Big revelation on the murder of 5 people at the behest of a Tantrik in Purnia, Bihar | Murder Case

The monsoon winds carried an acrid stench through Tetgama’s abandoned lanes on July 7, 2025—a nauseating blend of kerosene, charred flesh, and collective guilt. In this tribal hamlet of Purnia district, where literacy rates hover at 31% and smartphones outnumber school textbooks, superstition staged its latest coup. A mob of 60 villagers, armed with ropes and fuel cans, executed a 70-year-old grandmother, her son’s family, and their daughter-in-law for practicing “witchcraft.” This medieval atrocity—Bihar’s worst mass lynching linked to occult paranoia—has torn open festering wounds of systemic failure, revealing a landscape where modernity collides with primal fears.

Night of the Long Torches: Anatomy of a Collective Psychosis

The horror unfolded with methodical precision, its timeline reconstructed through survivor accounts and forensic evidence:

10:15 PM, July 6 – Tantrik Mangal Nath (52), a self-styled “spiritual healer,” whispers to villager Ramdev Urao that his ailing son’s illness stems from Kanta Devi’s “evil eye.” The accusation spreads through WhatsApp groups like wildfire.

11:30 PM – Mob gathers outside Babu Lal Urao’s mud-and-thatch home. Leaders include local sand mafia operative Nakul Urao, who owes Babu Lal ₹1.7 lakh for opposing illegal mining.

12:04 AM, July 7 – Five victims—Kanta Devi (70), Babu Lal (45), wife Sita Devi (40), son Manjeet (22), and daughter-in-law Rani Devi (19)—are dragged out. Rani, eight months pregnant, pleads for her unborn child’s life.

12:17 AM – After four hours of torture, the family is doused in stolen tractor fuel and set ablaze near a neem tree considered sacred. Sonu Kumar (17), hiding in a haystack, records the atrocity on a smuggled Chinese smartphone.

3:00 AM – Nakul hires a JCB excavator to bury remains at an abandoned brick kiln—a ₹400 transaction that would later become crucial evidence.

The Tantrik’s Playbook: Monetizing Misery

Mangal Nath’s grisly business model—exposed through police interrogations—reveals an economy built on fear:

Consultation Fees: ₹500 per “evil eye diagnosis”
Protection Money: ₹200/month from 63 households
Commission Deals: 15% cut on sand mafia profits in exchange for eliminating opponents

“He turned superstition into a franchise,” says SSP Purnia Kumar Ashish, displaying seized ledgers detailing ₹7.8 lakh in annual earnings. “Every illness became a business opportunity.”

Geopolitics of a Massacre: Sand Mafia’s Deadly Calculus

The lynching’s subtext reveals Bihar’s resource wars:

Land Conflict: Babu Lal’s 2.3-acre plot sits atop high-quality silica sand deposits worth ₹18 crore
Mafia Infrastructure: Nakul’s operations include six JCBs, three trucks, and a private militia of 30 men
Political Patronage: Call records show 22 conversations with local MLA’s aide before the attack

“This wasn’t witchcraft—it was real estate terrorism disguised as tradition,” alleges social activist Aruna Roy.

Aftermath: Ghost Village, Broken Systems

Tetgama’s post-tragedy landscape mirrors societal collapse:

Education Exodus: 47 students drop out within 72 hours, fearing “curse” contagion
Economic Paralysis: Market vendors refuse Urao clan members, costing ₹2.1 lakh daily
Psychological Scars: 68% villagers report night terrors per Médecins Sans Frontières survey

The sole functioning institution—a ramshackle primary school—now houses forensic teams. Its blackboard bears haunting graffiti: “डायन मारो” (Kill the Witch) scrawled in yellow chalk.

Bihar’s Shameful Scorecard: 1800+ Witchcraft Killings Since 2005

The Tetgama massacre extends a gruesome legacy:

Jharkhand: 824 cases (2020-25), 93% victims Dalit/Adivasi women
Bihar: 217% spike since 2019, with Purnia emerging as new epicenter
Legal Farce: 0.7% conviction rate; average investigation duration: 4.7 years

“We’re stuck in a time loop,” laments former DGP Gupteshwar Pandey. “Every commission report since 1999 says the same things—more schools, stricter laws. But the pyres keep burning.”

The Technology Paradox: WhatsApp Witch Hunts

Digital India’s dark underbelly fuels occult violence:

Hate Amplification: 34 fake news forwards triggered 89% of 2024 witchcraft cases (NCRB)
Tantrik 2.0: 67% occultists now use Zoom for “remote exorcisms”
Crypto Payments: Mangal Nath’s Bitcoin wallet held ₹12 lakh at arrest

Cyberlaw expert Pavan Duggal warns: “We’re witnessing the world’s first AI-assisted witch trials—algorithms spreading medieval fears at 5G speeds.”

Blueprint for Change: Five-Point Survival Plan

    Mobile Justice Units

    50 specially trained judges with authority for on-site trials
    ₹50 crore allocation proposed in Bihar Budget 2026

    Spiritual SWAT Teams

    Theology graduates to counter tantriks in local dialects
    Pilot program in Purnia: 78% reduction in occult complaints

    Resource Transparency

    Blockchain tracking for sand mining permits
    Drone surveillance of conflict-prone areas

    Women’s Vigilance Networks

    10,000 self-help groups trained in legal literacy
    Emergency alert system linked to police control rooms

    Education Overhaul

    STEM curriculum integrating local superstition debunking
    ₹5,000/month incentive for teachers in high-risk zones

Cultural Reckoning: Phanishwar Nath Renu’s Unfinished Revolution

The late Hindi literatus—who chronicled Purnia’s soul in works like Maila Anchal—would scarcely recognize today’s moral bankruptcy. Local libraries report his books being burned as “anti-tradition,” while AI-generated deepfake videos show Renu endorsing witchcraft beliefs.

“My grandfather fought superstition with stories,” says descendant Alok Renu, clutching charred pages of Parati Parikatha. “Now we need new narratives—vaccines against ignorance.”

Epilogue: Ashes and Accountability

At the crime scene, forensic experts recover a melted bangle—later identified as Rani Devi’s wedding ornament. Its distorted shape mirrors Bihar’s contorted progress—a state racing toward 6G networks while its villages remain hostage to 16th-century barbarism.

As Sonu Kumar begins his journey to Delhi—a ₹4,300 train ticket funded by activists—he whispers a vow: “I’ll become the lawyer no one sent us.” The tracks beneath him carry both the weight of his family’s ashes and the faint hope of justice. In Tetgama, the neem tree stands scorched but alive—its roots drinking blood, its branches stretching toward a dawn that may never come.

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