One must begin with the obvious question: why would Aditya Dhar choose such a loaded word? "Lucifer" is not a casual label. It carries with it centuries of meaning — of fall, rebellion, and the dangerous seduction of power. In the Biblical imagination, Lucifer was the brightest of angels who fell from heaven, not out of weakness, but out of pride and the desire to rival power itself. In lesser hands, it would have been ornamental. Here, it is diagnostic.
The film’s protagonist, played by Ranveer Singh, is introduced to us as a victim of brutality, a man shaped by violence not of his making. That is a familiar beginning. Hindi cinema has long been comfortable with wounded men seeking justice. But Dhar does something more unsettling. He allows the man to win — and then asks what that victory costs.
By the time we reach "Lucifer," the transformation is complete. Jaskirat Singh Rangi is no longer a person; he is an instrument. He has shed his past, his loyalties, even his grief. He operates in shadows, speaks in half-truths, and kills without the luxury of moral hesitation. This is not heroism as we have been taught to admire it. This is something colder.
The betrayal of Uzair, and the ascent as the de facto ruler of Lyari, is not presented as a triumphant moment. It is, rather, the point of no return. In classical storytelling, this would be the villain’s origin. Dhar, however, places it at the centre of his hero’s journey. The effect is disorienting. We are compelled to ask whether we have been cheering for the right man all along.
There is a quiet audacity in this. Indian cinema, especially when it deals with nationalism and espionage, prefers clarity. There are good men and bad men, and the audience is rarely invited to confuse the two. *Dhurandhar: The Revenge* disrupts that comfort. It suggests that in the world of covert operations, morality is not abandoned in one dramatic moment; it erodes, decision by decision, until there is nothing left to hold on to.
"Lucifer," then, is not a name. It is a condition.
The genius of the chapter lies in its refusal to judge. Dhar does not condemn his protagonist, nor does he absolve him. He simply observes what happens when a man is pushed beyond the limits of ordinary ethics and asked to serve a cause larger than himself. The result is neither a hero nor a villain, but a figure who exists in the uneasy space between the two.
One is reminded, in passing, of the way modern states conduct their affairs. They require men who can do what cannot be acknowledged, who can cross lines that must officially remain uncrossed. Such men are celebrated in secret and forgotten in public. The film captures this contradiction with uncomfortable precision.
By the end, when Jaskirat returns home and watches his family from a distance, there is no sense of closure. There is only a quiet recognition that something irreversible has occurred. The boy who left Pathankot never came back. In his place stands a man who has seen too much, done too much, and perhaps become too much.
That is why the chapter is called “Lucifer.” Not because the man is evil, but because he has fallen — and in falling, he has acquired a kind of power that isolates him from everything he once was.
It is a bleak thought. But it is also, in its own way, an honest one.
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