Hindi film heroes usually shout out their feelings, especially when angry. 'Kutte k*****y main tera khoon peejayunga' is a trope that has worked not merely for Dharmendra but for every action hero since. It is rare to have an action hero who delivers his most meaningful monologue in a whisper, as Ranveer Singh does in Dhurandhar: The Revenge when he is questioned about where his loyalties lie. But welcome Aditya Dhar's 'ghayal hoon to ghatak hoon' hero. When he wants to be heard, he goes low.

It is difficult to do. Restraint is not a virtue that Hindi film heroes practise. So welcome a new kind of action hero in Ranveer Singh's Jaskirat Singh Rangi aka Hamza Ali Mazari. This is an action hero not afraid to show his wounds, literally and figuratively. The only time he screams is when he is in pain—when he is looking for his sister early in the film or later when he is captured and tortured. At other times, tears flow freely when he is remembering his family back home or the family he has created for himself in Pakistan.

It is an extraordinary performance by Singh. Being vulnerable is a trope that our heroes rarely embrace, especially in this age of toxic masculinity. But Ranveer Singh is unafraid to show his fear and often even his helplessness. He shows his face when he is faced with a ghost from his past or when he is making plans to abandon his loved ones. The wrath of God here is not a shout but a murmur, a breath, almost a feather touch.

Signs of it are shown early on, in Dhurandhar Part 1, when a newbie Hamza is almost raped by a vicious rival gang member, in a shocking first for a Hindi film. While some would argue that the scene serves to demonise Pakistanis and their sexuality, it also elevates his trauma and vulnerability.

We see it repeatedly in Dhurandhar: The Revenge. When Rangi confronts his sister, tied like an animal in a pump house, or when he tries to return to a home that can never be his now. His face is a mask of tears, sometimes unshed and at other times flowing freely. When we see his training, where trainers teach him how to harness his breath and control his emotions, we understand its origins.

An action man who cries is in sync with the song that is the star of the sequel's soundtrack. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's classic lines, Dil pe zakhm khate hain, jaan se guzarte hain, jurm sirf itna hai, unko pyaar karte hain (We carry the wounds in our hearts, when we sacrifice our lives, our only crime is this, that we love them). Jaskirat/Hamza is many paradoxical things—a monster whose heart bleeds for his country, a wounded lion (babbar sher). But he is not a misogynist. When he leaves his sister in the hands of his friend, he tells her she has to complete her education before she marries, and then too, it is not mandatory that she attach herself to him. When confronted by his wife, he gets down on his knees, his head bowed and his hands offered in a plea for understanding. This is not a stalker who pulls his beloved from her class like a rag doll in Kabir Singh or orders his lover to lick his boots as a test of her loyalty in Animal.

Ranveer Singh uses extreme stillness and a pointed stoicism when confronting his fears. But when he breaks down, he does so with complete abandon, his hands shaking, his body heaving, and his eyes lacerated. Oddly enough, are we seeing the birth of a new kind of action hero, who wreaks violence like a machine but loves like a braveheart? This is a hero in beast mode, we are told, but it is a beast with an enormous heart.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are still not ready for this. With great strength comes great vulnerability. And perhaps Hindi film storytelling is richer for that. As is Ranveer Singh's filmography, with the addition of a wrecking ball with the soul of a balladeer.