perhaps why I instantly took to Tamasha a few years later. The same primary cast aside, Imtiaz Ali’s 2015 film felt like a spiritual sibling that righted a few wrongs of YJHD. A reserved heroine was again swept off her feet by a dreamy hero, but she broke up with him the moment he conformed. Or, in a way, the moment Ved ditched his desires to be a Bunny. This forced him to confront who he really was and not sacrifice that identity at the altar of societal pressure. As a man, of course, it made me feel seen. For many, the false note again was the main-character energy of the male protagonist. But Tara and Ved became soulmates because, at some level, she wanted what he did. She, too, was stuck in a dead-end life of a family business and a history-infected future. She inspired him to break free, but once he did, she found the courage to do the same. She just needed him to take the lead. They didn’t have to meet midway because perhaps they were always fighting to be on the same side. Idealistic? Maybe, but still more plausible than Bunny and Naina trading adjustments.

A still from 'Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani'

But re-watching YJHD in 2025 offers some of us the opportunity to realise that we’ve aged more than the movie has. Adolescence being over is one thing. But at some stage, we all begin to see the point of a halfway pact. We all start seeking the anti-tamasha of companionship. We discover that personal ambition need not be mutually exclusive to — or at odds with — shared living. A time comes when that thrilling travel assignment doesn’t feel as important as a quiet movie date.

So the essence of the film may not have been the problem, but the execution was. The idea that love can transcend fundamental differences wasn’t the problem, but the notion that it comes at the cost of freethinking was. Bunny showing up at Naina’s doorstep isn’t the problem; the entitlement with which he barges in and demands attachment is. It used to rankle me that he chose to come back; now it rankles me that his ex-people accepted him back after minor resistance. That’s the thing about mainstream storytelling though: single scenes have to convey years of incremental changes and social micro-progressions. Performances and binary moments have to do what writing cannot. The fault is in the starry medium. So I get it, Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani. The hype is unfounded. The madness — the Deewani — is real. Perhaps it’s fine that the Jawaani wasn’t.