"Dhurandhar" is not a film that you simply watch and forget. It stays with you. It provokes thought. And, most importantly, it raises issues that many Indians have long felt but rarely dared to discuss openly.
At its core, the film tackles a sentiment that has existed for decades: that Pakistan's continued use of terrorism as state policy cannot be ignored or dismissed with diplomatic niceties or intellectual arguments. The desire to hold institutions like the ISI and the military establishment accountable and prevent further harm is a legitimate sentiment, not a fringe one.
Over time, a certain version of "secularism" took root – one that often meant avoiding uncomfortable discussions. Speaking plainly about terrorism, religious divisions, or historical grievances was quickly discouraged. This led to a kind of self-censorship, where expressing outrage was seen as inappropriate.
Whether it was the hesitation to address long-standing issues like Ayodhya, Kashi, or Krishna Janmabhoomi, or the discomfort with acknowledging targeted violence, the pattern was clear. Even statements from leaders like former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, which emphasized prioritizing the rights of the Muslim minority, reinforced a perception of selective priorities.
In this environment of hesitation, Pakistan found confidence. From cross-border terrorism to covert destabilization, its strategy remained consistent. India's tendency to respond cautiously – not just on the ground, but also in the narrative – also remained. There were always voices ready to provide context, explain away, or urge restraint, even when the provocation was undeniable.
"Dhurandhar" directly confronts this reality.
The film doesn't try to be neutral or balanced. Instead, it confronts a sentiment that has been building for years.
It also directly challenges the prevailing public discourse, one that often avoided uncomfortable truths. The same discourse that mobilized outrage in specific cases, such as those involving Afzal Guru and Yakub Memon, but remained silent when it came to victims of terrorism.
"Dhurandhar" is powerful because it refuses to sanitize this reality. It doesn't shy away from anger or brutality. Instead, it channels a long-held desire for accountability, clarity, and, yes, retribution.
This is particularly significant because Aditya Dhar's background as a Kashmiri Pandit is relevant. The experiences of his community since the late 1980s – marked by violence, fear, and eventual displacement – are often overlooked. For years, this story remained on the margins, acknowledged but not fully confronted.
Dhar's films, including "Uri: The Surgical Strike," "Article 370," and now "Dhurandhar," seem to be part of an effort to bring these narratives back into the mainstream. Not subtly, but directly. Critics have labeled this as propaganda.
However, this raises a valid question: when one set of narratives dominates for decades, it's considered "balance." When another perspective emerges – especially one that is blunt and uncomfortable – it's quickly dismissed.
Perhaps the real issue is not the film itself, but the fact that it refuses to stay within familiar boundaries.
"Dhurandhar" also reminds us of the legacy of R.N. Kao, the architect of India's external intelligence agency, the Research & Analysis Wing (RAW). Within a few years of its creation, it played a crucial role in the events leading to Bangladesh's liberation in 1971 – a moment when India combined strategy with resolve.
Islamabad always wanted revenge on the Kashmiri Pandits, and this was executed in the late 1980s when its terrorists targeted them, abducting, torturing, and killing many, including leaders, doctors, engineers, businessmen, teachers, government employees, judges, and lawyers, by labeling them as 'Indian Intelligence Bureau agents'.
While critics claim the movie is propaganda, those who have directly or indirectly suffered from terrorism know the truth. "Dhurandhar" reveals a truth that has been suppressed for decades, especially regarding terrorism in Punjab and Kashmir.
"Dhurandhar" doesn't shy away from the truth, and that's perhaps the point. It reflects a shift – especially among younger Indians – towards questioning older narratives and asking uncomfortable questions. Why were certain truths downplayed? Why were some tragedies pushed aside? And why was anger, even when justified, treated as something illegitimate?
Because anger, when it stems from repeated provocation and unresolved history, doesn't simply disappear. It builds.
And sometimes, it finds expression – not in policy papers or debates – but in cinema. "Dhurandhar" is that expression. And it showcases what a government and its system can achieve, provided the leadership is strong and clear in its thoughts and actions.