Why Aditya Dhar Chose "Lucifer" to Name a Chapter in Dhurandhar 2

There are films that tell stories, and there are films that quietly confess something about the times we live in. Dhurandhar: The Revenge belongs to the second category. It does not merely extend a narrative; it deepens a moral unease. And nowhere is this more evident than in the chapter titled “Lucifer.”

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, enters the story as Jaskirat Singh Rangi, 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," Jaskirat—now living as Hamza Mazari—has completed his transformation. He 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.

It is also the point where he crosses the line, quietly but decisively. He kills Gurbaaz, his closest emotional anchor. He eliminates Mohammed Aalam, his own handler. He manipulates gang wars, fuels violence, and embeds himself deep within the machinery of Dawood Ibrahim’s network. This is the moment that matters. He is no longer merely serving a mission; he is becoming indistinguishable from the very forces he was meant to destroy. That moral collapse is what the film names, with unsettling clarity, as “Lucifer.”

There is, however, another layer to this transformation — one that makes the title even more unsettling. From India’s perspective, he is a hero, dismantling terror networks and executing missions that cannot be acknowledged. From the perspective of Pakistan and the underworld, he is something else entirely: a manipulator, a killer, a traitor moving silently through their ranks. The same man carries two identities — saviour and Lucifer. It is this duality that gives the chapter its true meaning, forcing the audience to confront an uncomfortable question: is he still the hero, or has he become something else altogether?

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. Aditya 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.

As the Bhagavad Gita reminds us: “कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन” (You have a right to perform your duty, but not to the fruits of your actions.) And yet, the film leaves us with a haunting question — what happens when, in performing that duty, a man loses himself entirely?