For a film like this, you don't need a director, or a writer. Just the cast, mostly comprising newcomers, and the spot boys are enough. The chai wallas on set would be competent enough to direct this trash.
To top it, Amol Shetge, credited for directing this film, has gone on record to say that films are seen either using your head or your heart -- this one has to be seen with the heart because art is where the heart is! Really?
Actually he is right, because you have to leave your head aside to endure this mess of a movie. There is a head which moves from cupboard to cupboard. And it belongs to a dreaded terrorist Carlos who is on a mission to blow up a peace conference in Mumbai. He is beheaded by a bumbling cop who is out to impress his superior, a woman who he has the hots for. That's love angle No 1.
Then there is another man who has married a firang but is afraid to tell his dad. His sister meanwhile is in love with a DJ with Hindustani sanskaar. She too is afraid to tell her dad. This makes it love angle No 2 and 3. Wait, there's DJs dad (Darshan Zariwalla) who is always stationed near his laptop somewhere in America (read a studio), waiting for his son to chat with him.
This is a film mostly made up of scenes. Scenes which are far inferior to some college plays some might have witnessed. At the editing, I guess, another chai walla must have stitched it all together to dish out a definite recipe for disaster.