There’s a very specific breed of man that Bollywood manufactures with remarkable precision. He’s got a gaze that lingers, a voice that wavers, a cigarette between his fingers, and most likely a guitar slung over his shoulder, because apparently, nothing says “emotionally unavailable” like strumming softly under a full moon while ghosting you in daylight. He’s sensitive, yes. Introspective? Painfully. And tortured? Oh, absolutely. Sometimes it’s capitalism. Sometimes it’s commitment. Sometimes it’s just daddy issues dressed in linen.
We meet him on-screen and immediately feel like we know him. He’s the one who cancels dates because he “needs space to process”, but writes you a song three months later. The one who doesn’t believe in labels, boundaries, or basic communication but believes in you, in the most vague and non-committal way possible. You cry. You forgive. You rewatch his monologues at 2AM and wonder if he’s real. (Spoiler: He is. Unfortunately.) But the real kicker? Bollywood doesn’t just give these men arcs, it gives them anthems. We’re taught to root for their redemption, to interpret silence as depth, volatility as passion, and bare-minimum effort as “he’s trying.” They’re damaged, sure, but they’re deep, right? They’re worth it, right? Until suddenly, you’re halfway through a bottle of red, wondering why you’re crying over a man who can’t make it to dinner without a meltdown.
And so, here we are, charting the evolution of the Bollywood boyfriend. The one we loved, until we didn’t.
Devdas: The original, the blueprint, the warning
Before there was Jordan. Before there was Kabir. Before there were tortured musicians and self-absorbed photographers, there was Devdas. The man who quite literally drank himself to death over a love he couldn’t commit to. He was the first to introduce us to the idea that if a man is broken, brooding and brilliant, he must be worth suffering for. Devdas had every chance to choose Paro, to fight for love, to show up, but instead, he chose self-pity and brandy. And while his angst has been immortalised in songs, monologues, and candlelit silhouettes, let’s be honest: he ghosted his childhood sweetheart because he had “issues”. He let pride, ego, and family politics walk all over his spine, then made everyone else pay the emotional bill.
We romanticise Devdas because he loved so completely. But in reality, he loved like a martyr, not a man, and women don’t need martyrs. We need men who knock on the door instead of collapsing at the gate. Devdas is the cinematic equivalent of a love letter that never gets sent; beautiful, but ultimately useless.
Ranbir Kapoor: The genre, not just the man
At this point, Ranbir Kapoor isn’t playing a character; he’s playing an archetype. A genre unto himself. Whether he’s Ved in Tamasha, Bunny in Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani, Jordan in Rockstar, or Sid in Wake Up Sid, the thread is clear: he is artistically gifted, but his characters are emotionally stunted. Commitment issues? Check. Emotional repression? Double check. But somehow, every woman in these films wants to heal him instead of leaving his emotionally unavailable self in a hostel in Goa.
He’s the guy who wants freedom, purpose, and self-discovery, but also wants to keep you dangling like a well-dressed emotional support system. He cries on your shoulder, stares out of trains, and journals about the meaning of life, but never asks how your day went. Still, we swoon. Because Ranbir has perfected the art of making dysfunction look aesthetic.
Aditya Roy Kapur as Rahul in Aashiqui 2
The broken musician trope never hit harder. Rahul is the boyfriend who’ll love you fiercely in private but leave you devastated in public. He believes his chaos is romantic, that his inability to function is somehow a sign of depth. And we, trained to see pain as poetry, buy it. We let his inconsistency slide because his voice trembles when he sings your name.
But here’s the hard truth: Rahul is the kind of man who wants to save you while drowning himself. He’ll make you feel like the centre of his universe right before he blacks out in a dressing room. And loving someone who doesn’t love themselves isn’t noble, it’s exhausting. The tragedy isn’t just in the storyline. It’s in how many of us see him and think, “I could fix him.”
Shahid Kapoor in and as Kabir Singh
Kabir is the poster child for all the wrong lessons Bollywood has fed us about love. Passion as possession. Jealousy as devotion. Anger as masculinity. Kabir doesn’t just love Preeti, he consumes her. And for a while, we’re sold on the intensity, the stubble, the scowl, the medical degree that somehow makes the rage hotter.
But Kabir isn’t a boyfriend—he’s a cautionary tale. A reminder that obsession isn’t affection, and silence isn’t strength. He treats love like a conquest, not a connection. And as intoxicating as that might look on screen, in real life, it’s just abuse dressed in designer sunglasses.
Vicky Kaushal as DJ Sandz in Manmarziyaan
Now here’s a man who’ll spin your heart like a record. Vicky’s DJ Sandz is reckless, thrilling, and maddening. He’s that boyfriend who shows up on your balcony with fire in his eyes but disappears when things get “too real.” You’ll fight, cry, break up, and still—he’ll pull you back in with one intense look and a half-baked apology.
DJ isn’t bad. He’s just… unfinished, he thinks passion is enough. That showing up sometimes counts for consistency. He keeps you dangling between chaos and charm, and while that might be sexy for a summer fling, it’s a train wreck for a long-term thing. He’s the man you write angry poems about, not the one you build a life with.
Ayushmann Khurrana as Aakash in Andhadhun
Charming. Witty. Mysterious. And maybe just a little… murder-y. Ayushmann’s Aakash starts off as your ideal date: artsy, vulnerable (he’s blind—or is he?), and a pianist who listens. But beneath the soft turtlenecks and musical genius is a man with secrets. Lots of them.
What starts as intrigue quickly devolves into mistrust. He’s the kind of boyfriend who keeps you guessing, and not in the cute “what’s he planning for my birthday?” kind of way. More like, “Is he faking blindness to cover up a murder?” kind of way. Fun at first. Then terrifying. Aakash teaches us that intelligence without emotional honesty is just manipulation in slow motion.
Saif Ali Khan: The trust fund man-child with a charming shrug
Now let’s talk about the Saif Ali Khan genre; a cocktail of money, mischief, and mid-life crisis. He’s the rich, rakish charmer who’s too self-aware to be called clueless, but too emotionally lazy to be called a man. In Salaam Namaste, he gaslights his pregnant live-in girlfriend. In Love Aaj Kal, he falls apart because he cannot spell the word “maturity.” And in Cocktail, well, he’s just vibing between two women, neither of whom he truly deserves.
Saif’s characters are fun, until you realise you’re dating one. He’s the man who makes you laugh, opens wine like a pro, dances like no one’s watching at 2AM—and vanishes when it’s time to meet your parents. He doesn’t grow up, he ages. Usually in a linen shirt, at a beach bar, saying something pseudo-deep about modern love. And we eat it up. Until we don’t.
Here’s the thing: Bollywood boyfriends are irresistible not because they’re good for us, but because they represent the fantasy we were raised on. The fantasy that love should be hard, intensity equals intimacy. If you’re patient and cool enough, he will change, he’ll pick you, and he’ll see the light. But let’s call it what it is: a cinematic scam. Emotional unavailability wrapped in slow motion and background music is still emotional unavailability. We’ve spent decades watching heroines wait—for the text, for the apology, for the transformation that always seems just one heartbreak away. And it’s time we opt out.
Because here is what doesn’t make the final cut: therapy bills and the self-worth roller coaster. So no, we’re not romanticising these emotionally fragile men anymore. We’re over the poetic pining and moody montages. In 2025, the new fantasy is radical clarity. Emotional literacy. Someone who knows what they want and isn’t afraid to say it—even if it’s just “I’m free at 7. Can I pick you up?” No guitars. No existential spirals. Just grown men with Google Calendars and emotional range. Keep the stubble. Keep the poetry. But give us the peace.
Bollywood can keep its boyfriends, because we’re dating like we’ve learned something. And maybe, just maybe, we’re writing our own scripts now.
Fade to black, cue Beyonce.
