From selective beginnings to a striking late-career resurgence, Akshaye Khanna has built a body of work defined by intelligence over impulse.
By Nichola Marie
In ‘Sholay’, Gabbar Singh did not need spectacle to announce his arrival. An ominous, recurring musical motif crept in before he did, signalling danger long before his presence dominated the frame. The music worked as a warning — measured, unsettling, and unmistakable. It was Hindi cinema at its most confident; trusting atmosphere and sound to establish authority rather than excess.
That grammar of menace finds a contemporary echo in ‘Dhurandhar’. Akshaye Khanna enters to a pulsing, unfamiliar beat — modern in texture but similar in intent. He does not announce himself; he allows rhythm and restraint to do the work. His menace is cerebral, his silences weighted, his authority unmistakable. Once again, power arrives quietly, and the audience leans in.
For an actor who has never courted visibility, Khanna’s resurgence feels less like a comeback and more like a correction. In an industry increasingly tilted towards noise, he has returned as a master of control — unhurried, intelligent, and deeply watchable.
A Career Shaped By Choice, Not Momentum
Born into cinema royalty as the son of Vinod Khanna, Akshaye Khanna could easily have followed the predictable arc of mainstream stardom. Early films in the 1990s such as ‘Himalay Putra’, ‘Border’, and ‘Taal’ established him as a capable leading man, but even then, there was an unmistakable sense of reserve. He never appeared fully at ease with the trappings of heroism.
Instead, Khanna gravitated toward roles that privileged interiority over spectacle. ‘Dil Chahta Hai’ marked a decisive turn. As Siddharth, he embodied a quiet ache that contrasted sharply with the film’s exuberance. His was a performance built on pauses, inward glances, and emotional intelligence — qualities that would come to define his work.
“I am not ambitious in the conventional sense,” Khanna once told ‘Filmfare’ in an interview noted for its candour. “I don’t wake up thinking about where I should be. I focus on what interests me.”
That statement, often quoted, explains both his intermittent visibility and his enduring credibility. While many of his contemporaries chased box-office dominance or image reinvention, Khanna opted for selectivity. Films like ‘Company’, ‘Hungama’, ‘Gandhi’, ‘My Father’, and ‘Race’ showcased his range, but never at the cost of his instinct for understatement.
There were stretches when he seemed to retreat entirely. No social media presence. No public explanation. No effort to remain in constant circulation. In a business increasingly defined by perpetual relevance, Khanna chose distance — a decision that would later lend his return an unexpected gravitas.
The Resurgence
When Khanna re-emerged with ‘Ittefaq’ and ‘Section 375’, it became evident that absence had sharpened his craft. As lawyer Tarun Saluja in ‘Section 375’, he delivered a performance built on logic rather than emotion. There was no theatrical outrage, no moral posturing — just cold precision. Critics were unanimous in their praise, with ‘The Indian Express’ noting that Khanna “turns minimalism into moral authority.”
‘Drishyam 2’ further cemented this phase. As IG Tarun Ahlawat, Khanna subtly altered the balance of power in a narrative already rich with tension. He did not overpower Ajay Devgn’s protagonist; he simply waited. The performance trusted the audience to recognise intelligence when it appeared — a rare gamble in mainstream cinema. It is this faith in the viewer that makes Khanna’s work today so compelling. He does not underline motives or overexplain emotion. As he once told ‘Film Companion’ in a rare interaction with Anupama Chopra, “I don’t like to impose emotion. I prefer to let the situation speak. If the writing is strong, the actor only needs to listen.”
That philosophy reaches a new peak in ‘Dhurandhar’. Khanna’s character is defined less by backstory than by intention. He observes, calculates, and moves with inevitability. His now-discussed entry — underscored by the Arabic hip-hop track ‘FA9LA’ — has become a cultural talking point precisely because it resists excess. The music pulses, the body language remains controlled, and the menace lies in what is withheld rather than revealed.
Silence As Strength
What makes Khanna’s craft so compelling today is not just what he chooses to express, but what he deliberately withholds. He collaborates with directors in a way that prioritises character over ego, often discussing nuance and intention rather than technical bravura. Filmmakers frequently highlight his rare script sense, noting how he senses the beats of a scene before a line is spoken. R Balki, for instance, remarked that Khanna “underplays where most actors over-explain,” a comment that applies across genres — from courtroom drama to psychological thrillers.
Audiences, too, have come to trust him in a way few contemporary actors enjoy. Unlike performers whose appeal is instantaneous and loud, Khanna builds credibility gradually. His calm authority invites viewers to lean into the narrative, creating a sense of investment rather than spectacle. In an age dominated by flash and instant virality, this deliberate patience feels almost revolutionary. The quiet confidence with which he inhabits a role — combined with a willingness to embrace morally complex or ambivalent characters — ensures that every performance lingers, making the screen moments more memorable than the loudest gestures or punchiest dialogues.
Presence, Pop Culture & The Long View
Ironically, for an actor celebrated today for restraint, Khanna remains forever associated with one of Hindi cinema’s most joyful, youthful songs — ‘Koi Kahe Kehta Rahe’ from ‘Dil Chahta Hai’. Decades on, the track continues to circulate widely, accompanied by nostalgia for a time when male vulnerability was allowed space without apology.
Khanna’s Sid was neither the most charismatic nor the most vocal of the trio, yet his emotional complexity left the deepest impression. Film historians often cite the character as an early mainstream portrayal of a man defined by sensitivity rather than bravado. Lyricist Javed Akhtar once remarked in a panel discussion on the film’s legacy that ‘Dil Chahta Hai’ worked because “each character was allowed to be incomplete.” Khanna leaned into that incompleteness with quiet conviction.
What makes his current phase especially resonant is that it coincides with a shift in how masculinity is written and received on screen. The chest-thumping heroism of earlier decades has gradually made way for intelligence, restraint, and moral ambiguity. In this evolving grammar of Hindi cinema, Khanna feels not just relevant, but necessary.
Critic Raja Sen once observed in a ‘Mint’ column that Khanna “acts like he trusts silence more than dialogue.” It is an observation that captures the essence of his appeal. Silence, in his hands, becomes narrative weight rather than absence.
There is also a generational honesty to his work today. Unlike actors who attempt to play youth indefinitely, Khanna has embraced age as texture. The lines on his face, the stillness in his posture, the deliberateness of his gaze — all feed into characters that feel livedin rather than performed.
He no longer requires romantic subplots or heroic arcs to command attention. His authority comes from credibility — the sense that the character knows more than he reveals. Directors return to him when stories demand intelligence over intensity.
Khanna may never dominate box-office headlines the way some of his peers do. But he has achieved something arguably more enduring: Trust. When his name appears in the credits, audiences know they will be challenged, not coddled. Khanna reminds us that cinematic power lies not in excess, but in conviction. In an age of constant noise, his quiet certainty lingers long after the screen fades to black.
