Dhurandhar and the Return of Truth: When Indian Cinema Chooses Reality Over Romantic Illusion

The remarkable public and critical reception of Dhurandhar marks a decisive moment in contemporary Indian cinema, one that signals the resurgence of realism as a legitimate, even necessary, mode of storytelling. In an industry long dominated by escapist romance, exaggerated heroism and politically convenient fantasies, the film’s success is not accidental. It reflects a growing audience appetite for narratives that neither dilute lived realities nor apologise for historical and geopolitical truths. In this sense, Dhurandhar is not merely a successful film. It is a cultural intervention.

Aditya Dhar’s directorial vision in Dhurandhar demonstrates an unambiguous commitment to grounded storytelling. The film refuses ornamental excess. It does not seek validation through spectacle or sentimental manipulation. Instead, it engages with conflict as it is experienced, structured by power, betrayal, sacrifice and institutional realities. Dhar treats intelligence operations, national security and political hostility not as abstract themes but as lived, morally complex terrains. This seriousness of purpose distinguishes Dhurandhar from a large body of mainstream Hindi cinema that has historically chosen comfort over candour.

The success of Dhurandhar also stands in sharp contrast to a long-standing cinematic narrative that has emerged from a particular ideological comfort zone. For decades, a section of Indian cinema has presented an excessively romanticised portrayal of India-Pakistan relations, often rooted in an idealistic, emotionally indulgent framework. This tendency, frequently aligned with left-liberal cultural narratives, has insisted on depicting conflict as a misunderstanding between otherwise benevolent systems. In such films, institutions are softened, motives are sanitised, and structural hostilities are reframed as personal tragedies waiting to be resolved by love, music or individual goodwill.

One of the most persistent tropes within this cinematic tradition has been the improbable portrayal of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence as either covertly humane or quietly helpful. The intelligence officer with a conscience, the handler who aids the Indian protagonist, the cross-border saviour motivated by abstract humanity rather than institutional allegiance, these figures have populated Bollywood screens with disturbing regularity. Such portrayals have little grounding in geopolitical reality. They function instead as narrative devices designed to preserve a sentimental fantasy of harmony, one that absolves power structures of accountability.

Dhurandhar decisively dismantles this illusion. Without resorting to caricature or jingoism, the film presents intelligence agencies and hostile states as they operate in reality. Calculated, strategic, ruthless when required, and fundamentally driven by national interest rather than emotional alignment. There is no attempt to manufacture moral equivalence or artificial reconciliation. The film acknowledges conflict as systemic, not accidental. In doing so, it restores narrative honesty to a genre long compromised by ideological hesitation.

What is particularly significant is that audiences have embraced this honesty. The success of Dhurandhar reveals that viewers are no longer satisfied with prettified lies. There is a clear fatigue with romantic delusion masquerading as moral sophistication. The contemporary Indian audience, shaped by access to information, lived political awareness and global exposure, recognises the difference between empathy and denial. They are willing to engage with brutal truths when those truths are presented with artistic integrity.

The chorus of criticism directed at Dhurandhar for daring to portray reality reveals far more about the discomfort of those who have long thrived on curated illusions than about the film. These critics, cloaked in the language of moral anxiety and aesthetic sensitivity, appear unsettled not by distortion but by clarity. Accustomed to a cinema that softens facts into metaphors and repackages conflict as sentimental misunderstanding, they find realism abrasive because it resists negotiation. Their objections are framed as concerns about balance, nuance and harmony, yet what they truly mourn is the collapse of a familiar narrative shelter where inconvenient truths were politely excluded. By branding realism as provocation, they attempt to preserve a fragile worldview that survives only through selective vision. The insistence that cinema must protect audiences from reality is presented as intellectual responsibility, though it functions more as ideological insulation. What Dhurandhar exposes, perhaps unintentionally, is the extent to which a segment of cultural criticism has mistaken emotional comfort for ethical depth. Their alarm is not that the film misrepresents, but that it represents at all. The unease stems from seeing institutions, motives and consequences placed plainly on screen, without the cushioning of romantic fantasy or performative neutrality. In denouncing the film, these critics reveal an aversion to accountability, an instinct to discredit the mirror rather than examine the reflection. Reality, when it refuses to be poeticised, becomes inconvenient. And inconvenience, in their lexicon, is swiftly condemned as irresponsibility.

Aditya Dhar deserves particular appreciation for trusting his audience. Dhurandhar does not explain itself defensively. It does not soften its positions to avoid controversy. Nor does it indulge in loud nationalism for easy applause. Its realism is measured, deliberate and anchored in narrative discipline. Dhar understands that realism does not require cruelty, but it does require clarity. His film neither demonises individuals nor sanitises institutions. It allows actions to speak, consequences to unfold, and realities to assert themselves.

This marks a meaningful departure from the prevailing Bollywood grammar of romantic delusion. For years, cinema has been complicit in replacing structural critique with emotional symbolism. Love across borders became a substitute for political understanding. Songs replaced analysis. Tears replaced accountability. Dhurandhar interrupts this pattern. It insists that realism is not pessimism. It is respect for truth.

The broader implication of the film’s success is cultural. It suggests that Indian cinema may finally be entering a phase in which realism is no longer treated as niche or risky. Where politically grounded narratives are not dismissed as unviable. Where filmmakers are encouraged to engage with history, conflict and national experience without filtering them through ideological comfort, this shift is not reactionary. It is corrective.

In appreciating Dhurandhar, one is also appreciating the audience that made its success possible. A cinema culture matures when its viewers demand coherence, courage and credibility. The film’s reception signals that such maturity is underway. It also places a responsibility on filmmakers. The era of romantic denial is losing its persuasive power. What replaces it must be honest, artistically rigorous and morally precise.

Dhurandhar stands as a reminder that realism in cinema is not about bleakness. It is about dignity. It is about refusing to lie when the truth is available. In choosing realism, Aditya Dhar has not narrowed cinema’s scope. He has expanded its moral and intellectual horizon. The success of Dhurandhar, therefore, represents more than a box office or critical milestone. It marks the quiet dawn of a cinema that is no longer afraid to see the world as it is, and to trust its audience to see it too.

Amit Mishra for Literature News