Why Dhurandhar Begins with the Bhagavad Gita, and Why It Matters

Most discussions around #Dhurandhar have focused on what is immediately visible — the sharp action sequences, the tension of espionage, the background score, and the performances. The film is undeniably engaging, and that is where much of the public conversation has remained.

But the film itself asks us to look elsewhere first.

Before the spy is introduced, before missions, disguises, and gunfire take over the screen, Dhurandhar opens with a verse from the Bhagavad Gita:

“Hato vā prāpsyasi svargaṁ, jitvā vā bhokṣyase mahīm.”

The meaning is clear and uncompromising: if you die while doing your duty, you attain heaven; if you succeed, you continue to live in the world. Either way, stand up and act with resolve.

This sloka is not ornamental. It explains the moral framework of the film.

In the Gita, Krishna is not glorifying war. He is doing the opposite. He is stripping war of romance and illusion. Violence is not presented as heroic or desirable; it is shown as an unavoidable consequence once duty is abandoned by others and choice disappears. What Krishna insists on is not violence, but responsibility.

Dhurandhar adopts the same position.

Its protagonist is a spy — a profession defined by secrecy, moral greyness, and isolation. He does not seek confrontation. He understands that every act of violence carries a cost, often paid quietly and alone. The film never treats bloodshed as spectacle for its own sake. Instead, violence appears as a burden the spy must carry when no non-violent option remains.

As the story progresses, the spy is pushed into moments where hesitation becomes dangerous and silence becomes complicity. Doing nothing is no longer neutral; it actively allows greater harm. This is where the Gita’s logic becomes visible on screen. Action is demanded not because it is glorious, but because refusing to act would be a moral failure.

Even when the spy succeeds, Dhurandhar refuses triumphalism. Survival feels heavy. Victory does not bring peace. This echoes the sloka’s warning: “enjoying the earth” does not mean freedom from consequence, only that one must live with what has been done.

It is striking that most discussions of the film overlook this opening verse. We talk about how thrilling the violence is, but not about how carefully the film frames that violence as necessity rather than celebration. The Gita’s presence at the start makes the film’s position clear: violence is tragic, not virtuous; duty is unavoidable, not glamorous.

By placing this sloka at the very beginning, Dhurandhar tells us how it wants to be understood. This is not a film that glorifies violence. It is a film that acknowledges its cost, accepts its inevitability in certain roles, and asks an uncomfortable question of both its hero and its audience: when responsibility is clear and retreat is no longer moral, will you still stand up?