Opposite him is Akshay Kumar’s Shekhar Verma — a brash, corrupt, trigger-happy inspector who believes the system is a joke. He takes bribes, bends rules, and trusts his instincts over any manual. The friction between Bachchan’s exhausted idealism and Kumar’s cynical practicality gives the film its spine. Their relationship — from contempt to grudging respect — is one of the finest cop-buddy dynamics in Indian cinema. And then there’s Ajay Devgn. In a film filled with heavyweights, Devgn nearly walks away with the entire show as Yashwant Angre, a suspended police officer turned ruthless mercenary. Angre isn't just a villain; he's a philosophical counterpoint. He wears a black khakee — a police jacket stripped of its badges — symbolizing a man who has internalized the system’s corruption so completely that he has become its purest, most terrifying product.
Twenty years later, Santoshi’s masterpiece still stands as a brutal, emotional, and politically sharp portrait of duty versus morality. It begins with a bus. Not a hero’s grand entrance, but a rickety, rain-lashed government vehicle carrying a team of mismatched policemen to a small town called Chandangarh. Their mission: transport a captured Pakistani terrorist, Iqbal Ansari, back to Mumbai for trial. Simple, on paper. In reality, Khakee unfolds as a nightmarish road trip through hell — a blistering commentary on a broken system, wrapped in the skin of a high-octane chase film. khakee
With a shaved head, a gravelly voice, and eyes that promise violence before he lifts a finger, Devgn’s Angre is cold, calculating, and unforgettable. His line — "Ek hota hai sharif, ek hota hai khiladi, aur ek hota hai woh jo game ko palat de" (One is honest, one is a player, and one is the one who turns the game around) — isn’t just a taunt. It’s the film’s thesis. Amid the testosterone and gunpowder, Aishwarya Rai Bachchan plays Dr. Naina — not a love interest, but a conscience. A village doctor caught in the crossfire, she represents the civilian cost of state violence. Her scenes with Bachchan are tender without being romantic; she sees the man behind the uniform. In a film that could have sidelined its female lead, Santoshi gives Naina agency, pain, and a final monologue that cuts through the machismo like a scalpel. Action with Agony The action sequences in Khakee are not slick. They are ugly, desperate, and loud. The infamous temple shootout — where Angre’s men ambush the team — lasts nearly fifteen minutes. Glass shatters. Bullets tear through holy walls. People die not with heroic last words, but with gurgles and silence. Santoshi, working with action choreographer Tinu Verma, shoots violence as chaos, not choreography. Opposite him is Akshay Kumar’s Shekhar Verma —
That is why, two decades later, Khakee remains essential viewing. Not because it’s entertaining — though it is, relentlessly so. But because it’s honest. And honesty, in a genre built on fantasy, is the rarest bullet of all. ★★★★½ Watch it for: The performances (especially Devgn and Bachchan), the relentless pacing, and a climax that refuses to clap for itself. Their relationship — from contempt to grudging respect
Released in 2004, at a time when Bollywood was falling in love with candy-floss romances and family melodramas, Khakee arrived like a gunshot in a crowded wedding hall. Director Rajkumar Santoshi, fresh off the comic caper Mujhse Shaadi Karogi , pivoted sharply to deliver a film that was unapologetically masculine, morally ambiguous, and viscerally tense. At its heart, Khakee is not about good versus evil. It’s about duty versus survival.