Bollywood villains are not villains. They are onions. Emotional onions. Traumatic onions. Cry-while-you-chop, why-is-this-so-layered onions. You think you’re watching a man commit crimes. I think I’m watching a man avoid therapy with Olympic-level dedication.
Because no one just becomes Gabbar Singh overnight. That level of chaos? That’s years of unresolved feelings, unmet needs, and probably one very awkward childhood birthday party where no one clapped. And instead of unpacking that like a functioning human being, they said, “Let me ruin lives instead.”
So today, we’re doing what Bollywood scripts politely refuse to do. We’re digging deeper. We’re psychoanalysing with zero qualifications but maximum confidence. We’re ranking these iconic villains by how desperately they need therapy, based on trauma levels, red flags, childhood wounds, and the ever-iconic emotional unavailability.
This is not about excusing them. Absolutely not. This is about understanding the why behind the what, and then still dragging them because accountability is sexy.
Think of this as your chaotic best friend whispering, “He doesn’t need a redemption arc, he needs a therapist and maybe a nap.”
Let’s peel the layers. Careful. It stings.
The “I could be fixed… but I refuse” tier.
1. Kabir Singh (Kabir Singh)
Kabir Singh is what happens when emotional intelligence misses its train and never reschedules. This man is a surgeon, which means he understands anatomy, but feelings? Absolutely not. He is operating on vibes, rage, and a deeply concerning attachment style.
Let’s talk layers. On the surface, he is intense. Passionate. The kind of man who would say, “I’d burn the world for you,”which sounds romantic until you realise… sir, we live in that world. Beneath that? Control issues. Possessiveness disguised as love. Communication skills that consist of shouting, brooding, and occasionally throwing things for dramatic emphasis.
And then we reach the core. Pain. Real, raw, unprocessed pain. Kabir does not know how to sit with discomfort, so he externalises it. He drinks it away, he shouts it out, he projects it onto everyone around him. Instead of healing, he spirals, and calls it depth.
Therapy for Kabir would be like trying to convince a cat to take a bath. Resistance. Drama. Betrayal. But necessary.
Therapy need: Critically high. Weekly sessions, emotional homework, and a strict ban on confusing love with ownership.
2. Vijay Dinanath Chauhan (Agneepath)
Vijay is not loud chaos. He is quiet, simmering, slow-burn devastation. The kind that sits in your chest and whispers, “Revenge will fix this.” Spoiler. It does not.
Layer one. Trauma. Childhood ripped apart, father lost, innocence replaced with a singular mission. Layer two. Identity. He rebuilds himself entirely around vengeance. Every decision, every relationship, every breath is filtered through that lens. He is not living. He is executing a plan.
And then we get to the core, which is honestly heartbreaking. Grief. Just grief. A boy who never got to mourn properly, who turned his sadness into something sharper because sadness felt too vulnerable.
Vijay is the kind of person who would sit in therapy, say, “I’m fine,” and then proceed to emotionally implode three sessions later.
Therapy need: High. Not because he is beyond saving, but because he is so close to healing and just… refuses to turn left instead of right.
The “this is not love, this is a security threat” tier.
3. Rahul Mehra (Darr)
Rahul Mehra is not a lover. He is a fan account that got out of hand. This man saw a woman and said, “Yes, I will now build my entire personality around her existence.”
Layer one. Obsession. Not the cute kind. The kind that involves stalking, surveillance, and a complete detachment from reality. Layer two. Fantasy. Rahul does not love Kiran. He loves the idea of her. A version of her that exists only in his head, curated, controlled, and entirely fictional.
And then, the centre. Loneliness. Deep, aching loneliness that he never learned to process in a healthy way. Instead of building connections, he fixates. Instead of communicating, he spirals. Instead of seeking help, he becomes the problem.
Rahul in therapy would spend the first five sessions saying, “But she loves me,” and the therapist would be like, “She filed a complaint.”
Therapy need: Immediate. Intensive. Possibly with a specialist in boundaries and reality checks.
4. Rakesh Mahadkar (Ek Villain)
Rakesh Mahadkar is what happens when resentment marinates for too long. This man is bitterness in human form. He wakes up and chooses violence, not because he has to, but because he feels entitled to it.
Surface level. Dissatisfaction. He hates his life, his job, his existence. Fair. We have all been there. But here is the difference. Most people cope by venting, journaling, or stress-eating snacks at 2 a.m. Rakesh copes by… becoming a serial killer.
Layer two. Projection. Instead of addressing his own unhappiness, he projects it outward. If he is miserable, everyone else must be too. It is giving if I cannot have peace, neither can you.
Core layer. Powerlessness. A man who felt small for too long and decided the only way to feel big was to control, harm, and dominate.
Therapy would be less about feelings and more about accountability. A concept he is deeply allergic to.
Therapy need: Extremely high. With a side of, please unpack your emotions before you unpack… anything else.
The “there is no therapist, only God now” tier.
5. Kancha Cheena (Agneepath)
Kancha Cheena is unsettling in a way that makes your soul itch. He is calm, composed, and completely detached from basic human empathy. Which is, frankly, terrifying.
Layer one. Control. Absolute, suffocating control. He does not just want power, he wants dominance. Over people, over spaces, over narratives. Layer two. Detachment. There is no visible guilt, no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Just… stillness. And that stillness is loud.
And then the core. Unknown. That is the scariest part. We do not see the wound, which means it is buried deep. Possibly too deep.
Therapy here is not a quick fix. It is a long, complicated excavation.
Therapy need: Catastrophic. Multi-year, multi-professional, possibly multi-universe.
6. Alauddin Khilji (Padmaavat)
Khilji is not a person. He is an event. A full-blown, high-energy, no-boundaries, what-is-impulse-control situation.
Surface. Excess. Everything is too much. His hunger for power, for control, for possession. There is no moderation, only intensity. Layer two. Entitlement. He believes he deserves everything he desires, regardless of consequence, morality, or basic decency.
And then the core. Ego. Fragile, inflated, and constantly demanding validation. He does not just want to win. He wants to own. To consume. To dominate.
Therapy would require him to first admit he is not the centre of the universe, which… good luck with that.
Therapy need: Off the charts. The charts have been burned.
7. Gabbar Singh (Sholay)
Gabbar Singh is not just a villain. He is the syllabus. The blueprint. The original chaos coordinator before chaos had branding, merchandise, and a social media strategy. Every villain who came after him owes royalties, frankly.
Let’s peel the onion.
Layer one. Violence. And not even reactive violence. That would at least imply emotion. No, Gabbar’s cruelty feels casual, almost recreational. It is delivered with ease, with rhythm, with the kind of comfort that makes you deeply uneasy. When destruction becomes second nature, you know we are no longer in “bad day” territory. We are in lifestyle choiceterritory.
Layer two. Fear as currency. Gabbar understands something many tyrants do. Fear is efficient. It controls faster than respect, spreads quicker than loyalty, and lingers longer than love. He builds an entire identity around being dreaded. His name enters a room before he does. That is not power rooted in strength. That is power rooted in psychological theatre, and babe, the production budget was high.
Layer three. Ego. Gabbar does not simply want obedience. He wants performance. He wants people trembling, pleading, reacting. He needs to feel larger than everyone else at all times, which usually signals someone who feels very small when left alone with their own thoughts.
And then we reach the core. Emptiness. Because here is the tea with extra masala. People who are deeply content do not build kingdoms out of terror. Fulfilled people take naps, plant herbs, perhaps start pottery. They do not monologue in rocky terrains while traumatising villages. There is a void inside Gabbar so vast it echoes. Instead of facing it, he fills it with domination, noise, and destruction.
One also senses arrested development. There is a childishness to the games, the taunting, the need to be the centre of every scene. It is giving emotionally stuck at the age of first humiliation. Somewhere in the backstory we never saw is likely a wound that calcified into cruelty.
Therapy for Gabbar would be like trying to teach a hurricane about breathwork. Fascinating in theory. Dangerous in practice. Session one would begin with silence. Session two would be a power struggle. Session three, somehow, the therapist would need therapy.
But if breakthrough ever happened? Monumental. Because beneath every theatrical tyrant is usually someone terrified of being ordinary, powerless, or forgotten.
Therapy need: Legendary. Historical. Intergenerational. Someone fund the research immediately.
What have Bollywood villains taught us?
Unprocessed emotions do not disappear. They transform. Sometimes into ambition. Sometimes into art. And sometimes… into full-blown villain arcs with dramatic lighting and questionable decisions.
But here is the line we cannot blur. Understanding someone’s trauma is not the same as excusing their behaviour. You can empathise with the wound and still say, “Absolutely not, fix that.”
Because healing is a choice. A difficult one, yes. An uncomfortable one, definitely. But still a choice.
And every single villain on this list? Chose chaos.
So consider this your friendly, slightly dramatic reminder. Feel your feelings. Talk about them. Go to therapy if you can. Journal if you must. Cry if needed. Do literally anything except become the kind of person who gets ranked in an article like this.
Because trust me. The comments section would be brutal.
For more such articles, visit Her Campus at MUJ. And if you’re on your way to become a villain-apologist, find me at Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ.