The Storyteller's Lens

When restraint becomes the most unsettling form of dominance.

Everyone is talking about Akshaye Khanna. And rightly so.

Rehman Dakait is a performance you can’t ignore — volatile, wounded, theatrical, terrifying in its emotional nakedness. The tremors in his body when he sees his son’s corpse, the indulgent laughter during the weapons trial, the smug pride when he steps into the political arena — Akshaye plays him like a man whose inner chaos spills outward without restraint.

It’s a performance that announces itself. It demands applause. And it earns it.

But while the noise around Rehman is deserved, I found myself far more unsettled by someone else entirely.

Hamza.

Or rather — the man who used to be Jaskirat Singh Rangi.

The Power of Being Nobody

Hamza doesn’t enter the story as a force. He enters as nothing.

A sidekick. One among many. No authority. No dominance. No obvious intelligence that threatens the hierarchy.

And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

In a world filled with loud men, Hamza survives by being forgettable.
By blending. By listening more than he speaks. By absorbing without reacting.

For an undercover operative, this isn’t strategy — it’s survival.

And for an actor like Ranveer Singh, this is counter-instinctive performance.

He does not demand attention. He does not “perform intelligence.” He does not assert power.

He withholds.

Leading Without Being Seen

One of the most fascinating dynamics in Dhurandhar is this – Rehman appears to be making the decisions — but Hamza is often the one gently steering him toward them.

Not through argument. Not through dominance. But through suggestion. Alignment. Silence.

This is the most dangerous kind of influence — when the other man believes the thought was his own.

Rehman is the visible storm. Hamza is the unseen current underneath it.

Except for that one moment — the moment Hamza is blindsided — his control is so seamless it looks accidental. And that’s the point. A good undercover agent doesn’t feel like a mastermind. He feels inevitable.

The Cost of Erasure

We often clap for the final strike. We rarely acknowledge the slow death that comes before it.

Every smile Hamza offers is a lie. Every laugh is self-betrayal. Every bond is strategic rot.

Ranveer plays this with extraordinary restraint. Those pale brown eyes reveal nothing he doesn’t permit — not affection, not disgust, not even clarity about whether Yalina was ever truly loved or always positioned.

And that ambiguity is the point. No clean emotions. Only controlled ones. 

Why the Silence Terrified Me

Rehman’s rage is scary because it’s explosive. Predictable in its unpredictability.

Hamza’s silence is terrifying because it is intentional. He doesn’t erupt. He accumulates.

And when he finally cracks — that one moment of shock, rage, helpless agony — it isn’t catharsis. It’s confirmation.

From that moment on, there is no hesitation. No doubt. No moral debate.

Rehman will die.

Not because Hamza hates him. But because the mission demands it.

Heroism Without Applause

Hamza isn’t heroic because he fights.
He’s heroic because he pretends not to.

Because he stands beside men he intends to destroy.
Because he laughs with monsters.
Because he allows himself to be misread, underestimated, and ignored.

Because he becomes the shadow his enemy never sees coming.

And Ranveer Singh understands that heroism doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it waits.

Akshaye Khanna gave us rage we could see.
Ranveer Singh gave us silence we could feel.

For me, it was that silence — patient, deliberate, suffocating — that stayed long after the film ended. 

And knowing how far this restraint is from who Ranveer Singh is in real life only deepens that unease — because becoming Hamza couldn’t have come easy.