The feed is a pink-hued nightmare. Every February 14th, the algorithm decides we haven’t suffered enough and dumps a truckload of curated romance directly into our retinas. It’s usually a predictable slog of candlelit dinners, over-saturated roses, and the kind of captions that feel like they were written by a marketing intern on a Deadline day. But then Soha Ali Khan and Kunal Kemmu show up. They’re being "goofy." They’re being "cute."

It’s a tactical strike of relatability in an era of hyper-polished celebrity branding.

The video is exactly what you’d expect from the Pataudi-adjacent power couple. It’s messy. It’s frantic. It features the kind of low-stakes physical comedy that usually stays behind closed doors or at least behind a very expensive firewall. They’re dancing, they’re mugging for the camera, and they’re making a concerted effort to look like they aren’t making an effort. This is the new currency of the digital elite: performative authenticity.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s charming. Compared to the stagnant, airbrushed portraits of other Bollywood royalty, watching Kunal and Soha behave like teenagers who just discovered the "record" button on a TikTok draft is a relief. It’s the "Coffee Shop" version of a high-budget rom-com. It feels real because the lighting isn’t perfect and the hair isn’t glued into place by a team of six professionals.

But let's talk about the friction. There is always a trade-off. To give us this "raw" glimpse into their living room, they have to sacrifice the one thing most of us take for granted: a private moment that doesn’t have to "perform." Every giggle is a data point. Every goofy face is a brick in the wall of their personal brand. There’s a specific price tag attached to this kind of "unfiltered" content. It’s not just the cost of the $1,200 iPhone 15 Pro Max used to film it, or the hidden hours spent editing the "spontaneous" chaos into a digestible 30-second reel. It’s the mental tax of knowing that your love life is now a content vertical.

We’re suckers for it. We see them acting like dorks and we think, "Hey, they’re just like us." Except they aren't. They’re wealthy, successful actors with a lineage that most people can’t even pronounce. Their "goofiness" is a luxury. When you’re struggling to pay a $400 electricity bill or navigating the hellscape of modern dating apps where every third profile is a bot, "goofy love" feels like a distant, expensive hobby. It’s something you do when you’ve already won the game.

The tech industry has spent the last decade trying to automate human connection, but Soha and Kunal are reminding us that the best way to hack the system is to just look a little bit stupid. It’s a glitch in the Matrix of perfection. By leaning into the awkwardness, they’re bypassing our cynical filters. It’s a smart move. In a world of AI-generated influencers and dead-eyed corporate posts, human weirdness is the only thing that still feels premium.

But there’s a lurking discomfort in watching celebrities colonize the "relatable" space. It’s a bit like a billionaire wearing a $900 t-shirt that’s been pre-distressed to look like it’s from a thrift store. They’re adopting the aesthetics of the common struggle—the messy house, the bad dancing, the silly faces—without any of the actual stakes. If they look bad, it’s a "choice." If you look bad, it’s just Tuesday.

This Valentine’s Day "win" isn’t about love, really. It’s about the mastery of the medium. It’s about knowing exactly how much vulnerability to show before it becomes a liability. They’ve managed to turn their marriage into a high-engagement loop that doesn't feel like a sales pitch, even though it’s selling the most valuable product on earth: the idea that someone, somewhere, is actually having fun.

We’ll keep scrolling. We’ll double-tap the video. We’ll leave comments about "couple goals" and "soulmates." We’ll pretend that we’re seeing something secret, something guarded, something true. We want to believe that the goofiness is the point, rather than the byproduct of a very successful PR strategy.

Is it possible to be genuinely silly when you know four million people are watching, or is the camera the only thing that makes the silliness feel worth the effort?