We remember Kaikeyi for the exile. But what if that decision was never about the throne? This is not a retelling. Just a different way of looking at it.
Swords clashed. Arrows tore through the air. Shouts rose and fell like waves. “Kaikeyi!”
King Dasaratha’s voice cut through the chaos. She turned. The battlefield came into focus. Yes. She was here. Beside him. Not as a queen but as a warrior. The daughter of Ashvapati, King of Kekaya, fighting alongside the King of Ayodhya against the asuras.
They rode together chariots side by side meeting arrows with arrows, steel with steel. Then a sudden shift. Dasaratha’s chariot lurched. The charioteer had fallen. Kaikeyi did not think. She moved. In one swift motion, she crossed the distance, seized the reins, and steadied the chariot.
The relief lasted only a heartbeat. A spear struck. The axle cracked. The chariot tilted. Kaikeyi let go. Not in panic. In decision. She leapt down, her hand closing around the embedded spear. With a single, decisive motion, she forced it into place…holding the broken axle together.
For a moment, the world narrowed. Noise. Dust. Blood. And her unyielding grip. It was not a repair. It was time. Enough for the chariot to hold. Enough for them to reach the outer fringes where another chariot waited.
Only then did she release.
“You were incredible,” Dasaratha said, his voice filled with awe. “You saved my life.”
He looked at her not as a king to his queen, but as a warrior to another. “I grant you two boons. Ask.”
Kaikeyi said nothing. Her gaze had returned to the battlefield. To the asuras. To the unending tide. This battle would end. The war would not. The asuras were going to keep rising. Keep coming. Soon. Very soon they would spread their evil wings. The war between the good and the evil…the dharma and the adharma was just around the corner. Waiting to happen.
*****
“My Queen… my Queen!” Manthara’s voice pulled her back.
Kaikeyi opened her eyes. Darkness still held the sky. Dawn was yet to break. In a few hours, Ram would be crowned king.
“Are you well?” Manthara asked, concern softening her voice. “Your sleep was restless.”
Kaikeyi did not answer immediately. Years had passed since that battlefield. Years in which she had been more than a warrior. She’d become a wife, queen… mother.
Her Ram. The thought steadied her.
But the memory did not fade. Especially not after she had heard of Sita’s swayamvar. Of Raavan. The king of asuras. A mayavi. One no god had defeated.
“Raavan must be stopped,” she said.
Manthara frowned. “He will not come near Ayodhya. And your Ram…”
“It is not about Ayodhya alone.” Kaikeyi’s voice was calm, but unyielding. “It is about the world beyond it.” Her gaze lifted toward the dark horizon. “After learning from both Vasishta and Viswamithra, Ram is unmatched. But once he is crowned king, he will not leave Ayodhya for an unprovoked war. His duty will root him here.” She turned to Manthara. “But if he steps out into the world…he will not ignore its suffering.”
Manthara hesitated. “There is no certainty…”
“I do not need certainty.” Kaikeyi’s voice softened but did not waver. “I know him. He does not turn away from injustice. If the path leads to war… he will walk it.”
“The king won’t agree to this!”
“He will if I remind him of his promise. If I make it about Bharat.”
Manthara shook her head. “Please think. You will be hated by everyone. Including your own son. Your Bharat. And the king…”
“Let them.” She paused for a heartbeat. “Ram will not.” Her voice rang with conviction.
*****
Dasaratha stood in the court, joy lighting his face. In a few hours, his Ram would be king. Peace, at last.
The soft sound of anklets reached him. Familiar. Beloved. “Kaika…” He turned, smiling.
Kaikeyi walked toward him. Tall. Steady. Certain. She stopped before him.
Forgive me… not for what I ask… but for what it will cost.
“My King…” A pause. “I want my boons.”
******
The Storyteller's Lens
For the scenes that linger and the words that echo
-
-
Yesterday was Rama Navami. It got me thinking… We talk about the war in the Ramayana. About Rama. About Raavan. But what if the real battle began much earlier? Not on the battlefield. Not with armies. But in a quiet garden…where a woman refused to move.
Hazy. Sita frowned. Why was everything hazy? She blinked, shook her head. Not haze. Clouds. Passing clouds. She was airborne. The sanyasi was no sanyasi. He was Raavan. The King of Lanka. Rama had told her about him.
Her heart clenched.
Jatayu. A warrior who had refused to back down even when Raavan severed his wing. Her jaw tightened.
Lakshman. He had pleaded with her. Again and again. Not to step out. Not to trust a stranger. She had refused…completely confident in her ability to defend herself. Not everyone fought fair. He would be drowning in guilt.
I’m sorry, my brother… this was not your fault.
The wind carried her silent words away.
“Ram…”
The name steadied her. She sat up, breath sharpening into purpose. She checked herself for injuries. None. Looked around. Measured distance. Height. Speed. Jumping? No. Not yet.
Ram! The name settled deeper within her now, not a cry, but an anchor.
Don’t break, she told him silently. I’m not afraid…A pause. …not much. A faint smile touched her lips. I know you will come. I will wait.
With that thought, she tilted her head up and looked at the said king. He was tall. About 7 feet if she had to estimate. Broad chest. Bulging arms with rippling muscles. She can’t take him down in a one-on-one fight, she decided. The silk dhoti, the gold jewellery studded with all those precious stones, …she ignored them all as she lifted her gaze further up. He was grinning, showing his sharp enormous teeth. Strong jaw. Her punch might bruise it but wouldn’t break it. She looked further up. Glittering black eyes met her chocolate brown ones. Awe, pleasure, triumph, anticipation, expectation…she read them all as clearly as if he was speaking out loud. As she continued to study him in silence, another emotion replaced them all – surprise. It wasn’t every day that someone…a woman at that…dared to meet his eyes and hold it for so long without shifting away in terror or timidity. Even his son Meghnath rarely held his gaze for so long.
Ram! I won’t break. Not now. Not ever. I promise. The sudden gust of wind carried her promise away leaving behind a gentle breeze. The airborne vehicle was slowing down, Sita realized. It was descending.
“Sita!” Raavan’s faintly abrasive voice reached her over the rustle of the wind. “Or should I call you Princess?” When she refused to respond, he nodded. “I think I will call you Janaka Nandini.” He gestured behind her, pointing his finger to the fast-approaching view. “Welcome to my Lanka, Janaka Nandini! You will not want for anything here. The forest, the hut, the sparce living…you can forget it all.” The words along with the way he brushed his hand off showed both confidence and arrogance. “From now on, you will live like the queen you’re born to be! In a palace made of gold, no less!” he declared, smug satisfaction radiating from every part of him.
Sita tilted her head to the side and took in the view. Gold. Gold everywhere. Made all the more glittering and glaring by the sunlight. There was neither surprise nor awe in those almond shaped eyes of hers that once again locked on Raavan. The derision there drew the first frown from the king.
The flat underbelly of the pushpak touched the land, settling down on the lush green grass. Sita reevaluated her options. Get down, or no? Solid ground would give her more options, she decided. Sita stepped down from the Pushpak, placing her first step on the land of the enemy. And walked ahead. Past him. The stillness that followed was louder than any command. Soldiers exchanged glances. Uncertain. Raavan noticed. He said nothing. But he saw.
She was like no other woman he’d ever encountered before and he’d encountered many. Way too many. Appearance wise, she was tall. Taller than an average female. Close to 6 feet if he had to estimate. She made no effort to either display or hide her femineity. Unlike most women, Janaka Nandini didn’t drape herself in a saree. She was dressed like she was going horse-riding. Or to a battle. Her hair was on a no-nonsense topknot held together by two complicated-looking clips. A thin strand of black beads around her neck and a bracelet made of rudraksh beads around her right wrist were the extent of her accessories. Even the angavastram that covered her upper body was tucked tight around her waist
Noticing her attention on the surroundings, Raavan’s grin widened. “These are the palace gardens. Named Ashoka vatika,” he gestured to the tall Ashoka trees surrounding them. “You can guess why.” Still no reaction. At least not the one he’d been waiting for. Her eyes remained intense, watchful. Dispassionate. His frown returned deeper. “Are you not impressed, Janaka Nandini?” he asked. Did she want something else? Whatever it was, he would give her.
Her steady steps took her to one of the huge, shady trees with its branches extending out like multiple lush, green arms. “I would hardly be impressed by someone who flaunts his wealth even before he introduces himself,” Sita countered. “All you told me is your name.”
Raavan chuckled. “A fair point.” He straightened. “Raavan. King of Lanka. Son of Kaikasi and Pulastya. Devotee of Shiva. Master of the Vedas. Undefeated by gods and mortals alike…” He stepped closer, voice lowering. “…and I must say, Janaka Nandini…your beauty is worthy of such a kingdom.”
Sita’s eyebrow arched. “A man who had to disguise himself and abduct a woman instead of facing an ordinary kshatriya prince…” Her gaze did not waver. “I do not see an undefeated warrior.” A pause. “I see a coward.”
The roar shook the ground. Raavan lunged. Stopped. His hand clenched mid-air. Breath harsh. Her stance did not change. “You dare?” he growled.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“You think your prince stands a chance against me?”
Sita moved. Slow. Measured. Studying the space. The exits. The guards. “You hide behind walls. Armies. Deception,” she said calmly. “What does one call such a man… if not a coward?”
Raavan’s entire frame trembled with fury. But he stepped back. He would not touch her. Not yet. “Ensure the princess wants for nothing,” he ordered sharply. “And she does not leave these grounds.”
****
Raavan waited. Until he felt calmer. Until he felt he’d given the princess enough time to realize that her life had irrevocably changed. For the better. And there was no going back for her. She belonged here now. In Lanka. With him. There were so many things he wanted to show her. He had ordered the best of the best set of rooms to be made ready for her, got a new chef brought all the way from Mithila and the dasis who would serve her were handpicked…one specialised in hair styles, another in different kinds of attires and another was an expert in picking the perfect matching jewellery and another one to help Janaka Nandini with whatever she needed. He huffed in impatience as his feet made their way to Ashok Vatika three days later. He had done all that and what did she do? Chose to live under a tree, procured another set of clothes similar to the one she’d been wearing, through one of the maids and lived on fruits and plain water.
“Greetings, Janaka Nandini,” he wished her, making sure both his tone and his demeanour remained cordial. “How are you doing today?”
Since the day of her arrival, Sita had started taking long walks in and around the garden. When she was not reading the books that were being brought to her on a daily basis, she took to scouting the area under the pretext of walking. When Raavan walked up to her, she made no effort to avoid the confrontation. “The great king of Lanka is done sulking, I suppose?” she drawled.
All the patience Raavan had been holding on to, began slipping away. “I was merely giving you time to settle down and come to your senses.” At his signal, servants rushed forward. A table. Ornate. Gold. Dishes. Covered. Aromatic. Carefully arranged.
Raavan sat. Gestured. “Lanka’s finest. Prepared for you. Sit.”
Sita did not move. Head tilted slightly. Studying him. “So,” she said lightly, “the undefeated warrior now seeks a woman’s attention. Why am I not surprised!”
One furious snarl followed by a wild swipe of his hand and all the dishes crashed and clattered to the floor. Kicking the chair so hard that it toppled and fell sideways, Raavan strode away without a backward glance. “You’re in my Lanka, Janaka Nandini,” he shouted. “And in Lanka you will stay. Your Ram would’ve given up on you by now. If he has not, he will, if he gets to know that he has to cross an ocean to come anywhere my kingdom.”
Sita stood there until Raavan’s words and footsteps faded into silence. Ram! I know you have not given up. I have not either.
****
Mandodari stood beside her husband watching the flames engulf their Lanka. Everything was on fire. Everything except the Ashok Vatika. Fire didn’t touch even the fringes of the garden. All because of one vaanar. Hanuman.
“Do you see what is happening, My Lord?” she asked.
Raavan’s reply was a grunt and a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m a mayavi, Mandodari. Everything will be as it was before you know it.”
“I’m not talking about the loss of property. The intention behind the fire is not destruction of infrastructure, my husband. It is the destruction of pride. A display of power. Please think,” she appealed, when Raavan began walking away from her. “One vaanar…a messenger of Ram has done all this. There is a whole army of them waiting to step onto the land of Lanka along with Ram himself.”
“None stand a chance with me, Mandodari!” Raavan shouted. “This is Raavan! Raavan! The one who lifted Kailash. The one who remains undefeated by any and all Gods…”
“How long has it been since you brought Sita? Think, O King! What kind of a person would inspire a woman to that level of confidence! Please listen to me. Send her back…”
“And accept defeat? To a mere prince? You think I’m a coward?” Sita’s derisive smile flashed before Raavan’s eyes. His angry growl was accompanied by rough thumping of his own chest. “This is Raavan, Mandodari! And Raavan does not accept defeat.”
Mandodari waited until Raavan left her rooms before summoning Vibhishan. Raavan’s younger brother. Her brother-in-law. “Yes bhabhi?”
“Vibhishan, what do you think should be done now?”
Vibhishan’s gentle eyes remained calm. They often reminded her of still, silent lake. “Brother is not going to send Sita ji back. He rejected the peace talks, insulted and tried to hurt the messenger. And bhabhi, you know what my brother is doing is wrong. Not just wrong, it is a crime.”
“Yes I know.”
“And I can no longer be a part of this crime. I’m walking away.”
Mandodari somehow wasn’t surprised by his decision. After a slight hesitation, he said almost tentatively, “You may come with me if you wish.”
Mandodari shook her head. “My place is with my husband.”
With a nod, he touched her feet in a gesture of respect and walked out of the room leaving behind a helpless silence.
****
Ram looked at the hairclip…the chudamani one more time. It had been one of his gifts to Sita during the early days of their marriage. They’d been about to go for their sword practice when he’d held her back and gave her the chudamani.
“A warrior must never be distracted. Not by pride. Not by hair. Not by anything.”
Lakshman saw his brother’s lips stretch into a small smile for the first time since the day his Sita bhabhi had been kidnapped.
“Lakshman!” Ram’s deep voice brought him out of his reverie.
“Yes bhai?” He stood up, alert, ready to do whatever his brother ordered.
“Your bhabhi has the battlefield ready for us. Call Hanuman and Sugreev. We go to Lanka.”
——x——
-
He wasn’t made to fight. He was built to finish.
Now moving on from Ranveer Singh becoming Jaskirat and Hamza, let’s talk about Dhurandhar: The Revenge – the film itself.
The Music
First…the music. Both the songs (few as they are) and the background score operate on a completely different level.
There’s a gang war unfolding on screen…the audience wincing at the gore and in parallel, feet tapping to the beat behind it. There’s an intense torture scene, and I’m wondering if Hamza is going to make it out alive…while my body is swaying to Ra Ra Rasputin.
Unbelievable!
And that final song paired with Jaskirat’s eyes carrying a flood of emotions had the entire theatre going quiet. People blinking. Swallowing.
He just stands there…watching his family. The family he left behind. The family he now desperately wants to reach out to. And realizes…They’ve moved on. That he cannot go back and disrupt that life again. That he belongs nowhere. Not as Jaskirat. Not as Hamza.
That quiet selflessness? That hits.
Jaskirat: The Origin
Which brings me back to the beginning. Jaskirat’s war is not about Pakistan. Not about terrorism. It’s local. Personal. Brutal. A village strongman. Political power. A farmer’s family destroyed. Father killed. Sister murdered. Another abused and locked away. Police refusing to act. Every door closed.
He is not choosing violence. He is pushed into it.
And it shows in those eyes. Desperation. Rage. Fear. Pain. All laid bare.
A Morally Complex recruitment
So when Sanyal and Bansal approach him, his first instinct is not loyalty. It’s distrust.
“You’re asking me to trust the same system that didn’t lift a finger?”
And that’s where the writing becomes interesting. They don’t convince him with nationalism. They reach for something deeper: his lineage and his desire to serve like his father and grandfather.
They don’t erase his past. They reframe his future.
From Transaction to Commitment
Even after joining, Jaskirat doesn’t become Hamza overnight.
His plan is simple:
Infiltrate. Pass information. Get out. Go back to his family.
That thought never leaves him. Until…
He sees what he cannot unsee. The scale. The depth. The damage.
Weapons. Drugs. Fake currency. Terror.
And that’s when the shift happens. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, decisive realization shared with Aalam.
That there is no going back. That this is now permanent.
Politics + Terror
The film handles the intersection of politics and terrorism with surprising control.
Hamza doesn’t just navigate it. He controls both sides of it
No wonder Sanyal says: “Mera babbar sher.”
Babbar sher indeed.
Uzair – The Real Masterstroke
What truly stands out is how Hamza plays Uzair.
Dhar does something very clever here.
He doesn’t write Uzair as:
- naïve
- or smart-but-outplayed
Instead, he changes Uzair’s state:
- Grief → loss of Rehman
- Anger → triggered and directed
- Adrenaline → unleashed in gang war
- Fear → consequences closing in
And at no point does Uzair feel like a puppet. Every decision feels like his.
But the environment? That is constructed by Hamza.
Most would call the gang war the turning point. It isn’t. The turning point is fear.
Because fear creates dependence. And a dependent Uzair is exactly what Hamza needs.
The Throne
So when Hamza finally walks up to the throne…it doesn’t feel like a twist. It feels inevitable. He removes his shirt. Walks forward. Sits. No six-pack. No stylization. No body display. Just…a man.
A very normal-looking, extremely fit man with chest hair and zero theatricality.
And yet the theatre erupts. Because by then, the authority is already established. The body doesn’t matter. The presence does.
A deliberate choice by the director and cinematographer and a fantastic break from the typical male lead mold.
Yalina
The scene with Yalina stands apart. It’s stark. Emotional. Unavoidable. For the first time, we see the lines blur for Hamza. He doesn’t just play a role here. He feels. Because he loves her not as Hamza, but as Jaskirat.
And for a moment…he cracks. Not loudly. Not dramatically. He breaks. He allows himself to feel. But not long enough to change. Or surrender.
Instead, he sits down. Cross-legged. Palms joined. Calm. No raised voice. No patriotic speech. No “me or my country” rhetoric. Just…truth.
On one side: love, pain, betrayal
On the other: love, pain… and a quiet appeal to understand
No performance. No manipulation. Just a man who knows he cannot undo what he has become. And a woman who realises that despite the truth, her love isn’t going to go away.
Violence: Chaos vs Precision
Another interesting contrast:
- The gang war → chaotic, raw, uncontrolled
- The Baloch vs Mujahideen sequence → precise, methodical
Same violence. Different intent.
Relentless Motion
This film reminded me of Kill Bill. Not in style—but in rhythm. Relentless forward motion. No lingering. No emotional pauses. Just progression.
Even the interval points of both parts leave Hamza (and the audience) on the edge. Literally.
Aalam’s Death
Aalam’s death might seem avoidable. But it works. Because unlike the other kills, this one isn’t planned. And layered into that moment is something deeper:
He killed his sister’s husband
His once best friendThat’s enough to disrupt even the sharpest mind. The hesitation and the stumbling makes sense.
The Masterstrokes
Three moments stand out:
1. Bade Saab scene
That brief flicker in Hamza’s eyes…shock, recognition and then control. Very similar to his reaction on 26/11 yet very different.“Ghoorta hai meri tarah… bahut door tak jaayega.
Smooth. Very smooth.
2. Major Iqbal (Arjun Rampal)
Consistency in character.
No fear. No pleading. No repentance.
Even in death only conviction. And the only crack in his armour – fury directed at himself – because the guy he trusted the most made a fool out of him.3. Jameel Jamali (Rakesh Bedi)
The googly. That constant “mera bachha”…
Turns out it was him saying, “abe mein tera baap hoon.”A reveal that lands with laughter and disbelief.
What Didn’t Work
A few things could have been tighter:
- Excessive use of swear words that were distracting in key scenes
- Training sequence split awkwardly (clearly for post-credits)
- One melodramatic kill with forced patriotic chant that felt unnecessary
- Ram Mandir reference that was completely out of place
Final Thought
At its core, this is a no-holds-barred film about what happens when a country’s patience runs out and it decides: ENOUGH. No more restraint. No more waiting. No more absorbing.
What follows is just…EXECUTION.
-
A man built, not born. And a performance that never breaks.
First and foremost… Ranveer Singh is something else.
He has gone beyond being an actor in this movie. He is a chameleon.
The first half hour shows him as Jaskirat in the year 2000 and there is absolutely no trace of Hamza there. It’s like he is another person. The military haircut explains the face looking different. But the rest…he changed everything – his modulation, his eyes, the way he walks, talks, stands…
Who the hell changes the way a person stands, for God’s sake?
And right after the flashback comes a scene with Aalam. There you see glimpses of both Jaskirat and Hamza. Not sure how he pulled that off, but I genuinely saw both shades. After that, except for the interval, it’s all Hamza through and through. Even during the fights, even during the chaos…he remains Hamza. And then, in the final scene…he becomes Jaskirat again.
I genuinely didn’t see Hamza in that moment.
Also, truly appreciate the fact that he didn’t go for the usual physical transformation route. No extreme bulking or toning like what we saw with Rana Daggubati and Prabhas in Baahubali. His face was made to look broader with the beard and that ridiculous amount of hair (which, honestly, women would kill for), and his body was made to look bulkier through costume design. Strip that away, and you see a lanky frame with slightly hollow cheeks.
Interesting that through the whole movie, they never let the dignity of a woman fall. Any woman.
Even during the flashback, things were said. Never shown. For a director who didn’t hesitate to show a head being bashed in or blown off, this wouldn’t have been a stretch. But no. That’s a line Dhar chose not to cross.
And that restraint shows.
Hamza taking over Lyari was shown almost in fast-forward mode. The film clearly chooses momentum over depth here. The gang wars, Uzair’s role, Hamza’s planning. Everything moves at a sharp pace. It works for the narrative, but you do feel the compression. But what lands beautifully is why Hamza stays close to Uzair and not Rehman.
“Bhai hai tu mera.”
That’s the line. That’s the emotion. That’s the hook. Uzair trusts that emotion. And that trust is exactly what Hamza builds and uses.
Another thing the film gets absolutely right is it never turns Hamza into a one-man army. This entire mission is not built as a solo act. And that’s what makes it believable. There’s Rizwan. There’s Aalam. There’s the Baloch army and their head. There are people working on the ground in India.
Hamza is at the center of it, yes. He is the mind, the strategist, the one pulling the strings on the Pakistan side. He is part of the action when needed.
But he is never alone.
Execution is always a team effort.
And on the other side, Sanyal and Bansal mirror that with their own planning and people. It’s not hero vs system.
It’s system vs system.
And that balance is what keeps the film grounded. Even in the end, when Hamza hands over the book to Rizwan with a quiet Jai Hind, it doesn’t feel like a climax. It feels like a handover.
Like the mission was never his alone to begin with.
Another thing the film gets right is it doesn’t pretend Jaskirat was born this way. Hamza is made.
And not just through physical training. We see the psychological conditioning. The medical awareness. The way information is layered into him methodically, deliberately. He doesn’t walk into Lyari as a know-it-all. He walks in prepared.
He doesn’t befriend Uzair because he’s instinctively sharp. He does it because he’s been taught where to look at emotional weak links, at personal equations, at the spaces people don’t guard.
He knows Rehman not because he has figured him out on the fly, but because he has been fed everything how Rehman became who he is, what feeds his ego, what triggers it.
Even the violence is not random. Every move feels chosen. Because not every opponent needs the same weapon.
That’s the difference between a man who fights…and a man who is built for it.
And then comes the most surprising choice of all – zero romance.
We see Yalina. We see her pregnancy. We see their son. All of it plays out in a song, intercut with Hamza’s rise as Lyari ka Baadshah.
And yet…you never miss the romance. Not once do you wonder if something is lacking.
Because the bond is there. Just not in your face.
It’s in:
- her subtle nudge in the crowd
- her quiet caution – Hamza, careful, there’s our kid at home
- his softened stance in front of her
- that hard, scanning gaze that softens for just a fraction of a second when it lands on her
- Their confrontation where he bows to her but refuses to surrender and she quietly says – you need to move quickly.
That shift…that one fleeting moment…That’s where the romance lives.
And that’s where Ranveer Singh goes to another level.
As for the plot…keeping the slightly rushed gang war aside, it all comes together extremely well. The surgical strike is mentioned but not dramatized. And honestly, that choice makes sense since we already have an entire film dedicated to that event. Here, it’s just a moment. A reaction.
And what a reaction. A brief flash of surprise…followed by satisfaction.
And then comes the unraveling. One small detail. One shift. That’s all it takes.
That’s the one moment where Jaskirat breaks through Hamza…when he opens the door for Aalam and tries to explain. And Aalam, with his rapid reasoning, forces him right back into character.
Behind all of this are the two men who created Hamza – Sanyal and Bansal.
R. Madhavan…take a bow.
From “abba nahi maanenge” in 3 Idiots to “tera baap bhi maanega” here…you’ve come a long way.
With the makeup, he looks less like himself and more like Ajit Doval. But it’s the performance that lands. The smug satisfaction, the pride in “mere babbar sher,” the absolute certainty when he says Hamza won’t crack. And that push when he meets Hamza – don’t hold back. Unleashing Hamza.
And then…Jameel Jamali.
Rakesh Bedi absolutely owns every scene.
That forced laugh. That fake sympathy. That constant “mera bachha” You know it’s fake. The person hearing it knows it’s fake. And yet…it works. Every single time.
That small correction “mera bachha…mera damaad hai” had me laughing, but also thinking…Good. Hamza is safe. Because we know what “mera bachha” usually leads to.
Four hours of runtime. Didn’t feel like it. Yes, a few trims could have helped but that’s an observation, not a complaint.
The final reveal? Earned claps. Whistles. The works.
And I know I’ll react the same way when I watch it again.
By the end…you’re not looking for the actor anymore. Because the man he became has already taken his place.
-
From romance to restraint — my changing equation with Shah Rukh Khan
I don’t enjoy most romances.
They need to have something more…conflict, context, consequence. Love alone, with random drama stitched around it, doesn’t work for me. Maybe that’s why my relationship with Shah Rukh Khan has always been… complicated.
I know what he represents. I know what he means to Hindi cinema. I understand why entire generations grew up believing in love because of him.
But films like Kuch Kuch Hota Hai never worked for me. In fact, I remember my WTF thought in the theatre the moment the “transformation” happened—the long hair, the sarees, the sudden shift into what we were expected to accept as love. It didn’t sit right with me then. It still doesn’t.
Even Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, iconic as it is, felt more constructed than lived-in for me. The emotional choices felt too convenient for something that should have carried more weight.
And yet…
Today, I find myself drawn to Shah Rukh Khan more than ever.
The Shift
Somewhere along the way, both of us changed.
The Shah Rukh Khan of the 90s and early 2000s thrived on emotional openness. His characters loved deeply, expressed freely, and wore their hearts on their sleeves. That was his strength. It was the audience’s connection to him.
But the Shah Rukh Khan of today operates very differently.
He doesn’t offer emotion easily anymore. He contains it.
Whether it’s Swades, Chak De India, or even his more recent commercial outings like Pathaan and Jawan (their plots and storylines notwithstanding), there is a noticeable shift in how he holds himself on screen. The emotion is still there. But it’s measured, controlled, almost withheld.
And strangely, that makes it more powerful.
The Intelligence Behind the Actor
What makes this evolution interesting is that it doesn’t feel accidental.
I see Shah Rukh Khan as an actor who is incredibly intelligent. Someone who understands not just performance, but positioning. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. He can laugh at himself, crack jokes about his own roles, and allow others to do the same without defensiveness. That kind of ease comes from clarity…of who he is and what he brings to the table.
He knows his limitations. And more importantly, he respects them.
He doesn’t venture into spaces where his skill set doesn’t extend. And after all these years, even directors seem to instinctively know what works for him and what doesn’t. Someone like Ashutosh Gowariker would choose him as Mohan in Swades, not Bhuvan in Lagaan. The alignment matters and he has built a career on understanding that alignment.
At the same time, he leans into what he does best.
His vulnerability has always been his strongest asset. He expresses emotion without hesitation or guardedness. Audiences respond to that instinctively. Even in areas where he isn’t naturally built for, like action, he adapts. He often adds a touch of humor, a certain lightness, which makes the performance feel more believable rather than forced.
And then there is something else. Something that often goes unspoken. A certain… chivalry.
I’ve rarely seen him disrespect women in his films, even in moments written for comedy. There is a consistent sense of care in how he engages with his female co-stars both on and off screen. He is measured in what he says, how he says it, and how he positions the women around him.
And that shows.
Chemistry, Not Repetition
One of the most fascinating aspects of his performances is how he recalibrates himself depending on who he is paired with.
With Preity Zinta, he could portray a flat, emotionally distant marriage in Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna and then turn around and embody unwavering devotion in Veer-Zaara.
With Rani Mukerji, the same actor could create intense, morally complex chemistry in Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna and yet share a completely different, almost protective / paternal dynamic in Veer-Zaara.
With Kajol, the chemistry has always felt instinctive…effortless, almost like a shared rhythm.
The only pairing where I personally felt a slight disconnect was with Priyanka Chopra. The chemistry existed, but it felt… contained. Perhaps that was a creative choice. Or perhaps something else. It’s hard to say.
But that’s the thing with Shah Rukh Khan—when he holds back, you can feel that too.
From Love to Purpose
Earlier, love defined his characters. Now, purpose does.
That’s the biggest evolution I see. Not just in him, but in how his characters exist within a story.
He is no longer the man asking, “Will you love me?”
He is the man asking, “Will you stand with me?”That difference matters.
Because love, in his earlier films, was often the destination. Now, it feels like a layer…something that exists within a larger narrative of responsibility, conflict, and consequence.
And that’s the kind of storytelling I connect with.
Why This Version Works For Me
I’ve realized that I don’t reject romance. I reject romance without weight.
I need relationships to emerge from friction—through choices, mistakes, and consequences. I need the characters to carry something beyond their love story.
That’s why a film like Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani works for me. The romance isn’t floating on its own. It’s rooted in family dynamics, ideology, and identity.
And that’s exactly where Shah Rukh Khan seems to have arrived today.
He’s no longer trying to recreate the lover boy. He’s stepping into roles where age, experience, and emotional restraint become strengths.
Even in action-heavy films, where the plots may be exaggerated, he brings a certain weight to the character…a sense that this man has lived, lost, and chosen his battles carefully.
Full Circle
Maybe Shah Rukh Khan didn’t change. Maybe I did.
Maybe I just grew into a version of him that I couldn’t see earlier.
Or maybe…
He stopped trying to be the man everyone fell in love with and became someone far more interesting.
And somewhere along the way, I started paying attention.
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The quiet rebellion against possessive love.
There are films that fail because they are poorly made.
And then there are films that stumble because they refuse to behave the way audiences expect them to.Dear Comrade belongs to the second category.
When it released, many walked in expecting the return of the “angry young man.” The trailer promised intensity — screaming, breaking things, student politics, heartbreak, confrontation. After Arjun Reddy and Geetha Govindam, audiences were primed for another extreme.
So did I to be honest. But somewhere in the middle of watching it, I realized this isn’t that movie.
And the moment it changed for me was simple.
Lily tells Bobby she hasn’t been able to focus on cricket because she’s thinking about him all the time. His first reaction is light. He laughs it off. Then he stops. Gently touches her arm. Looks at her and says:
“The day I come between you and cricket will be the day I walk away from you.”
I don’t know about Lily. But I fell for Bobby right there.
Not because he was intense. Not because he was brooding. Not because he loved her deeply.
But because he refused to shrink her dream to make himself bigger. And I think that’s the moment…the scene where the film quietly rewrote mainstream romance.
Love is not possession. Love is not obsession. Love is not the merging of identity. Love is alignment.
Bobby doesn’t want to be her world. He wants her world to remain intact even if it means stepping aside.
And later, towards the end, when Lily suggests marriage, Bobby doesn’t grab the moment as victory. He doesn’t ask if he’s forgiven. He doesn’t celebrate reunion.
He asks:
“Why are you talking about marriage when your dream is cricket and reaching nationals?”
Not because he doesn’t love her. But because he meant what he said earlier. He will not stand between her and cricket.
That consistency is rare.
In mainstream cinema, transformation is often loud. It comes with speeches and dramatic declarations. Bobby’s change is shown, not announced. He doesn’t demand recognition for it.
He simply holds the line.
Why the Film Didn’t Explode at the Box Office
The audience didn’t reject Dear Comrade out of hostility. They simply couldn’t connect with what it was actually doing.
The trailer sold volatility. The film delivered introspection.
The marketing suggested: Angry hero returns.
The story explored: Angry hero learns restraint.
Mass Telugu cinema often rewards elevation…cathartic revenge, visible dominance, triumphant reunion. And filmmakers often seek safety. After all, crores are invested, and money demands return. Choosing a narrative that contradicts mass expectations is, in a way, risky. It narrows the audience.
But some films are not chasing a weekend high. They are building long-term muscle.
In another version of this film — the safer one — Bobby would have beaten the coach black and blue, delivered a roaring speech, rallied the women, and reunited with Lily in triumphant glory.
That version would have worked. That version would have guaranteed applause. But Dear Comrade denies those easy payoffs.
Instead, we get Bobby standing outside while Lily fights her battle. And that “doing nothing” is what unsettled people.
We are used to clapping for men who conquer. We are not used to celebrating men who step aside.
We are used to clapping for men who protect women. We are not used to celebrating a man who tells the woman not to become a coward. To stand and face her demons.
Maybe Dear Comrade didn’t fail because it was weak. Maybe it stumbled because it refused to flatter us.
We expected elevation. It offered evolution.
We expected a saviour. It gave us a man learning restraint.
We expected adrenaline. It offered discipline.
What makes Dear Comrade powerful is that it refuses to take the easy route of declaring anger the enemy. The story doesn’t ask Bobby to become a calm, agreeable man, nor does it ask Lily to remain silent and endure. Instead, it forces both of them to confront their extremes.
Bobby learns that anger without direction destroys everything in its path. Lily learns that silence in the face of injustice only allows that injustice to grow. Somewhere between the two lies the real lesson the film quietly builds toward: anger itself isn’t the problem — what matters is where it is aimed, and why.
And perhaps it didn’t create theatre whistles. But it stayed. For me, at least.
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Midway through the first episode of Mrs Deshpande I started laughing.
Not because the subject was funny, but because the writing was careless. Procedural nonsense, genre confusion, characters behaving like plot furniture — the usual things that make a supposed thriller accidentally comic.
And then, somewhere along the way, I stopped laughing.
Because the problem was no longer incompetence. It was something quieter, and worse. It was a refusal to think through the consequences of what the story was claiming.
This essay reflects on my response to the JioHotstar series Mrs Deshpande…not as a review, but more as a study in storytelling choices.
This is not one story. It is four incompatible stories stitched together.
When reduced to plot, the series wants to be:
- a child abuse and repressed memory trauma story
- a vigilante justice story
- a copycat killer / idolization story
- a family melodrama about mother, son, and generational reckoning
Each of these could work on its own. Together, they cancel each other out because they require opposite psychological rules.
The plot asks us to believe things that are internally contradictory. You cannot simultaneously write deeply repressed trauma and high-functioning vigilante selectivity. A vigilante requires awareness, intent, and ideological clarity. Repression requires fragmentation, avoidance, and dissociation. The story wants both at the same time.
And then there’s the copycat killer track. A thriller dies a quick death when the killer and the copycat emotionally validate each other. That is exactly what happens here.
Tejas, the investigating officer, is repeatedly described as righteous, conflicted, and duty-bound. But what we see on screen tells a different story. He has conflicts of interest at every stage, assaults suspects, withholds information from his team, and contemplates extrajudicial killing. This isn’t a moral conflict. It reads as incompetence and emotional instability.
The grandfather arc fares no better. It offers closure without consequence…a convenient end that avoids moral complexity rather than confronting it.
Why the early laughter felt justified
At first, the show felt like a thriller assembled from spare parts.
Twenty-five years in prison and not a single grey hair. Flawless makeup intact after three days of third-degree interrogation, complete with an artistically placed trickle of blood. Cops going solo when backup is offered. Arrests happening in pubs with the casualness of ordering a drink. Prison guards being fed food that conveniently puts them to sleep so the prisoner can step out for a stroll and get acquainted with her daughter-in-law.
These things were ridiculous but harmless.
Bad craft can be laughed at.Where the laughter became uneasy
As the story unfolded, the laughter began to feel misplaced. Because the mess wasn’t limited to plot mechanics anymore.
The writing started leaning on incest, trauma, and abuse. Not with care, but as convenient explanations. Murder in self-defence becomes a trigger not for psychological collapse, but for the protagonist to turn into a vigilante killer. There is no exploration of how she makes these choices, how she lives with them, or what they cost her.
This is where comedy stops being harmless.
The psychological lie
The story asks us to believe that a woman who suffered repeated abuse by her father could repress it so completely that marriage, intimacy, childbirth, and motherhood left no trace until a psychiatrist conveniently unlocked memory decades later.
This isn’t complexity. It’s avoidance. Trauma doesn’t work like a light switch, and repression doesn’t politely step aside when the plot needs clarity.
The mother problem
The moment the story establishes her as a loving mother, it locks itself into a truth it never honours.
A mother does not remain emotionally intact after discovering that her child was raised by the man who abused her. She does not calmly process that information. She does not postpone it. She does not philosophise around it.
Maternal fear is not measured. It is feral.
Yet there is not even a mention of it not in her words, not in her thoughts. She never asks her son how his childhood was. Whether he was happy. Whether he felt safe.
That isn’t detachment. It’s a fundamental misreading of motherhood.
If the story wanted her to be a detached vigilante, it should have committed to that. If it wanted her to be a mother who loves her son above all else, it should have honoured the implications. Mixing the two results is confusing and…jarring.
Some stories simply shouldn’t be touched if the writers don’t know how to handle the weight they carry.
Why this isn’t “bad writing”
This isn’t bad writing. Bad writing tries and fails.
This is lazy writing. Writing that stops interrogating itself once the outline works. Writing that relies on actors, background score (as mediocre as it is), and sentiment to carry ideas it hasn’t fully thought through. Writing that borrows the language of trauma, justice, and motherhood without understanding what those words demand of a story.
I started laughing because the show was clumsy.
I stopped because it was careless.
Stories can survive incompetence. They cannot survive dishonesty. Especially when they use the language of trauma, motherhood, and justice without respecting its weight.
Some material demands thought before spectacle.
This story chose speed over responsibility.
- a child abuse and repressed memory trauma story
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Tracing a reaction from instinct to inquiry
I’ll admit it upfront that my first reaction to A.R. Rahman’s recent comments was not calm, measured, or analytical. It was a growl.
Partly because the words were amplified and dramatized (thank you, prime-time television), and partly because I have a very instinctive response when sweeping conclusions are drawn about my country. Not because I think India is flawless. Far from it. But because it is mine. I accept it in its messiness, contradictions, and complexity, the way one accepts family.
After the growling, the scowling, and a few internal WTFs, I did what I usually do when something doesn’t sit right: I paused and asked myself why this comment bothered me so much.
And more importantly…what question led him there in the first place?
The communal angle and why it didn’t add up for me
Rahman referred, even tentatively, to the possibility that reduced work opportunities might have something to do with a “communal” climate. That word even when used cautiously carries weight in today’s India.
But here’s where I struggled with the logic.
If the Hindi film industry were fundamentally communal, would the three Khans still occupy the cultural space they do? Would Shah Rukh Khan, quite literally called Baadshah by popular consensus, continue to be celebrated across generations? Would Muslim actors, lyricists, directors, and technicians remain so deeply embedded in the industry’s creative spine?
Bollywood has always been ruthless, yes. Competitive, absolutely. But ideological gatekeeping? That argument feels weak when placed against lived reality.
A harder, more uncomfortable possibility
What felt more plausible to me was something far less political and far more human.
Music evolves. Audiences evolve. What felt revolutionary in the 90s and early 2000s does not automatically translate to today’s listening habits. Beats have changed. Production styles have shifted. Singers, platforms, and consumption patterns are entirely different.
In an industry that moves at breakneck speed, even legends are required to adapt continuously or risk being edged out, not out of malice, but momentum. That isn’t disrespect. It’s the nature of creative ecosystems.
The role of distance
Rahman has never been an industry socializer. He doesn’t frequent award circuits, talent shows, or networking spaces unless directly involved. There’s a quiet dignity in that. A commitment to privacy and inner life.
But there’s also a cost.
Those spaces aren’t just about socializing. They are informal listening rooms where artists absorb what’s changing, what’s resonating, what’s falling away. Distance protects integrity, but it can also slow responsiveness.
Staying untouched by noise sometimes means missing subtle shifts.
When legacy becomes the weight
Rahman didn’t just succeed. He reshaped the soundscape. I still remember hearing Roja for the first time and thinking, Who is this man and where was he hiding?
There was a time when films waited for his dates. When his music didn’t just complement cinema…it defined it.
That level of influence is intoxicating. And fading from that peak not abruptly, but gradually is a particular kind of pain. Not failure. Not rejection. Just…being needed a little less than before.
That kind of transition is incredibly hard for any artist to process.
Why the communal framing felt unnecessary
When personal pain meets public explanation, the mind sometimes reaches outward for meaning. Not out of malice but more as a self-preservation.
But invoking “communal” as a lens for artistic relevance felt like an overreach to me. Especially when history shows otherwise.
After all, the same audience embraced Pal Pal Hai Bhaari from Swades...a song steeped in Hindu devotion, composed by Rahman, written by Javed Akhtar, performed by Shah Rukh Khan. It was noticed, respected, and deeply appreciated.
That context matters.
Where I landed
This wasn’t about defending India. My country doesn’t need defending from one comment, however amplified.
This was about tracing my own reaction from instinct to inquiry.
Sometimes, discomfort isn’t about offence. It’s about inconsistency. About a conclusion that feels too easy for a far more complex reality. And sometimes, the most honest response isn’t to shout back but to think quietly, clearly, and without haste.
That’s all this is.
Just a thought. And my response after that thought.
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A life lived beyond the verdict
Haq isn’t about a verdict or a judgment. It’s about the cost of survival, and the woman who carried it.
Yami Gautam as Shazia Bano doesn’t just anchor the film; she is the film.
What struck me most was how Shazia’s journey is portrayed not as a dramatic transformation, but as a slow, painful transition. There is no single moment that changes her. Instead, there is the gradual erosion of love, dignity, and security. The ache of sensing distance in a marriage before understanding it. The confusion when affection alternates with neglect. The disbelief and heartbreak when her husband brings home a second wife and calmly expects her to shift from being his wife to his first wife.
Her strength doesn’t arrive overnight or in response to one incident. It accumulates through exhaustion, humiliation, and survival. And that is what makes Yami Gautam’s performance so compelling. Her Shazia is not loud, not performative, not heroic in the conventional sense. She is resilient because she has no choice.
One of the film’s smartest decisions is how little time it spends inside courtrooms. This is not a legal thriller, and it doesn’t pretend to be one. The case itself is open and shut. There is no debate…not constitutionally, not legally, not even religiously about a divorced woman’s right to alimony. A husband who divorces his wife is obligated to provide for her.
So the film understands that the real battle is not inside the courtroom.
It is in the long, hostile path Shazia must walk to reach it.
Outside the court is where her life truly unravels and is rebuilt. Where society ostracizes, taunts, and judges her with far more cruelty than any judge ever could. Where she raises her children amid scarcity, stigma, and isolation. Where she draws strength from her father and pushes forward even when dignity itself feels like a luxury. That is where her story lives and that is where the film is at its strongest.
Where Haq feels slightly imbalanced is in the rest of its narration.
Shazia’s inner world is rendered with clarity and emotional depth, but the people and systems opposing her remain largely opaque. Her husband, in particular, is shown through actions rather than thought. We see him as a loving husband once, a tired man later, someone who remarries without hesitation, refuses alimony, and uses religion and scripture as a shield for every decision he makes. We also see his hurt when his children reject him but without any insight into what he expected after abandoning them emotionally and materially for years.
The problem isn’t that the film doesn’t justify him. It’s that it doesn’t interrogate him.
When the thoughts behind such actions aren’t explored, the cruelty feels oddly hollow. Not because it lacks impact, but because it lacks context. These aren’t random acts by a villain; they are products of belief systems, entitlement, and social sanction. And belief systems are most unsettling when they are fully exposed.
That said, this imbalance does not weaken Shazia’s story. Her arc is complete. Grounded. Devastatingly clear.
In the end, the movie isn’t remembered for the judgment it delivers, but for the life that had to be endured to deserve it.
And in telling that story, Yami Gautam delivers a performance of relentless power.
Haq is not about winning a case. It’s about enduring a life.
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Reflections on Sita Ramam
I avoid tragedies. I always have. I can read anything, watch anything…except stories that end in loss. And yet, Sita Ramam made me sit through its ending not once, not twice, but three times.
The narrative choice itself is audacious. The story of Ram and Sita isn’t handed to us—it’s assembled, fragment by fragment, through memory, testimony, and absence. Afreen’s reluctant journey becomes our entry point. A girl from Pakistan…the granddaughter of Major Abu Tariq…with resentment and anger in her heart comes to India in search of Sita with extreme reluctance. For her, it is a useless chore thrust upon her by her grandfather…one she must complete only if she wants access to his money. And that is to deliver a letter written by Lieutenant Ram to Sita. Afreen along with Balaji, begins her journey to find Sita. Every person they meet gives them a piece of the past.
On paper, this structure should fracture the film. In execution, it does the opposite. Because Ram doesn’t arrive as a flashback. He emerges. Each person Afreen and Balaji meet adds a brushstroke, until suddenly there he is! Fully alive, breathing, smiling, standing quietly in the snow.
Sita Ramam gives us one of the gentlest male protagonists modern Indian cinema has seen. Ram is not written to impress or designed to dominate the frame. He doesn’t perform masculinity…simply inhabits integrity. A man with no family who smiles when he says it. A soldier who looks for ways to avoid bloodshed, not because he fears death but because he values life. A man who answers letters all night, not out of duty, but because being claimed even by strangers fills an ache he didn’t know how to name.
That bemused frown when he reads the first letter from “his wife”? That’s not confusion. That’s wonder. He falls in love without entitlement. He doesn’t know her face. He doesn’t know her status. He doesn’t even know if she’s real. Yet when he finds her, he steps back. Calls her Sita Garu. Holding space instead of hands. Inviting, never pushing.
Any other actor might have tipped Ram into naïveté or sentimentality. But Dulquer Salmaan plays him with grounded grace. This Ram is emotionally adult without being jaded, tender without being fragile. It feels less like watching a man fall in love and more like watching a man learn how to deserve it..
Sita might have fallen for him first. But it was Ram who fell harder.
Sita / Noorjahan. Mrunal Thakur doesn’t just play a princess; she plays a woman standing at the fault line between duty and desire. Her tragedy isn’t privilege. It is a constraint. Every smile she gives Ram carries a question behind it. Every step toward him is also a step away from the life scripted for her. What makes Sita unforgettable isn’t her sacrifice. It’s who she sacrifices for. Towards the end, as she is walking away…shedding the role of a princess, her brother asks her – do you know what you are losing for whom? She replies – you wouldn’t say it if you knew the kind of person I’m doing it for.
She lies to protect him. And maybe a part of her treasured the fact that he loved her as herself. Not her title or privilege. Just her. Sita. The dance teacher who taught a princess. And her attempt to walk away from him was to save him from a future where he would always be less than her title. And when she chooses to become Sita for Ram…it isn’t romantic escapism. It’s a renunciation.
Afreen / Waheeda. She is the skeptic who learns to believe. Her arc is the soul of the framing device. She starts as cynicism incarnate. Raised in inherited anger, taught that identity must always have an enemy.
And then Ram dismantles that worldview without ever meeting her. Her transformation is quiet. Incremental. Earned. From suspicion to disbelief to reluctant admiration to desperate hope. By the time she wants that letter delivered more than she wants closure for herself, by the time she hugs Sita and whispers her question in a tremulous voice – is Ram alive? we understand: Ram didn’t just love Sita. He restored faith. And Rashmika Mandanna plays this shift beautifully—never forcing the emotion, letting the cracks appear naturally.
Sita Ramam does that thing very few love stories dare to attempt and even fewer succeed at. It doesn’t seduce you into love. It envelops you in it. Quietly. Patiently. Almost politely. And before you know it, you’re surrounded…breathing it in, believing in it, aching with it.
What do you even call something like that?
It isn’t romance in the conventional sense. It isn’t longing. It isn’t even tragedy, though tragedy claims it in the end.
It’s devotion. Untainted, unclaimed, unconsummated. Love that exists before touch and survives without it. Not a “be mine.” But “let me be part of your world.” And perhaps that’s why the tragedy doesn’t feel cruel. Because Ram, even in loss, wins.
That’s not just love. That’s dasoham!
The Storyteller's Lens 