There’s something a few man who lives along with his mom, who smokes in hiding, and whose moods are placated by meals the mom prepares. A person-child, sure, absolutely, however that, too, has its appeal when the face of Prithviraj Sukumaran is caught over it, bearded — groomed properly, thoughts you — and subtly muscled. The person can punch. Whereas pondering of an impending windfall wealth, a tune pops up with him in a shimmering golden coat and pants, tight as a marriage knot, virtually making us surprise how the pants didn’t rip as he moved his physique vigorously to the candy, foolish choreography of limp arms and dextrous legs.
— Prathyush Parasuraman
