What if these 8 Bollywood’s toxic men went to therapy instead of seeking revenge or waiting for a woman to fix them?

Imagine if Ranvijay, Kabir Singh, or Dev had actually chosen to work on themselves. We’d live in a world where rage gets replaced by reflection, axes by accountability, and no one collapses dramatically outside a haveli.

Bollywood men or rather, the heroic male characters we’ve grown up watching, have done wildly questionable things in the name of love. They’ve stalked women left, right, and centre, drunk themselves into legends, and punched their way through every emotional problem. For decades, we’ve watched these chaotic “heroes” spiral, self-destruct, and wreak havoc on the world, only to be rewarded with dramatic background scores and happily-ever-afters. Because Bollywood (and honestly, we too) have long worshipped the “pyaar mein deewana” archetype, the man who mistakes obsession for intensity, violence for passion, and women for emotional rehabilitation centres. Communication is an unknown concept to them. Instead, they brood, brawl, binge-drink, and break boundaries like cardio and therapy are reserved strictly for side characters. The hero, apparently, is born with abs and emotional illiteracy. But imagine a world where these men didn’t unleash their trauma on society or wait for a woman to magically “fix” them. What if, instead of chasing women, enemies, or entire neighbourhoods, they chased emotional stability? What if they sat on a therapy couch before picking up an axe, a bottle, or a bike? What would happen then?

Also Read: 8 characters who’d have been so much happier if they just stayed single!

We decided to have a witty reimagination of how some of Bollywood’s most iconic toxic heroes might have turned out if they had access to emotional literacy, accountability, and one extremely good-to-be-true therapist.

Ranvijay (Animal) would learn something very basic - that love doesn’t require bloodshed

Ranvijay is a walking and talking rage machine, a man who expresses affection through body counts, roaring monologues, and is dipped in alcohol. But therapy would hit him with a revolutionary idea that “You can love your father and also heal the rejection you get in return from him”. He might explore breathing exercises instead of vengeance, unpack childhood trauma instead of fighting enemies who turn out to be long lost brothers, and realise that love doesn’t always need an ambulance on standby. Post-therapy, he would trade that penal-shaped gun blazing machine for scented candles and find the magical word “accountability” as something groundbreaking!

Kabir (Kabir Singh) would finally realise that Preeti is not a rehabilitation centre

Kabir feels like his personality is made of 90% anger and 10% blood arteries; that's screaming for help. His therapy would probably start with confiscating his cigarettes, working on his vocabulary and eventually helping him discover radical concepts like consent. It will also help him understand different forms of love other than slapping women, apologising without being prompted and the importance of hydration (with water instead of alcohol). We think by the end, Kabir would be transformed into a man who is emotionally regulated, far less dramatic, and someone who doesn't treat women like permanent fixtures, instead of chasing around maids or taking out his anger on the world. 

Maddy (RHTDM) would understand that stalking ≠ romance

Is falling in love with a woman at one glance in the rain cute? Yes! But chasing her in the entire town while impersonating her fiancé, not so much. Maddy’s love language is “surveillance,” and his hobbies include pretending obsession is just another form of passion. Therapy would force him to confront harsh truths that chasing your love and using identity theft to get her are not exactly synonyms. He would learn to develop interests that aren’t named Reena, stop showing up unannounced, and finally discover that blaming women for something you did wrong isn’t sexy.

Kundan (Raanjhanaa) would understand that rejection is not a global conspiracy 

For Kundan, therapy would help him understand that “no” does not mean “try again louder”, but that it simply means NO. He would be informed that love isn’t supposed to be a punishment and rejection isn’t a plot twist written to hurt him personally. Over time, he would realise that obsession isn’t a viable life plan and heartbreak doesn’t need to escalate into a national-level crisis. He would find journaling, respecting boundaries, and, for the first time, not chasing someone who clearly asked him not to.

Dev (Devdas) would realise that self-destruction isn’t romantic behaviour

Dev truly believes that the grander the suffering, the purer the love. Therapy might help him understand the mind-bending truth that nostalgia is not a personality trait to hold on to and martyrdom isn’t exactly sexy, especially when you are not dying for the country. Dev would end up finally admitting that Paro didn’t break him, but his own choices did. Post-therapy, he might also stop treating whisky as a survival tool and refrain from passing out dramatically outside people’s houses. 

Radhe Mohan (Tere Naam) would learn how to cope without violence or terrifying haircuts

Radhe’s idea of falling in love resembles lighting a matchstick; it is supposed to be fast, loud, and dangerous, which is why his heartbreak is also about breaking the world. Therapy will introduce him to healthy outlets that don’t involve head injuries or street fights. And with time, Radhe, rather than being thrown into a mental asylum, would evolve into a surprisingly soft human who meditates, practices calm communication, and makes his barber shed a joyful tear when he decides to retire that haircut for good.

Badri (Badrinath Ki Dulhania) would discover that women are not projects

Badri is always wrapped in his hero-saviour mode, whose solution to every problem is to fix it himself, blissfully unaware of the patriarchy powering his worldview. This is exactly why therapy would give him vocabulary he never knew he needed, such as agency, empathy, emotional maturity, and growth. Slowly, he would realise that Vaidehi wasn’t rejecting love but emotional stagnation. Post-therapy, Badri would learn to genuinely listen and maybe for the first time ask Vaidehi what she wants instead.

Mac (Garam Masala) would figure out that jokes aren’t emotional substitutes

Mac, the comedic tornado of chaos, has always dodged accountability behind punchlines and honestly, we’ve all loved watching him do it. But therapy wouldn’t just call his bluff; it would call ours too. Because juggling multiple women, landing in bizarre situations, and escaping every consequence isn’t a personality trait, it’s avoidance. And laughing at it without a shred of guilt isn’t comedy, it’s denial. With time, he’d learn, as we did that humour is great, just not when it insults others. A post-therapy Mac would finally discover stability, the unexpected charm of telling the truth, and that there’s plenty of comedy in that too.

In another universe, maybe these men grow, heal, and realise that love doesn’t require violence, obsession, self-destruction, or stalking but just therapy, introspection, and the occasional boundary. Until then, we’ll keep watching them spiral on screen while secretly wishing they’d trade their dramatic monologues for a weekly counselling session. Because honestly? If Bollywood’s toxic heroes ever embraced emotional stability, our love stories would finally look less like cautionary tales and more like actual, emotionally healthy relationships. Therapy wouldn’t just fix these men, it would fix half of Bollywood’s plotlines. No stalking packaged as love, no alcohol-fuelled self-destruction, no rage monologues masquerading as romance. Just healthier relationships, fewer police complaints, and maybe even shorter run-times.

For more entertainment content, follow us at @socialketchupbinge.