Visible duty and invisible power in the national imagination

Let us take a moment to place Dhurandhar and Ikkis side by side, not because they share a story, but because they expose a shared anxiety beneath our public imagination. Films do more than entertain or mirror reality. They train our moral reflexes. They quietly decide which forms of courage deserve applause, which sacrifices fade into the background, and which uses of power we learn to tolerate without asking who pays the price. Both films are concerned with service to the nation. Both revolve around men who risk their lives for something larger than themselves. Both have been widely received with admiration. Yet the worlds they construct could not be more different. One places its hero in the visible architecture of duty and consequence. The other releases him into the seductive realm of secrecy and unilateral power. Between them lies a quiet but profound argument about how modern India wants to imagine loyalty. To watch these films side by side is to realise that we are being trained not merely to watch stories, but to adopt moral reflexes.

Two soldiers, two moral universes

Ikkis gives us a soldier in uniform. That uniform is not merely clothing. It is a moral contract. It binds the soldier to institutions, laws, hierarchies, and the possibility of being held accountable. When he fights, he does so within a system that recognises him. When he dies, he does not vanish into the shadows. His sacrifice is named, recorded, mourned. This visibility matters. It anchors the violence of war to something larger than individual will. The soldier belongs to a shared story, one that includes superiors, comrades, families, and a society that must live with the consequences of what he does in its name.

Dhurandhar moves in the opposite direction. Its protagonist is a soldier without a uniform, a man who exists outside official structures, beyond paperwork, beyond public grief. He answers not to institutions but to an idea of the nation that lives inside him. His work is invisible. His death, if it were to come, would leave no trace. This figure is deeply attractive to contemporary imagination. In a world frustrated by bureaucracy, compromise, and slow justice, the shadow operative feels like a fantasy of moral efficiency. He acts. He decides. He resolves. Yet that very freedom is what makes the figure ethically volatile.

Ikkis’ gravity of cost and Dhurandhar’s seduction of certainty

What distinguishes Ikkis is not that it shows heroism, but that it refuses to detach heroism from its price. The film is haunted by loss. Even when victories are achieved, they feel provisional, scarred by what has been left behind. There is grief in the background of every success. There is hesitation behind every command. This insistence on cost keeps the audience morally awake. You cannot simply cheer. You are made to feel the tremor beneath the triumph. The soldier’s bravery does not cancel his fear. His obedience does not erase his doubt. The film allows the viewer to sit with what it means to survive when others do not. This is a rare courage in contemporary cinema. It refuses the easy catharsis of a clean victory. It trusts that audiences are mature enough to hold pride and sorrow at the same time.

Dhurandhar, by contrast, is built on velocity. Its protagonist moves through the world with unwavering purpose. He is rarely conflicted. His targets are clearly marked. His violence is swift and aesthetically powerful. He is not burdened by indecision or by the messy entanglements of institutional oversight. In a fractured and anxious society, this kind of figure is immensely comforting. He represents a fantasy of control. He suggests that somewhere, someone knows what must be done and is doing it without hesitation. But this is precisely where the film becomes dangerous in a subtle way. When invisible service is shown without inner struggle, it ceases to be a sacrifice and becomes an entitlement. The character is no longer bearing a burden for the nation; he is exercising authority over it. True service is heavy. It leaves residue. It produces doubt. When a film erases that weight, it turns devotion into domination.

Power without witness

The difference between these two films is not simply narrative. It is structural. In Ikkis, power is distributed. Orders come from somewhere. Decisions are debated. Responsibility moves up and down a chain. When something goes wrong, no single man absorbs the moral weight alone. The system is implicated.

In Dhurandhar, power collapses into one figure. He becomes the final arbiter of right and wrong. There is no meaningful oversight. There is no space for dissent. He acts not because he is authorised, but because he believes. This is thrilling cinema. It is also a deeply consequential idea. When audiences are trained to admire results without asking how they were achieved, a culture begins to drift away from accountability. Invisible service is real. But invisibility should never mean immunity from moral scrutiny.

Violence and the emotional training of audiences

Violence is unavoidable in both films. What differs is how it is framed. In Ikkis, violence is never simply spectacle. It disrupts lives. It scars survivors. Even when it is necessary, it is never allowed to feel light. The camera does not luxuriate in destruction. It registers its cost.

In Dhurandhar, violence is kinetic and efficient. It proves the protagonist’s competence. It feels clean, almost surgical. The audience is invited to enjoy it rather than endure it. Over time, this difference matters. Cinema does not merely show us violence. It teaches us how to feel about it.

Women and the moral periphery

Perhaps the most telling contrast lies in how each film treats women. Ikkis allows women to inhabit the moral space of the story. They suffer, remember, and endure. They are not ornaments. They are carriers of consequence. Dhurandhar pushes women to the edges. They exist to support, to soften, to react. Rarely do they decide. This is not accidental. It reveals whose voices are allowed to shape the moral universe of the narrative.

Together, these films show us two visions of national service. One is rooted in remembrance, restraint, and shared responsibility. The other is driven by belief, speed, and solitary authority. Ikkis asks us to remember. Dhurandhar asks us to trust. Trust is easier. Memory is harder.

Why this matters

I do not dismiss Dhurandhar. The world it gestures toward is real. Invisible service exists, and it is often lonely and thankless. But cinema must not turn that loneliness into unchallenged power. Ikkis, in its quiet way, is the braver film. It allows uncertainty to remain. It respects grief. It knows that honour does not need spectacle. If cinema is a mirror, then these films show us two faces of ourselves. One wants clarity without cost. The other accepts that true service always leaves a mark. Which one we choose to nurture will shape not just our stories, but the moral temperature of our public life.(The author is a Pallottine priest who serves as the Principal of St Vincent Pallotti School (CBSE), Rasayaniwho. He explores the interaction of faith, morality, and society.)