The resounding success of Dhurandhar is not merely a cinematic event; it is a cultural and political statement. It asserts, unapologetically, that India is no longer hesitant about telling its own story—one that acknowledges its capacity to penetrate hostile territory, dismantle terror networks, and expose states that nurture extremism under the guise of diplomacy. For decades, such narratives were either sanitised or silenced. Dhurandhar breaks that mould, and its box-office triumph reflects a public that is no longer interested in manufactured moral ambiguity. At its core, Dhurandhar reinforces a simple but powerful truth: India is capable of decisive action when its security, sovereignty, or people are threatened. The film’s unapologetic portrayal of intelligence operations and strategic retaliation unsettles a familiar ecosystem—political apologists, ideological gatekeepers, and a section of Bollywood that thrived on portraying Indian assertiveness as dangerous, while rationalising aggression from across the border as “context-driven.” It is telling that the loudest critics of Dhurandhar belong to the same ideological club that once dismissed The Kashmir Files and The Kerala Story as “propaganda.” Congress sympathisers like Kamru Choudhary do not object to poor filmmaking; they object to the exposure of inconvenient truths. Their anger is not cinematic—it is political. These films challenge the carefully curated narrative that downplayed Islamist violence, normalised minority extremism, and painted Hindu suffering as either exaggerated or deserved collateral. What unsettles this ecosystem most is that such films refuse to apologise for India’s civilisational instincts. Veteran diplomat Deepak Vora’s observation that India’s strategic resolve is inherited from its epics is not romantic nostalgia—it is historical continuity. When Hanuman entered Ravana’s Lanka, he did not seek validation from neutral observers; he sent a message. Dhurandhar operates in the same symbolic space: a declaration that silence should never be mistaken for weakness.
This message resonates far beyond cinema halls. In a subcontinent where instability is often weaponised against India, the film serves as a reminder that New Delhi’s restraint is strategic, not structural. Bangladesh’s disturbing episodes—where innocent Hindus are lynched or intimidated into silence—cannot be brushed aside as internal matters indefinitely. Dhurandhar subtly but firmly underscores that India watches, remembers, and retains the capacity to act when red lines are crossed. Deterrence, after all, is as much psychological as it is military. Equally revealing is Bollywood’s visible discomfort. An industry that once found poetic merit in demonising the Hindu faith and tradition now appears fractured. While one section has rightly condemned the lynching of Hindus in Bangladesh, another—usually hyper-vocal on global incidents involving their preferred causes—suddenly claims insecurity at home, even while dismissing targeted violence elsewhere as “isolated.” This selective outrage has eroded Bollywood’s moral credibility, and audiences are no longer fooled. The success of Dhurandhar signals a decisive shift. Indians are rejecting narratives that portray the majority as perpetual villains and the nation as morally obligated to absorb endless provocations. They want stories rooted in realism, resolve, and self-respect. They want a cinema that mirrors India’s evolving geopolitical posture—confident, strategic, and unafraid. Ultimately, Dhurandhar is not about aggression; it is about clarity. It affirms that India will not outsource its conscience, dilute its history, or apologise for protecting its people. For those invested in an India that remains eternally hesitant, apologetic, and fragmented, the film is understandably unsettling. For everyone else, it is a long-overdue assertion: India knows who it is—and what it is capable of.
