Introduction: When Storytelling Becomes a Mirror to Society
Cinema, at its best, doesn’t just tell stories—it holds up a mirror to society, compelling audiences to confront truths they might otherwise ignore. Some films entertain, some educate, but a rare few force introspection, provoke discomfort, and demand change. The Great Indian Kitchen (2021) was one such film—a quiet, simmering revolution in storytelling that refused to blink in the face of deep-seated domestic patriarchy. It wasn’t merely a film; it was an immersive experience that made its audience feel the mind-numbing drudgery of countless women trapped in homes that serve as gilded cages.
Fast-forward to 2024, and Bollywood, a film industry often accused of sanitizing reality in favor of spectacle, took on the challenge of remaking this powerhouse of a film. Mrs., the Hindi adaptation, arrived on the scene, carrying the weight of expectations. Would it replicate the raw, immersive horror of its predecessor? Would it retain the soul-crushing monotony that made the original so visceral? Or would it soften the edges, making it more palatable for a wider audience?
The purpose of The Great Indian Kitchen was crystal clear: to shatter the illusion of the “ideal Indian home” and expose the systemic oppression that masquerades as tradition. It wasn’t just about one woman’s journey—it was about generations of women conditioned to serve, to endure, and to remain unseen. It was a masterclass in storytelling craft, where repetition became a weapon, silence became deafening, and the act of cooking turned into a form of entrapment. The film was relentless, refusing to offer easy resolutions or melodramatic confrontations. Instead, it let mundane cruelty unfold, trapping the audience in its protagonist’s suffocating reality.
On the other hand, Mrs. attempts to tell the same story but through a more conventional Bollywood lens. While it retains the core narrative, it shifts the setting to North India, introduces more traditional character arcs, and layers in additional metaphors to make its themes more explicit. The result? A film that is undoubtedly competent, well-acted, and effective—but does it shake its audience to the core the way The Great Indian Kitchen did?
This analysis is not just about comparing two films; it’s about examining how storytelling craft shapes impact. What happens when a raw, uncompromising story is translated into a different cultural and cinematic ecosystem? Does changing the storytelling approach alter the emotional experience? More importantly, does Mrs. serve the same purpose, or does it lose its sharpest edges in the process of adaptation?
In this deep dive, we will unpack the storytelling mechanics of both films—from premise to execution, character arcs to thematic depth, and narrative devices to visual language. We will explore what each version got right, where they diverged, and why The Great Indian Kitchen remains a landmark in Indian cinema. Because at the end of the day, storytelling isn’t just about what is being said—it’s about how deeply it makes us feel.
Let’s begin.
The Great Indian Kitchen: A Masterclass in Storytelling That Sparks Societal Reflection
Indian cinema has always been a powerful medium to reflect societal truths, but few films manage to do so with the raw, unfiltered honesty of The Great Indian (TGI) Kitchen (2021). Directed by Jeo Baby, this Malayalam-language drama is not just a film—it is an experience, an unsettling mirror held up to generations of unquestioned patriarchy, and a quiet revolution disguised as a domestic narrative.
Unlike Bollywood’s penchant for grandiose storytelling and surface-level feminism, The Great Indian Kitchen thrives in its simplicity. It strips down cinematic embellishments to present a deeply personal yet universally resonant tale of gendered oppression within the household. At its heart, this is not a film about rebellion—it is about the slow suffocation of a woman expected to conform, the weight of generational conditioning, and the unspoken servitude that continues to define countless Indian households.
Let’s dissect this film through its premise, theme, characters, structure, key plot points, and emotional depth to understand why it stands as a landmark in Indian storytelling.
1. The Premise: The Invisible Burden of Domestic Patriarchy
At its core, The Great Indian Kitchen is a study of routine—a newlywed woman (Nimisha Sajayan) is absorbed into her husband’s home, where she is expected to become the silent, unquestioning cog that keeps the domestic machinery running. She wakes, she cooks, she cleans, she serves—while the men enjoy, demand, and discard. What initially seems like tradition slowly reveals itself to be systemic oppression.
The most unsettling aspect? There is no singular villain. No dramatic physical abuse. No heightened moments of conflict. Just an everyday normalcy so ingrained in our culture that it goes unquestioned.
This is what makes the film’s premise so powerful—its quiet horror is in its realism.
2. The Theme: The Myth of the "Ideal Woman"
The movie tackles gender roles, submission, and societal conditioning. It doesn’t just highlight how men impose expectations upon women but also how older women become complicit in upholding these structures, making it all the more difficult to dismantle.
It dissects:
✔️ The glorification of the "dutiful wife"—the woman who finds fulfillment in servitude.
✔️ The conditioning that love = sacrifice.
✔️ The hypocrisy of male privilege—men who celebrate women as "goddesses" while treating them as unpaid labor.
✔️ How "tradition" is weaponized to silence any resistance.
The brilliance of the storytelling lies in how these ideas are explored through mundane, repetitive tasks rather than expository dialogue. The suffocation isn’t spelled out—it is felt.
3. Characters: Living Symbols of Patriarchy
The Wife (Nimisha Sajayan)
A woman with dreams, intelligence, and aspirations—none of which matter in the patriarchal institution she marries into. Her journey from acceptance to disillusionment to rage is one of the most nuanced and powerful arcs in Indian cinema.
Her greatest tragedy? She is not treated with cruelty—she is treated with indifference. And that is far worse.
The Husband (Suraj Venjaramood)
He isn’t physically abusive. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t impose harsh rules. But he is apathetic. He is a man so steeped in patriarchy that he sees nothing wrong with expecting his wife to be an extension of his mother—a woman whose role is to serve, not exist independently.
His most telling moment? When his wife asks him to call a plumber, and he repeatedly “forgets.” Why? Because the leaking sink isn’t his problem.
That one tiny detail encapsulates the entire film—what doesn’t inconvenience men is not worth addressing.
The Father-in-Law
A relic of deeply entrenched patriarchy, he is the most chilling character in the film. He doesn’t need to command obedience—it is expected. His presence alone is a reminder of tradition, hierarchy, and unquestioned male authority. He refuses modern appliances not because they are inefficient, but because they make life easier for women. His dominance is not aggressive, but systemic—every act, every word, is a passive reinforcement of a centuries-old hierarchy.
The Mother-in-Law
A woman who has endured the same system and, instead of questioning it, becomes its enforcer. She is the perfect example of patriarchy’s survival mechanism—turning victims into gatekeepers.
4. Structure: Repetition as a Weapon of Storytelling
The film doesn’t "tell" you its message—it makes you experience it.
✔️
The structure is a loop—we see the wife performing the same exhausting chores over and over.✔️
There are no background scores—only the suffocating sounds of domestic labor.✔️
The camera lingers on mundane details—spilled food, dirty dishes, uneaten leftovers.
The cinematic genius of this structure is that it doesn’t need dramatic conflict—the monotony itself becomes unbearable.
By the time the protagonist breaks the cycle, the audience has been emotionally and psychologically exhausted, mirroring her internal breakdown.
5. Key Plot Points: The Breaking Point
The Teacup Scene – The moment the wife realizes that her husband could wash his own cup—but chooses not to.
The Waste on the Table – A metaphor for how casually men discard both food and the efforts of women.
The Period Seclusion – A brutal reminder of how women are not just servants in this system, but considered unclean and unworthy at certain times.
The "Help" Offered by Men – They cook one meal and leave behind a kitchen in ruins, proving that even their “help” is a performance.
The Final Revolt – The wife, pushed beyond her limit, finally lashes out. Instead of tea, she serves them the filthy water from the broken sink—a moment of poetic justice that is as powerful as it is grotesque.
The ending is a slow clap—not triumphant, but deeply cathartic.
6. Emotional, Intellectual & Cultural Impact
Believability ✅
Every scene is painfully real. The men in this story are not exaggerated villains—they are everyday Indian men. The film does not "dramatize" patriarchy—it simply exposes it.
Emotional Engagement ✅
The silent frustration, the wordless oppression, the deafening monotony—it all builds up until the audience is as suffocated as the protagonist.
Intellectual Depth ✅
This is not just a feminist film—it is a sociological commentary. It explores the psychology of patriarchy, the subtle chains of tradition, and the power of systemic conditioning.
Relevance ✅
This is not an issue of the past. Even today, Indian women—educated or not—face the same expectations of submission. This film is a wake-up call.
Meaning ✅
The film forces us to re-evaluate what we accept as "normal." It is not just about one woman—it is about generations of women.
Final Verdict: A Film That Should Shake Indian Cinema to Its Core
🎥 This is what Indian cinema should strive for.
A film with a clear premise, a sharp theme, compelling characters, and a narrative arc that transforms both its protagonist and its audience.
💡 Bollywood, take notes. Storytelling isn’t about spectacle—it’s about truth.
✔️ The Great Indian Kitchen isn’t just a film. It is a revolution.
Mrs. (2024) – The Hindi Remake of The Great Indian Kitchen – A Scathing Reflection on Domestic Patriarchy
The Hindi remake of The Great Indian Kitchen, titled Mrs., starring Sanya Malhotra, is not just a film—it’s a gut-punch, an eye-opener, and a chilling reflection of deep-seated patriarchal conditioning disguised as “tradition.” If The Great Indian Kitchen was a quiet revolution, Mrs. is its Hindi counterpart that delivers an equally powerful message in a more familiar cultural setting.
A Household Where Women Work and Men Just Exist
The film exposes how patriarchy isn’t always about overt violence—it’s about systemic oppression packaged as culture.✔️
The wife isn’t allowed to work, but she’s expected to be a full-time maid.✔️
She cooks, serves, and cleans up after a dozen people, while the men eat, discard, and lounge.✔️
The husband, a gynecologist by profession, still believes in period taboos, forbidding his wife from entering the kitchen when she’s menstruating—his medical education be damned.✔️
When she expresses dissatisfaction with their mechanical sex life and asks for foreplay, he gaslights her, making her feel “impure” and unworthy of intimacy.
A Marriage That Feels More Like a Life Sentence
At first, the protagonist enters the marriage willingly—unaware that she’s walking into a gilded cage.✔️
During the courtship, the husband appears progressive, well-educated, and modern—but post-marriage, his true orthodox mindset surfaces.✔️
What she thought was a loving home turns into a prison, where her only purpose is to serve.✔️
Even the smallest expectations—like hiring household help or pursuing a job as a dance teacher—are crushed.✔️
She’s not subjected to verbal or physical abuse—instead, she’s drowned in passive-aggressive control.
Generational Patriarchy Passed Down Like an Heirloom
The father-in-law is the root of the problem, a man so entrenched in patriarchy that:
✔️ He refuses to get his own toothbrush—his wife must bring it to him.
✔️ He won’t let his clothes be washed in a machine—because of “tradition.”
✔️ He insists that food be cooked exactly as per his liking, adding unnecessary labor to the wife’s daily grind.
✔️ He believes a woman’s place is in the kitchen, and an educated, working woman doesn’t “fit” into his family’s values.
The most disturbing part? The husband mirrors his father’s behavior without question, passing down the same toxic mindset to the next generation.
The Burden of Being a "Good Wife"
The wife isn’t asking for extra privileges—just basic respect.✔️
She wants a cook to ease the burden—denied.✔️
She wants a job to feel financially independent—denied.✔️
She wants a say in her own life—denied.✔️
And yet, she is expected to silently serve, smile, and conform.
And the worst part?👉 She isn’t alone—this is the reality of countless Indian women.
"Managing a House is Equally Taxing as a Corporate Job"
Some self-proclaimed cultural gatekeepers will argue: "So what? A housewife’s duty is to serve her family. A tired husband deserves a meal!"
💡 But here’s the reality—running a household is a full-time job.✔️
If the husband works outside, the wife works inside—both deserve equal respect.✔️
If the husband gets weekends and holidays, why doesn’t the wife?✔️
If the husband expects care and comfort, why shouldn’t the wife? ✔️
💬 “If your profession exhausts you, managing a household is just as exhausting.”
A Visual Metaphor for Oppression
The film’s most powerful symbolism lies in the absence of women at the dining table.✔️
The men sit, eat, and demand.✔️
The women cook, serve, and clean—but never sit beside them.✔️
The moment the wife dares to sit down, the father-in-law’s rage-filled eyes say it all.
The kitchen is a one-way street—women enter to serve, never to dine.
A Household Where Women Are Replaced, Not Respected
As expected, the climax is brutal—but painfully realistic.
🔥 After suffering in silence, the wife walks out of the toxic household.
🔥 There’s no dramatic apology, no last-minute redemption for the husband.
🔥 Instead, a new wife is brought in to replace her, continuing the same cycle of oppression.
👉 This isn’t a story about one woman—it’s about thousands like her.
Why Mrs. Is a Must-Watch
📌 Mrs. isn’t just a film—it’s a mirror to Indian society.
📌 It’s a reminder that patriarchy isn’t just enforced by men—it’s upheld by women too.
📌 It highlights how cultural conditioning turns oppression into “normalcy.”
📌 It exposes the silent suffering of millions of Indian housewives.
📌 It forces men to rethink their privilege and accountability.
💡 If this movie makes you uncomfortable—it should. Because change begins with discomfort.
🎬 Watch Mrs.—preferably with your mother, sister, wife, and daughter. And if you feel triggered—the problem isn’t the film. It’s you.
The Great Indian Kitchen vs. Mrs. (2024): A Tale of Two Kitchens, Two Cultures, and One Unrelenting Patriarchy
The Malayalam film The Great Indian (TGI) Kitchen (2021) was not just a movie—it was an experience, an unfiltered gaze into the claustrophobic prison of domestic patriarchy, where women toil in silence while men devour their labor without a second thought. It was a film that did not just tell a story—it made its audience feel the suffocation, the repetition, the despair.
Three years later, Bollywood attempted to replicate its raw intensity with Mrs. (2024), a Hindi-language remake starring Sanya Malhotra. While Mrs. is a competent adaptation with moments of genuine brilliance, it inevitably struggles to match the soul-crushing impact of the original. The question is—why?
Let’s break it down.
1. The Premise & Concept: Same Story, Different Execution
At their core, both The Great Indian Kitchen and Mrs. tell the same fundamental story: A newlywed woman, initially bright-eyed and hopeful, finds herself trapped in a household that treats her as an unpaid servant. She is systematically stripped of agency, and made to believe that her worth is tied to her ability to serve. The men of the house, though not outwardly violent, impose their dominance through passive control and entitlement, never once questioning their privilege.
Where The Great Indian Kitchen was an assault on the senses, forcing viewers to live through the drudgery and oppression alongside its protagonist, Mrs. takes a more conventional storytelling approach, one that is more palatable for the mainstream Hindi audience.
🔹 TGI Kitchen: A near-documentary-style depiction, with no background music, lingering shots of food preparation, and a punishingly repetitive structure that mirrored the protagonist’s endless cycle of labor.🔹 Mrs.: A slightly more dramatized and structured narrative, with clearer character arcs, some underlined themes, and a more traditionally engaging approach to storytelling.
👉 Winner: The Great Indian Kitchen – its commitment to making the audience uncomfortable gave it unmatched power.
2. The Setting & Cultural Translation
🔹 The Great Indian Kitchen was deeply rooted in Kerala’s socio-cultural landscape—the patriarchal but genteel households, the caste-ist undertones, the conservative customs tied to menstruation and purity, and the weight of tradition.
🔹 Mrs. shifts the setting to North India, where the oppression is no less real, but the way it manifests is different. Instead of an orthodox Kerala family steeped in regressive customs, we now see a Delhi-based, upper-middle-class household—seemingly progressive on the surface but equally rigid in practice.
However, in this cultural shift, something is lost. The Great Indian Kitchen wasn’t just about one woman’s story—it was about the entire oppressive machinery that kept generations of women subjugated. It tied into Kerala’s social issues, including the Sabarimala controversy, making it more than just a personal struggle—it was political.
In contrast, Mrs. feels more individualistic, centering more on Richa’s personal arc rather than tying her struggle to a broader systemic issue.
👉 Winner: The Great Indian Kitchen – its cultural specificity made it feel deeply personal yet universally relevant.
3. The Protagonist’s Transformation
🔹 The Great Indian Kitchen: Nimisha Sajayan’s character remained nameless, symbolizing the countless Indian women stuck in the same cycle of oppression. Her transformation was slow, internal, and horrifyingly real. There were no monologues, no dramatic confrontations—just a gradual breaking point that felt devastatingly authentic.
🔹 Mrs.: Richa (Sanya Malhotra) is more visibly expressive, and her arc follows a more conventional emotional journey. We see her frustrations more clearly, and her suffering is punctuated with dialogue and cinematic moments designed to underline key themes. The film even introduces a recurring metaphor about being a “prime number”—a number that cannot be divided, symbolizing Richa’s eventual realization that she must stand alone.
While Malhotra delivers a phenomenal performance, the in-your-face storytelling approach makes Richa’s transformation feel more scripted than organic.
👉 Winner: The Great Indian Kitchen – subtlety wins over forced metaphors.
4. The Men: Entitled Husbands & Overbearing Fathers
🔹 The Great Indian Kitchen: Suraj Venjaramood’s husband was so convincingly entitled and indifferent that audiences wanted to reach through the screen and slap him. His transformation—from mildly inconsiderate to completely oblivious—was so gradual and natural that it felt terrifyingly real.
🔹 Mrs.: Nishant Dahiya’s portrayal of the husband is competent but lacks the same unsettling realism. The film also spells out his entitlement instead of letting it creep up on us. While the father-in-law, played by Kanwaljit Singh, is appropriately patriarchal, his character leans too much into the "curdled authority" stereotype rather than feeling like a real person.
👉 Winner: The Great Indian Kitchen – the men were far more insidious and terrifying in their casual cruelty.
5. The Visual Language: Repetition vs. Dramatic Beats
🔹 The Great Indian Kitchen: Repetitive editing, numbing shots of food preparation, no background score. It made the audience feel as trapped as the protagonist.
🔹 Mrs.: While director Arati Kadav keeps some of the repetitive beats from the original, she softens the edges with more variation in storytelling and a score that guides emotions. The film also highlights certain moments with more conventional cinematic techniques, making it more engaging but less immersive.
👉 Winner: The Great Indian Kitchen – its unrelenting, suffocating style was its biggest strength.
6. The Ending: Liberation or Perpetuation?
Both films end with the wife walking out, but The Great Indian Kitchen makes it more impactful.
In TGI Kitchen, the final sequence wasn’t just a win for the protagonist—it was a commentary on how women are replaceable in the eyes of patriarchy. The moment she leaves, her husband remarries, and the cycle continues.
In Mrs., the ending feels slightly more optimistic, but that dilutes the gut-punch impact.
👉 Winner: The Great Indian Kitchen – its bleak but brutally honest ending hit harder.
Final Verdict:
Category | The Great Indian Kitchen | Mrs. (2024) |
Concept & Premise | ✅ Raw & unfiltered | ✅ More accessible but softer |
Cultural Depth | ✅ Deeply rooted in Kerala’s socio-political fabric | ❌ More generic & individualistic |
Protagonist's Arc | ✅ Subtle & haunting | ❌ More overtly dramatized |
Depiction of Men | ✅ Chillingly realistic | ❌ More stereotypical |
Visual Language | ✅ Repetitive & immersive | ❌ More structured & conventional |
Ending | ✅ Bleak & impactful | ❌ A bit more hopeful, losing its edge |
🔹 Mrs. is a good remake—but The Great Indian Kitchen was a masterpiece.🔹 If you haven’t seen either, start with TGI Kitchen—then watch Mrs. to appreciate what it did right and what it softened.
💡 Ultimately, the Hindi remake makes the story more digestible for a wider audience—but in doing so, it loses the unshakable power of the original.
A Wake-Up Call or Just a Whimper?
The Great Indian Kitchen, Mrs., and Bollywood’s Moment of Reckoning
Cinema, at its best, is a mirror—a sharp, unflinching reflection of the world we live in. But sometimes, it also has to be a hammer—shattering the illusions, the comfort zones, and the carefully constructed narratives that protect deep-seated traditions from scrutiny. The Great Indian Kitchen was a mirror and a hammer, a film that quietly but devastatingly laid bare the systemic oppression woven into the daily lives of countless women. Mrs., its Hindi remake, had the potential to be the same hammer for Bollywood, an industry that has long peddled regressive tropes under the garb of “family values.” But did it strike hard enough? Or did it merely scratch the surface of an issue that still runs far too deep?
The Hindi film industry has an abysmal track record when it comes to tackling gender dynamics with any real nuance. More often than not, it shies away from discomfort, choosing instead to romanticize, sanitize, or trivialize the harsh realities of everyday patriarchy. In an industry that continues to churn out hyper-masculine spectacles, where the hero’s “redemption” arc often involves a woman’s silent suffering, Mrs. arriving on the scene should have been a watershed moment.
Did Mrs. Deliver?
Mrs. carries the DNA of The Great Indian Kitchen—the repetitive drudgery, the casual dismissals, the suffocating isolation of a woman who realizes her entire existence has been reduced to cooking, cleaning, and fulfilling her husband’s desires. Sanya Malhotra’s performance is a revelation—she doesn’t play Richa, she becomes her, embodying every woman who has ever been told that her dreams are an afterthought to a man’s comfort.
But while Mrs. doesn’t flinch in showcasing the slow-burning horror of domestic patriarchy, it softens the edges just enough to make it more palatable to a Hindi-speaking audience. Unlike The Great Indian Kitchen, which lets its protagonist’s oppression simmer until it’s unbearable, Mrs. occasionally spoon-feeds its messaging, inserting pointed dialogues and “explainers” that diminish the raw, unfiltered power of the original.
Still, the fact that it even exists—on an OTT platform, no less—means something. The Hindi film industry has a talent problem, and it’s not about a lack of actors. It’s about who gets the spotlight and who gets sidelined. The rise of actors like Sanya Malhotra, Triptii Dimri, and Tillotama Shome should be a signal to Bollywood that audiences are no longer willing to settle for manufactured star power over actual talent.
A Story That Needed to Be Told—But Who's Listening?
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: Mrs. is not the wake-up call Bollywood needed. It’s a conversation starter, yes. A film that might spark debates in middle-class homes about why mothers eat last, why daughters are married off like transactions, and why wives are expected to serve in silence. But a wake-up call? That requires disruption—something Bollywood is terrified of unless it comes in the form of over-the-top “women empowerment” narratives that resolve themselves neatly within the confines of commercial viability.
In the end, Mrs. is a diamond in the trough—a reminder that important stories can be told, that powerful performances do exist, and that Bollywood can choose to be better if it wants to. But will it?
That depends on us—the audience. Because if the last few years have taught us anything, it’s that change in Indian cinema doesn’t come from within. It comes when we demand it.
Conclusion: A Spark in the Fire, but Not Yet the Flame
Stories, when wielded with precision, don’t just entertain—they unshackle. They peel back the layers of everyday existence, forcing society to see itself in ways it never dared to before. The Great Indian Kitchen was one such story—a cinematic scalpel that cut through the deeply ingrained patriarchy of Indian households, exposing the silent suffering passed down from generation to generation. It didn’t scream. It didn’t preach. It simply showed. And that was its greatest strength.
But then came Mrs., Bollywood’s attempt to tell the same story—a story that, in truth, should have shaken the Hindi film industry to its core. Did it? No. Not entirely. But did it keep the conversation alive? Absolutely.
As we set out in this analysis, our goal was to see whether these films achieved what they were meant to do—not just depict oppression, but make the audience feel it, viscerally. The Great Indian Kitchen succeeded because of its raw storytelling craft—the suffocating monotony, the repetitive cruelty, the quiet but seething rebellion that built over time. Mrs., on the other hand, tamed the fire just a little, softening some of the raw edges, adding clearer character arcs, and inserting explicit metaphors to make its message more digestible. But in doing so, it diluted the emotional gut punch that made the original so hauntingly effective.
Yet, let’s not discount what Mrs. does right. It introduces this conversation to an audience that may never have engaged with the Malayalam original. In a country where Bollywood dominates the mainstream discourse, a film like Mrs.—even in its slightly polished, slightly safer form—has the potential to reach millions who may, for the first time, question the traditions they have accepted as normal. And in that, it still holds power.
The larger question remains: Are these films enough to transform Indian society? Of course not. A thousand films of this nature wouldn’t be enough to undo centuries of deeply ingrained patriarchal traditions. But they serve as sparks—and in a society where these conversations have long been buried under the weight of cultural expectations, even a spark can be dangerous.
For transformation to take root, these stories must multiply. They must be told not just once, but over and over again—from different perspectives, in different ways, across different regions and languages. The Great Indian Kitchen and Mrs. are diamonds in the rough—but they are still diamonds. They offer a stark reflection of our collective conscience, and more importantly, they demand that we look at it.
The real question is: Are we ready to stop just watching and start changing?
Because, until then, the kitchens will remain the same.
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