Whenever a film like Dhurandhar releases, the reaction follows a wearyingly predictable pattern. On one side, a segment of critics dismisses it as state-sponsored propaganda; on the other, enthusiasts embrace it as a long-overdue call to patriotism. Yet, to step into a crowded theatre in Delhi, Mumbai, or Lucknow is to witness a phenomenon that bypasses these ideological skirmishes. What we see is not an audience succumbing to a “message,” b ut a p ublic experiencing the profound catharsis of recognition.

For the person in the seat, this is not about politics, it is about a story that finally feels like their own. What truly unsettles the critics is not the film’s creative liberty, but its disconcerting proximity to the truth. For decades, the Indian narrative on national security was filtered through the lens of external observers or buried in a sterile silence. As Vladimir Lenin once famously remarked, “Of all the arts, for us the cinema is the most important.” For many Indians, the events portrayed in the film are not distant episodes, but lived moments that reshaped the course of the nation. The impact of Dhurandhar stems from its rootedness in the “living tissue” of our collective memory. The world it portrays is drawn from wounds that have not yet scarred over. In the shadowy silhouette of “Bade Sahab,” the audience recognizes the architecture of figures like Dawood Ibrahim, whose networks once held our cities hostage.

By weaving together terror financing and organized crime, the film provides a coherent map for those who lived through the trauma of the 1993 Bombay serial blasts and the corrosive flood of fake currency that once crippled states like Uttar Pradesh under the shadow of gangsters like Atiq Ahmed. There is a tendency to label any film that explores national grit as “propaganda,” and in some circles, there is an immediate knee-jerk reaction to label it as “anti-Muslim.” However, this ignores the deeper reality of resonation. When a film reflects the lived experiences of victims and the quiet victories of intelligence officers, it is not manufacturing a narrative, it is acknowledging one that already exists. The pushback from certain sections of society often has less to do with the film’s content and more to do with a refusal to accept a Naya Atmavishwas (new self-confidence) and Nayi Atmanirbharta (new self-reliance).

For decades, India’s response to crisis was one of restraint and hesitation. Dhurandhar encapsulates a “new template of response,” one that is resilient, proactive, and self-assured. Those who take issue with this movie are, in fact, highlighting their own discomfort with an India that is no longer content to be a perpetual victim. The problem lies in the psychology of the critic, not the resilience of the subject. This is, in many ways, a narrative war against terrorism. Terrorism, by its very nature, does not polarize its victims; a bomb does not ask for your political affiliation or your religion before it detonates. If the tragedy of terror is not polarized, our collective response to it should not be either. When we look at the global reception of such films, a glaring double standard emerges. The world has long applauded the “Top Gun” bravado of American cinema. From Zero Dark Thirty and Black Hawk Down to American Sniper and Lone Sur vivor, Hollywo o d has a long-standing tradition of releasing high-octane films following major military operations or wars to stir national pride and process collective trauma.

These films are celebrated globally as expressions of cultural confidence and “soft power.” Why, then, is Indian cinema subjected to a different yardstick? Our soft power is no longer just about the passive beauty of our heritage; it is becoming a deliberate, muscular articulation of our national journey. Just as Western cinema creates narratives to validate its national interest, India is now using the medium of film to define its own stance on the global stage. One of the film’s most powerful elements is how it portrays the actual face of Indian security, a face that is inherently pluralistic. We see this through characters like Jaskirat Singh Rangi and Shazia Bano. Rangi embodies the stoic, unwavering bravery that has long been a pillar of the Indian armed forces. Alongside him, the film briefly highlights figures like Shazia Bano, an undercover operative whose surgical precision and anonymity represent the silent service of many.

Their interactions serve as a reminder that the ramparts of Indian security are not manned by a single identity, but by a kaleidoscopic mosaic of faiths and backgrounds. Whether it is a Sikh officer or a Muslim operative, the film reaffirms that our survival is a collective endeavor. It reflects a secular reality where duty precedes identity, and where the fight against destabilization is a shared burden. Ultimately, the resonance of Dhurandhar lies in its ability to close the gap that has haunted Indian storytelling for decades.

It speaks to the everyday citizen who has grown up hearing about “incidents” and “threats” but rarely saw them presented with such coherence and agency. The debates surrounding the film are essential because they signal that India is no longer indifferent to how its story is told. For the person sitting in the darkened theatre, this is a moment of profound recognition. They are seeing the challenges they felt and the heroes they knew existed but rarely saw honoured on screen. At long last, the story finally belongs to them.

(The writers are, respectively, a spokesperson of the Bhartiya Janata Party, and a lawyer and public policy analyst.)

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