"Dhurandhar: The Revenge" does not wait to be remembered; it arrives almost on the heels of its predecessor, released on March 19, 2026, just months after the first film’s December 2025 debut. The speed of its arrival feels less like creative urgency and more like calculated timing—cinema responding not to storytelling rhythm but to the emotional climate of its audience. Director Aditya Dhar, along with actor Yami Gautam, appears acutely aware of this moment and how to harness it.
At the centre is Ranveer Singh as Jaskirat Singh Rangi, a Sikh operative who assumes the identity of Hamza Ali Mazari to infiltrate Karachi’s underworld. The premise is undeniably ambitious, drawing from real-world echoes such as Operation Lyari, even as the film shields itself behind the standard disclaimer of fiction. Yet, in today’s media landscape, such disclaimers offer little separation when the storytelling itself deliberately blurs the line between reality and imagination.
The film’s most striking strength is also its most unsettling strategy: it grants fiction the authority of reality. References to intelligence agencies, criminal networks, narcotics trade, and terror financing are woven together with such familiarity that the narrative feels less invented and more “revealed.” But this is not realism—it is persuasion. By repurposing real events and figures into a cinematic revenge arc, the film dissolves the boundary between storytelling and suggestion, turning spectacle into a vehicle for shaping perception.
This blurring becomes more pronounced in the way the film constructs its antagonists. Muslim identities, Pakistan-linked networks, and certain internal groups are repeatedly framed within a vocabulary of suspicion, violence, and betrayal. Supporters may argue that the film merely reflects geopolitical realities, but cinema is never neutral in its framing. When such representations recur within a single narrative structure, they risk creating a cumulative effect—where fiction begins to imply a broader truth. The issue is not the depiction of criminals; it is the danger of generalisation quietly embedded within the storytelling.
Equally significant is the film’s approach to nationalism. "Dhurandhar" reduces the complexity of national identity into a rigid binary—loyalty versus betrayal. Militants, dissenters, NGOs, and ideological opponents are often grouped within a single spectrum of suspicion, flattening distinctions that exist in reality. In this world, the hero knows, the state acts, and doubt becomes synonymous with weakness. Patriotic slogans and retaliatory violence are not just dramatic tools; they function as signals, defining what acceptable nationalism should look like.
Amid this, Ranveer Singh’s performance becomes the film’s driving force. His intensity and physical commitment create a character large enough to carry the narrative’s contradictions. He is at once vulnerable and invincible, emotional yet relentless. The camera lingers on his endurance—his wounds, his physical strain—transforming the male body into a site of spectacle and identification. This charisma does more than entertain; it softens the film’s harder ideological edges, making them more palatable, even seductive. Violence becomes spectacle, and vulnerability becomes proof of moral strength.
However, the film’s handling of religious identity has also drawn criticism. Objections from sections of the Sikh community point to scenes involving sacred Gurbani in inappropriate contexts, as well as controversial promotional imagery. These concerns highlight a broader issue: a casual engagement with faith and symbolism in a film that relies heavily on both. In such a context, these are not minor oversights but telling misjudgments.
To reduce "Dhurandhar: The Revenge" to a simple debate of patriotism versus propaganda would be to overlook its more complex functioning. The film operates in a space where ideology is seamlessly embedded within spectacle, making it feel organic rather than imposed. It does not merely tell a story; it constructs an emotional framework—one in which the world appears sharply divided, threats seem unmistakable, and decisive power feels justified.
Real events such as the Kandahar hijacking, the 2001 Indian Parliament attack, and the 2008 Mumbai attacks are woven into this narrative fabric, alongside figures like Ajit Doval and Dawood Ibrahim. Even policy decisions such as Demonetisation in India 2016 are reframed within the film’s logic as strategic masterstrokes. In doing so, the film lends its fictional world the texture of evidence.
Ultimately, the disclaimers fade into irrelevance. What "Dhurandhar" achieves is not realism but what might be called “retaliatory plausibility”—a cinematic space where imagination borrows the authority of reality to heighten emotional impact. It is this persuasive blending, rather than its action or scale, that defines the film—and makes it as compelling as it is contentious.
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*Freelance content writer and editor based in Nagpur; co-founder, TruthScape
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