Amid the roaring success of Dhurandhar, the author of 'Calling Sehmat,' Harinder S. Sikka, expressed his regret for trusting Meghna Gulzar to direct 'Raazi,' a film based on his book. Nearly a decade after the film's release, the writer's comment opens a larger conversation about the emergence of a new wave in Indian cinema. A cinematic wave where films are reimagining nationalism and national identity. Films stories rooted in history and memory. Earlier, the Indian Film Industry witnessed a shift towards parallel cinema with the rise of artistic storytelling of social issues in the 1950s. In the 1970s, the frustration of young Indians found catharsis through the 'Angry Young Men' era. With Amitabh Bachchan at the helm, films like ‘Deewar,’ ‘Zanjeer,’ ‘Coolie,’ ‘Shakti,’ and more became a cinematic movement. Finally, in the 1990s and early 2000s, cinema became aspirational with economic liberalisation, selling the American dreams. The dominant use of foreign shoot locations and stories of NRI, like ‘Dilwale Dhulaniya Le Jayenge’ and ‘Kal Ho Na Ho’ became a staple. However, both the past decade and the years ahead in Indian cinema reflect a cultural impulse to return to roots, reclaim stories, and reassert a sense of belonging to the nation.

Because a nation is beyond the geographical space on the world map. As noted by the scholar and literary critic Homi K. Bhabha, in his work 'Nation and Narration,' "it is through the telling of stories, the performative traditions of culture, that the people understand the concept of a nation." In the Indian context, traditional modes of storytelling, such as theatre, music, and performance, have been integrated into a singular medium: cinema. It becomes, therefore, an even more powerful site where meanings are negotiated, traditions are created and reinterpreted, and identities are affirmed and rejected. Sumita S. Chakravarty's concept of 'Imperso-Nation' further sharpens this lens. The film scholar argues that cinema doesn’t represent reality, but the nation performs itself on the screen. She situates this within the Indian folk tradition of the Behrupiya (impersonator), suggesting that cinema operates as a form of cultural masquerade that both constructs and is shaped by collective identity. Through visual storytelling, music, and embodied performances, the nation does not merely appear, but it comes alive on celluloid. In this sense, the new wave of Indian cinema is neither purely realist nor merely aspirational. Rather, it is a site where national sentiment is performed, negotiated, and rendered visible through the audio-visual form.

With this framework in place, a closer examination of the current wave of cinema, alongside a comparison with earlier films, becomes essential. And there is no better place to begin than where the debate started, Raazi versus Dhurandhar. Both are spy dramas with a mission to provide India with crucial intelligence. But the films diverge significantly in their treatment and narrative. The two films, for instance, carry very different colour palettes. While Raazi breathes through pinks and pastels, Dhurandhar lives in blacks and blues. That is the structural choice of a filmmaker and art director. However, Raazi concludes with Syed Iqbal (played by Vicky Kaushal) telling his father, a Pakistani brigadier, that Sehmat (played by Alia Bhatt), his wife and an Indian spy, was driven by the same sense of duty to her nation that they feel toward theirs. Dhurandhar, by contrast, never dilutes Hamza's love for Yalina or his assignment against the rot in Pakistan. While Raazi shows Sehmat's commanding officer, Khalid Mir, leaving her in distress after a failed evacuation plan, Dhurandhar offers a contrasting vision of nationalism, where Ajay Sanyal (played by R. Madhavan) goes to extraordinary lengths to rescue Hamza. The difference is not merely aesthetics. It is ideological. And it is a difference that audiences have been registering and responding to for over a decade now.

This could be traced across the timeline of films that have found high resonance with audiences. In 2015, Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Bajirao Mastani offered one scene that signalled the new age. After Bajirao agrees to help Bundelkhand, Ambajhi Pant asks, "Chattrapati Ko Kya Kahenge?" To which Bajirao responds, "Chattrapati Ko Jan Ke Khushi Hogi Ki Ek Hindu Rajya Dusre Hindu Rajya Ki Madad Karne Ja Raha Hai." The 2019 film Uri: The Surgical Strike completely revolutionised the space of nationalistic cinema. Aditya Dhar minted over ₹342 crore worldwide against a budget of ₹44 crore. Based on the 2016 strike against Pakistan, the 'Josh' was certainly 'high' among audiences eager to witness the surgical strike through the cinematic space. Vicky Kaushal's line, "Farz Aur Farzi Me Bas Ek Matra Ka Antar Hota Hai," redefined and reinstated faith in the Indian Army.

The wave did not stop at military valour. Films like Jagan Shakti's Mission Mangal and R. Madhavan's Rocketry: The Nambi Effect became pivotal in helping the nation understand the successes of its space programme. Moving beyond the long-held assumption that India is not a scientifically progressive nation, these films offer a reflection of a different reality. In Mission Mangal, Tara Shinde's (played by Vidya Balan) son asks her why she prays despite being a scientist. She responds, "There is a power beyond science. One must pray to the power, not the picture." This simple dialogue highlights a larger Indian belief system, where science and spirituality are not opposing forces but coexisting frameworks.

The reclamation extended to history as well. History, much like cinema, is a contested site, continually shaped by competing interpretations of facts. While facts may be sacrosanct, their interpretations remain open to debate. As one-sided readings of history came to dominate mainstream discourse, cinema often failed to represent figures such as Sambhaji Maharaj and Udham Singh. The box office successes of Tanhaji: The Unsung Warrior (2020), Sardar Udham (2021), Swatantrya Veer Savarkar (2024), and Chhaava (2025) mark the appetite for such stories, shaped by the long absence of them on screen.

The Kashmir Files (2022), directed by Vivek Agnihotri, resonated with audiences for its hard-hitting storytelling. While the aware section felt heard, others became acquainted for the first time with the history of the Kashmiri Hindu exodus. Films like The Kerala Story (2023), Article 370 (2024), Bastar: The Naxal Story (2024), and Baramulla Saga (2025) found widespread love across the nation because it is not only the filmmakers who are turning over a new leaf, but also the audience that is growing hungry for such content.

The audience’s rejection of falsification of facts became most visible in their reaction to 'IC 814: The Kandahar Hijack’. The 2024 Netflix release,based on Captain Devi Sharan's book 'Flight Into Fear: The Captain's Story,' drew criticism for its representation of intelligence officers and the government under Atal Bihari Vajpayee. The show ends with the dialogue, "So, we won. Did we? We tried. Did we?" It implies governmental and intelligence failure, without contextualising the circumstances of 1999 due to the Pokhran nuclear tests and the Kargil War. The show reduces Prime Minister Vajpayee's presence to a single archival clip and omits Lal Krishna Advani, then Home Minister, altogether. The audience's pushback was proof of the cultural shift. It was not just about what they want to watch, but also about what they are no longer willing to accept.

While a section of society has debated the filmmaking craft of these message-heavy films, Dhurandhar appears to have conquered that last frontier as well. Both instalments, each approximately 3.5 hours long, managed to hold audiences in their seats, a testament to Aditya Dhar's phenomenal filmmaking. In the age of social media, where human attention is increasingly fragmented, films are competing for focused engagement. Dhar uses fast cuts, powerful framing, and visual motion, creating a new filmmaking grammar. The viewer's eyes are always chasing the next image. This constant stimulation mirrors the rhythm of short-form digital content, making the film intuitively legible to contemporary audiences. His use of music is also significant. Much like viral reel audio, the music operates in deliberate contrast to the visuals rather than serving as a passive background score. This dissonance heightens engagement, activating multiple sensory responses simultaneously. The result is a carefully engineered viewing experience in which time seems to dissolve. The viewer is no longer passively watching but actively processing a continuous stream of stimuli. Like Italian Neorealism, the new Indian Cinematic Wave is also changing the filmmaking rules. 

This is what separates the new wave from those that came before it in India. Where parallel cinema asked the audience to reflect, the 'Angry Young Man' asked them to rage, and the 1990s asked them to aspire, this wave asks them to remember and to feel pride in their history. The debate between Raazi and Dhurandhar is, at its core, a debate about which version of the nation we want to see perform itself on screen. One is empathetic to the enemy's humanity; the other is driven by a nationalistic mission. The audience is increasingly choosing the latter not out of hostility, but out of a deep cultural hunger to see their own story told with conviction, colour, and craft. As the dialogue from Mission Kashmir (2000) reminds us: "Wars are not fought with guns, Altaaf; they are fought with cameras." Indian cinema has finally picked up the camera, and it knows exactly what it wants to shoot.

(Soumya Ramakant Tare, The writer is a PhD scholar at Centre for Media Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University and a film critic.)