It is only the eighth day, and Dhurandhar has already crossed ₹300 crore at the box office, unmistakably declaring itself a blockbuster. But its success is not merely numerical. It is cultural, emotional, and ideological. The film’s sharp craft, taut editing, and narrative conviction have resonated deeply with audiences in India and across the diaspora, proving that cinema rooted in conviction still has the power to move millions.
Director Aditya Dhar’s command over the material is remarkable. With a formidable ensemble—Akshaye Khanna, R. Madhavan, Ranveer Singh, Arjun Rampal, Sanjay Dutt, and the welcome return of Rakesh Bedi with a chirpy Sara Arjun—Dhar weaves a gripping, high-stakes narrative that balances intelligence warfare with emotional gravity. The film’s editing deserves special mention: crisp, unsentimental, and relentless, it mirrors the moral urgency of the story itself. Dhurandhar does not linger for applause; it advances with purpose.
I watched Dhurandhar, and I would love to see more such films in the coming days—films that dare to confront uncomfortable truths rather than decorate them. The film feels like a cultural “surgical strike,” unapologetically aligning Congress-era political inertia, Pakistan’s state machinery, and ISI-type forces as interlinked contributors to India’s prolonged suffering. This is not a film designed to appease left-liberal cultural sensibilities. On the contrary, it unsettles them—exposing blind spots, challenging long-held narratives, and leaving behind a bruising discomfort.
The story contrasts a humiliating past—where Pakistani characters mock Indian leadership for its inaction after national traumas such as 26/11 and the IC-814 Kandahar hijacking—with a present and future shaped by resolve. “Operation Dhurandhar” unfolds as a multi-phase covert offensive, penetrating Karachi’s underworld, dismantling the Lyari gang network, and tearing apart terror infrastructure from within. The shift from silence to retaliation is stark and deliberate.
A special mention must be made of Akshaye Khanna, who completely steals the show. As Rehman Dakait, inspired by the real-life figure Sardar Abdul Rehman Baloch, Khanna delivers a performance that is quietly devastating and thunderously effective. In a film driven by geopolitics and covert warfare, he becomes the still axis around which the narrative turns. His restraint is his weapon. His silences speak louder than gunfire. With razor-sharp dialogue delivery and an unnerving stillness, he elevates every scene he inhabits.
Khanna projects a rare fusion of intelligence and menace—an operative who thinks faster than he speaks and sees deeper than he reveals. His eyes carry the story: the flicker of doubt, the steel of conviction, the exhaustion of a man who has lived too long in the shadows.
One line that rings out with disturbing clarity: “Hindusthan’s first enemy is often its own people; Pakistan comes only second.” The ISI chief’s chilling doctrine— “If you cannot defeat India, bleed India with a thousand cuts”—echoes the unresolved humiliation of 1971, a defeat Pakistan has never truly reconciled with. The film suggests how that resentment metastasized into proxy wars, infiltration, and the planting of sympathisers across Indian society—Bollywood, politics, academia, business, and elite institutions.
Dhurandhar also shines a harsh light on the fake-currency ecosystem. India has paid dearly for bureaucratic compromises and hawala-driven sabotage. Investigative agencies, including the NIA, have repeatedly confirmed Pakistan’s role—particularly the ISI’s—in pushing high-quality counterfeit Indian currency. Forensic evidence presented to Parliament has linked seized FICN batches to Pakistani legal tender and networks run by D-Company and Pakistan-based terror outfits.
The CBI case against former finance secretary Arvind Mayaram, accused of granting questionable extensions to De La Rue despite security red flags, deepens this troubling narrative. His reported admission of procedural lapses and the ongoing trial underscore the extent of institutional compromise.
Ultimately, Dhurandhar lays bare the cost of decades of appeasement—years when silence replaced action, and caution eroded sovereignty. That cost was paid in civilian lives, strategic losses, and national dignity. The film asserts that India was never truly free until she chose to walk into the homes of her enemies and declare: This new India does not flinch. She meets your gaze. She fights back.
Above all, Dhurandhar is a tribute to the unsung, unknown sons of Bharat—the silent warriors of the intelligence world. As I watched the film, my thoughts drifted repeatedly to those nameless figures whose sacrifices can never be publicly acknowledged. Espionage is a harsher life than most civilians can imagine. We debate, scroll, and sleep peacefully because others live and die in shadows. Cinema may give us the thrill—but it rarely captures the lifelong pain borne by the families left behind.
#Dhurandhar comes close.
Jai Bharat.
