We briefed the moral-police jethu as a present-day descendant of the pompous busybodies the Kalighat patuas loved to deflate. He lunges in from the left, a folded indigo umbrella raised like a sword and a finger jabbing the air, spectacles slipping, pot-belly leading — all the bluster the old caricaturists used to give their hypocrites. The whole picture turns on a diagonal of outrage running into a pocket of calm: the young couple sit together on a low stool, the man with an arm around the woman, both looking back at the uncle with the faint boredom of people who have heard it all before. We kept the elder in muted greys so his rage has no glamour, and let the couple carry the only saturated colour — cobalt blue and brick red — so the eye lands on the targets of his fury and quietly takes their side. No banner, no slogan, no placard: the satire is the umbrella, the finger and the unbothered shrug.