THERE COMES A MOMENT IN EVERY YOUNG PERSON’S LIFE WHEN THEY STAND POISED ON THE BRINK OF POSSIBILITY, HAVING TASTED THEIR FIRST SIP OF SUCCESS, WITH THE WORLD SEEMING ENTIRELY THEIRS TO CONQUER.
It’s the thought that crosses my mind as I watch Dhruv Vikram move across the sprawling Skyline Suite at Marina Bay Sands.
In a panther print dressing gown by Shutiq and Grecian sandals by Kaka Sumi, he prowls before an audience cheering him on. Later, he slips beneath the sheets, offering the camera a glimpse of himself in all his morning glory for his first-ever cover shoot with Esquire India in Singapore.
Bedroom eyes. Stretching, turning, tossing—the technicians looming above him may as well not exist for the performance he delivers. Then, a moment: the robe slips open and he asks, “Too much?”.
“Nothing any of us haven’t seen before,” the photographer replies with a laugh.
And just like that, he settles into the performance.
Later, Dhruv’s in a corner, eyes closed, thrumming to the beat of The Weeknd’s song, mouthing the lyrics under his breath. That’s her dream, to be popular (huh), kill anyone to be popular... Music sets the tempo for him; it’s clearly a real love, and before long, control of the day’s playlist is his.
And it’s been a long day—almost 12 hours, to be precise. “I’m used to 24 hours of playing kabaddi, so this is nothing. My foot was cramping, but I thought, who gives a f**k?” he says with a grin.
The guy knows how to put in the work. After all, he spent almost four years immersed in his last project, the critically acclaimed Tamil-language film Bison Kaalamaadan. Currently streaming on Netflix, Bison tells the story of Kittan Velusamy, a young man determined to become a world-class kabaddi player against a backdrop of caste and political conflict. Dhruv breathes fire into a performance of few words, and it’s truly astonishing how someone raised in privilege—he’s practically Tamil cinema royalty, being “Chiyaan” Vikram’s son—transforms himself so completely on screen. Even he seems startled by the physicality and emotional depth that he and director Mari Selvaraj uncovered in the character. “He [Selvaraj] would always ask me to be a little more sombre, a little quieter, a little sadder, a little guiltier,” Dhruv recalls, when I met him to chat a day before the shoot. “I didn’t understand why. Even if I was just standing in a shot, he’d say, ‘Keep it down. Be quiet.’”
Kittan carries within him an ocean of grief; his own and that of generations marked by caste oppression and poverty before him. It was only after watching the finished film that Dhruv witnessed the depth of his character’s despair. Reflecting on his performance, he says disarmingly, “I managed to do it only because I wanted it that badly. This isn’t something I imagined when I was out there in the heat, grinding through kabaddi every day. I knew something would come from it; I just didn’t know what. I only knew this film would give my life purpose. That’s what drove me.”
Selvaraj, known for his immersive style of filmmaking and himself a kabaddi enthusiast, sent Dhruv to his hometown near Tirunelveli to prepare for the role. There, the actor lived like a farmhand even as he trained in the contact sport. “My director told me, ‘Go work in the fields, spend time with the animals. Only then will your kabaddi get better,’” he recalls.
To play the role convincingly, he had to understand that for the village boys, kabaddi wasn’t merely a sport but an all-consuming way of life. Initially, Dhruv was frozen out. “I wanted them to think I was cool. I wanted them to like me. But they saw me as so-and-so’s son, an actor, somebody who had lived a very different life, who came in on a plane and had a nice house back home. They probably thought, ‘Why indulge him? He’s not going to get it.’“
Eventually, they started to appreciate his effort. “I was the one guy that had to do more than them, because they already knew the sport. Once I started getting good, then there was respect,” he says. Beyond that, he believes a large part of playing the role came from who he is as a person, something he credits his mother with instilling in him. “I’m very curious about people’s lives, very empathetic. I started learning about their journeys, comparing them to my own. Then a certain kind of magic happens that you really can’t explain.”
Dhruv is, at the very least, extremely good at making people feel seen. At the shoot, he walks up to thank someone for a compliment he hadn’t properly registered earlier. Checks if the team has had lunch. Is happy to hang after a gruelling day, swapping stories about his hopes and dreams (“off the record!”) over drinks.
He offers Esquire India a glimpse into what striving for success can look like beneath the PR machinery and rehearsed quotes of modern stardom. “Respect, respect,” he hollers when someone makes a disparaging remark about an industry legend.
Later, he estimates that the version of himself we are seeing is “about 85 per cent” of who he really is.
“Every young actor should have this experience,” he says about our two days together on the shoot.
It’s the kind of warmth that can disarm even the most cynical among us.
SPENDING TIME WITH DHRUV, IT’S CLEAR THAT HE’S HUNGRY FOR ALL THERE IS TO ACHIEVE. YET BENEATH THE STEELY RESOLVE IS A VULNERABILITY THAT COMES FROM UNDERSTANDING HOW FLEETING SUCCESS CAN BE, HOW EASILY IT CAN ELUDE YOU, SKIP A GENERATION OR END WITH ONE. THE SON OF A SUPERSTAR, HE UNDERSTANDS THE VAGARIES OF THIS BUSINESS BETTER THAN MOST.
His legacy follows him everywhere. At the shoot monitor, I hear murmurs of how “he looks like dad”. A styling assistant on set, who is a fourth-generation Singaporean of Indian descent, tells him her cousin is a huge fan of Chiyaan. The security guard at the shoot, also seemingly of Indian origin, offers a deadpan nod during a conversation about Vikram’s popularity. “His father can transform himself—big when he wants to be, or small,” is the only sentence I hear him utter in those 12 hours.
At Marina Bay Sands’ rooftop nightspot Cé La Vi, the bartender gives him a knowing salute. A few young men stop by our table, and Dhruv greets them with the easy manners of someone raised well.
He’s done a handful of films, I find myself thinking. How do all these people already know him?
Clearly, the force is strong with this one.
“I’ve said this before, every kid that is born to an actor is going to want to be one,” he says, recalling when the dream first took hold. “You live vicariously through your parent. And then, once you’re old enough, the question arises as to whether you’re willing to be compared, to go through the pressure or not. But it is a dream that every star kid has, is what I believe.”
Renowned for his method acting, Vikram broke out with the award-winning Sethu (1999) directed by debutant filmmaker Bala. A string of commercial successes and highly regarded performances followed, including a National Award for Pithamagan (2003), also directed by Bala. Films like Anniyan (2005), Raavanan (2010), I (2015) and Ponniyin Selvan (2022–23) introduced him to audiences beyond regional cinema.
Dhruv grew up during the years of his father’s biggest hits. “Watching my dad in theatres when I was young, I used to feel like [his fans] were screaming for me,” he says, explaining, “A kid is not going to know how to be humble or reflective or self-aware. You just feel like all of that belongs to you. Only once you grow older do you realise that’s not the right way to look at it. That’s what I feel happened to me.”
A devastating motorcycle accident left Vikram with a severely damaged leg; doctors reportedly told him he might never walk again. An iron-clad resolve is what carried him through, so it stands to reason he would want his son to benefit from everything he had learnt navigating the industry.
Dhruv was packed off to the Lee Strasberg Theatre & Film Institute, a favourite among film industry families. Armed with visions of New York borrowed from Kal Ho Naa Ho and The Wolf of Wall Street, the reality of the city proved far from what he was expecting. But it was where, for the first time, he was able to really live and breathe his dream of becoming an actor. “When I was in Chennai and said that I wanted to act, it was not accepted very easily. But when I went to New York, nobody cared about who my dad was. I was one amongst many people who were passionate about acting, which is what made it easier,” he says.
Back in India, his debut was set to be the Tamil remake of Arjun Reddy, Sandeep Reddy Vanga’s smash hit starring Vijay Deverakonda. Bala was brought on board to direct, and though the film was completed, it was ultimately shelved after the producers cited creative differences and dissatisfaction with the final version. They announced they would “start afresh” with Dhruv still in the lead, remaking the film with a different cast, crew and director. In 2019, Adithya Varma finally marked Dhruv’s debut.
For any actor, let alone one whose father has achieved the rare South Indian distinction of becoming a sobriquet unto himself, to shoot a debut film, only to reshoot the entire thing with another director, would be daunting enough. To then have both versions released (Bala’s Varmaa eventually received a limited OTT release), inviting viewers to dissect the performances, compare every frame and magnify every flaw—all amid speculation around a fallout that threatened to consume the narrative entirely—could not have been easy.
It must have cast a shadow over what should have been one of the happiest moments of his life.
But then, Dhruv wasn’t named “unshakeable” for nothing. He jumped right back in the ring, this time opposite his famous father, playing the estranged son to Vikram’s alcoholic protagonist in Mahaan (2022). Was it really the moment, so early in his career, to invite comparison onscreen?
Dhruv calls it a very empowering experience. “‘Is it going to be hard? He's achieved so much. How am I going to act with him?’ I used all those thoughts for the character,” he explains, describing how he channelled his own anxieties about acting opposite his hugely accomplished father into the son’s complicated feelings toward his father in the film. “It’s very possible that the son in the film feels that way—like my dad has achieved so much, and I’m here trying to grind it out by myself. Maybe the only way I can become something is by pulling him down.”
There’s a marvellous procession sequence in Mahaan where father and son meet for the first time and dance together. The chemistry between them is arresting: the son’s aggression absorbed by the father’s effortless ease. In some ways, it mirrors the myriad emotions embedded within a dynamic like theirs, which Dhruv alludes to when he speaks about the “main character syndrome” that worked against him during adolescence. Drawing from his own inner conflict, he believes, made that performance truthful.
“I sometimes wish I had been the son of some other actor, because this man is known for his discipline, his body… he’s 60 years old, and he looks like that,” he says with a rueful laugh. “Being his son has been harder because everyone in the industry—from the cameraman to the light man to the costume assistant to the art department—knows the kind of discipline my dad brings to a set.”
Vikram’s resilience in the face of a debilitating injury is another standard Dhruv measures himself against. “If he’s achieved all this with a broken leg, then who am I to complain about long hours or injuries? All of that feels immaterial,” he says.
After Bison, Dhruv finally feels ready to take control of his career. He seems subdued when asked about the setbacks that came before. “It is brutal, right? You got to do what you got to do to endure. There is no other choice. Either you endure or you give up, and giving up was never an option,” is all he offers.
On his right wrist is a tattoo of his father’s name, a permanent reminder of the inheritance he carries. He has no intention of escaping his father’s shadow; on the contrary, he believes becoming himself requires embracing it. “We’re intertwined,” he says.
DAYS BEFORE WE LEAVE FOR SINGAPORE, WE’RE TOLD DHRUV HAS CHANGED HIS HAIR. HE’S SPORTING A MULLET FOR AN UPCOMING FILM, AN ACTION-COMEDY. THERE IS PANIC; ON BOTH SIDES, WE LATER LEARN. HE WAS WORRIED ABOUT WHAT WE’D THINK OF IT.
As it turns out, he’s very into the shoot. He toys with piercing his ears. Floats the idea of buzzing his facial hair for the final few frames. He’s vibing in Tom Ford, Rkivecity, Ashish Soni and Corneliani. Though he doesn’t appear to be a jewellery person, he’s taken by the bracelets. By the end of the day, we may even have converted him into a watch lover.
Was he always interested in fashion? “I was not,” he says. “But now I understand how much of a difference showing up well can make, not just in how people perceive you, but for yourself.”
For Dhruv, there is still much of life left to discover; for his largely Gen Z (and female!) fanbase, just as much remains unknown about him.
“There is no mystique,” he says with a laugh, disappointing anyone hoping otherwise. “I live the most ordinary life.”
His circle consists largely of school, college and family friends. “I have no friends from the industry,” he says candidly. His ideal evening involves lying in bed, watching something and ordering food in. “I love sweets. Cakes, mithai-type stuff.”
Music is another major passion and over the course of the shoot, the playlist shuffles between Drake, Akon, Post Malone, Justin Timberlake and “Hey Ya!” from Karthik Calling Karthik, to which he lip-syncs with a makeshift microphone in hand. “I like this kind of music when you have to do something professional and get in the mood for it,” he says, though his personal taste leans more towards old-school rock, Coldplay and “anything with a bit of nostalgia”.
A Grade Five Trinity College London piano player, today he regrets not completing the course because he’d love to make music of his own. He writes, and has already laid down a few Tamil tracks, though. “My dad thinks that just because I’m into music and play the guitar, I should say yes to every script involving music,” he says, with amusement. “But I believe that if you play a musician, you can only do it once.”
As Dhruv waits for that right script to arrive, Imtiaz Ali’s Rockstar remains the gold standard. “The thing I like about Rockstar is that I can’t tell you what I like about Rockstar,” he says, the film offering a certain je ne sais quoi that he himself can’t quite put into words. “It just makes you feel something. It’s the perfect synchrony between Rahman sir’s music, Ranbir’s performance and the film’s editing, and the way it explores longing, tragedy and love through music.”
If the tortured romanticism of Rockstar resonates with him, does that intensity spill into his own love life too? Industry gossip has linked him to his Bison costar Anupama Parameswaran, but it is here that Dhruv chooses to keep his answers guarded.
Have you ever had your heart broken?
“ Yeah.”
And are you single now?
He smiles.
Attempting to widen the conversation, he says, “I think love holds a very important part in my life. And that could be the love I have for my fans, for my family.”
I roll my eyes; Dhruv bursts out laughing.
He meanders on the topic of love. “Some people say love is this magical thing, two people destined to be together, soulmates and all of that. My friend, who’s a doctor, says it’s just hormones and biology, just a human reaction. Somebody else says there’s nothing special about it; you think someone is your soulmate, it doesn’t work out, and then you find someone else.
“I like to believe the first, more romantic version,” he admits. Pausing for a moment, he adds, “When you’re young, everything feels possible. Love feels like it does in the movies. But maybe as you grow older, that starts to disappear a little.”
There is a pragmatic streak Dhruv has, and it’s clear he understands the distance between idealism and real life. It extends to his professional goals as well. We see the eager boy giving way to a more measured strategist. After the success of Bison, he’s become selective about the films he takes on, weighing prestige projects against commercial masala films.
“Now is when I have to make that decision as to what kind of films I want to do,” he says, firmly. A very reputed filmmaker recently approached him with a role that he was excited by as it tested his swimming prowess. “I read that scene and I was like, ‘Wow, I want to do that.’ And then I was like, wait, hold up. Slow down. Slow down,” he says. “I think it’s very important that I strike a commercial balance, because that’s what the mass majority likes, especially in the South.”
Of the journey so far, though, there’s little he would change. “I wish I hadn’t gone through Bison with so much self-doubt and had known there was light at the end of the tunnel after it. I feel like I might have enjoyed it a little more,” he says ruefully.
A year ago, Dhruv would’ve been drawn to the idea of doing something unimaginable, throwing himself headlong into it and figuring the rest out later. Today, he seems more inclined toward visualising his ambition. “I don’t want anything to catch me off guard or surprise me, like I show up there and I’m like, ‘Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m here’. I don’t want that anymore. I want to know that this, this, this is possible. Dream it, achieve it, and when it happens, well, okay.”
Stardom, he believes, should not come at the cost of ordinary life. He credits his mother Shailaja, a psychologist and teacher, for instilling this in him. It was her decision to stay out of the limelight that ensured Dhruv and his sister Akshita had a very normal upbringing. “You may not even be able to find a photo of my mother. She still travels in autos and buses, and leads a very grounded life, which is what she wanted for me and my sister,” he says, adding, “My parents have enjoyed a certain amount of privacy, and I know that it is possible to lead a life like that. This is something that I would want for my children as well.”
There’s still time for all of that, but Dhruv is already getting in the practice. After the interview, he’s planning to ChatGPT where in Singapore he can buy play makeup for his preschooler niece.
“You should smile more,” the photographer tells him as we wrap for the day. Dhruv laughs, admitting he’s always been conscious of a crooked tooth.
The young actor heads off to his suite, his Man Friday Kalai in tow. Given the scale of his ambition, the entourage, the tam-jham of stardom, will arrive soon enough. And when it does, one suspects Dhruv will know exactly how to play the part…without disappearing entirely into it.
Credits
Chairperson: Avarna Jain
CEO: Debashish Ghosh
Editor: Rahul Gangwani
Creative Direction & Styling: Vijendra Bhardwaj
Photography: Shawn Paul Tan
Chief Styling Assistant: Mehak Khanna
Cover story: Sonal Nerurkar
Personal care and styling: Manisa Tan
Cover Design: Azad Mohan
Bookings Editor: Varun Shah
Location: Marina Bay Sands
HMUA Assistant: Karol Soh
Styling assistant: Shavita Rajendran
Photography assistants: Chay Wei Kang, Xie Fengmao
Production Assistant: Natalia Sienna
Editorial Mentor: Saira Menezes
Managing Editor: Sonal Nerurkar
Deputy Editor: Mayukh Majumdar
Digital Editor: Saurav Bhanot
Features Editor: Nitin Sreedhar
Junior Fashion Editor: Komal Shetty
Head of Copy Desk: Prannay Pathak
Senior Features Writer: Jeena J Billimoria
Digital Writers: Abhya Adlakha, Rudra Mulmule
Senior Social Media Executive: Riti Ghai
Social Media Executive: Kashish Mishra
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