Plan B Uncovered: The Ghost Pistol That Nearly Ended Raja Raghuwanshi’s Life

From the moment Raja Raghuwanshi’s blood-soaked body was discovered on a misty Shillong hillside, questions have swirled around one elusive object: a homemade pistol that never quite made headlines—until now. In the first days after the June 2 killing, authorities in Meghalaya and Madhya Pradesh were baffled by the silence of gunfire. No witnesses reported hearing the crack of a shot echoing through the pine forests; instead, Raja’s fractured skull and bruised body told a tale of savage violence delivered by brute force. Yet behind the scenes, investigators uncovered a far more sinister plot, one that featured not only a brutal push from behind, but also the hidden presence of a “desi katta” pistol as a back-up weapon. As each new fragment of the case has emerged, the question has grown ever more urgent: Was Raja also meant to be shot dead?

In the hush of the early investigation, police officers focused on Sonam Raghuwanshi’s tear-streaked face, her anguished sobs, and her claim that she remembered nothing. A honeymoon turned horrific crime scene, the couple’s car was found abandoned near a roadside temple, its doors unlocked, Raja’s wedding jewelry missing, and Sonam roaming in a daze. Local media seized upon the tableau: a young bride in white, crumpled on the damp grass, staring blankly as rescue teams combed the area. “She seemed oblivious to the broken body at her feet,” recalled one constable. “We thought it was a crime of passion, an enraged spouse lashing out.”

But behind that initial misreading lay a far more methodical design. Within 48 hours, call-detail records pointed to Raj Kushwaha—Sonam’s secret boyfriend—as the architect of the ambush. Phone pings traced the movements of three scooters ferried by Raj and his cohorts, as they shadowed the unsuspecting newlyweds up the mountain road. Detectives reconstructed the timeline: Prince Scans the route twice; one of the scooters pockets the homemade pistol, neatly wrapped inside an unmarked black duffel. The plan was clear: if the push failed or Raja resisted, shot No.1 would end the whole charade. Failing that, they could still hurl him off the precipice, making his death appear an accident, or an impulsive crime gone tragically awry.

Sonam, police allege, provided the funds. Her bank statement revealed a deposit of ₹700,000 just days before the journey—money wired through hawala channels, impossible to trace through conventional ledgers. Of that sum, ₹500,000 was withdrawn in cash upon her return to Indore, concealed inside a single travel bag. When interrogators asked what she carried, she hesitated before admitting: gold chains worth nearly ₹300,000, stacks of currency, and “an old-fashioned country pistol,” as she casually described it. The question of why a newlywed would need a gun hung in the interrogation room like a guillotine blade.

Sonam insisted she left the bag at the rented flat in Devas district, believing its contents might incriminate her. But the flat’s landlord, builder Shailen “Silom” James, testified under custody that he helped her destroy crucial evidence. Under police surveillance, James had initially denied any involvement, then admitted he’d gathered whatever items Sonam left behind—“a bag, some papers, and that strange little weapon”—and burned them in his backyard pit. He retained the gold and money, convinced he could pawn them quickly and quietly. That act of greed, investigators now say, became his undoing.

Forensic teams scoured the ashes, recovering fragments of melted gunmetal and scorched fabric from the duffel. Ballistics experts confirmed what remain: the pistol had been crudely fashioned from scrap steel, capable of discharging a single shot. Even in its corroded state, fragments of a homemade cartridge casing were identified, implying it could have been loaded at least once. The close-quarters kill would likely have been instantaneous, sparing no time for Raja to cry out—an advantage that may have swayed the conspirators to rely instead on sheer violence. The absence of a gunshot in witnesses’ accounts may have been the plan’s one miscue: the plan to kill by firearm was ready to be executed, but ultimately abandoned when the push proved more discreet.

Inside the interrogation room, Sonam’s demeanor shifted with every new allegation. One moment she feigned ignorance. The next, she claimed she had feared for her own safety on that isolated hilltop, that the pistol belonged to Anand, a mutual friend, and that she only stashed it for “protection” against wild animals. Detectives were unimpressed. “We knew it was part of their blueprint,” said Deputy SP Chiranjeev Singh, who led the questioning. “They had Plan A: shove him off the cliff. Plan B: shoot him if he resisted. And we found the ghost of Plan B in that charred metal.”

Across state lines, Meghalaya Police coordinated with colleagues in Indore to trace the weapon’s origins. A small arms dealer in Guwahati remembered selling two pieces of illicit steelwork—deconstructed as ceremonial daggers but reassembled as crude single-shot barrels. Surveillance images matched Raj and one of his accomplices visiting the shop on May 28, five days before the murder. Under cover of a festive puja, they purchased the components for ₹12,000. The timestamps, the CCTV stills, and a reluctant shopkeeper’s admission wove an unbreakable chain linking the pistol to the conspiracy.

Meanwhile, Raj’s role in the plot became ever more central. Text messages uncovered by cyber forensics revealed his calculations: “He’s heavier than you thought. Pistol might misfire. Stick to push,” he cautioned Sonam in a late-night WhatsApp exchange. When interrogators confronted her with these snippets, her eyes darted around the room. “He meant derail the scooter,” she stammered. “Not push Raja off the path.” Her protestations dissolved when officials sketched out the entire scheme on a whiteboard. Every logical loophole, every contradictory claim, collapsed under the weight of recorded evidence.

In Indore, the arrest of Silom James sent shockwaves through the community. A respected builder with political connections, James never imagined his brief moment of avarice would land him in handcuffs. He confessed that, after Sonam fled to Ghazipur, he panicked and ordered his security aide, Balveer, to carry out the incineration. Balveer himself was later found hiding at a friend’s farmhouse; when brought in, he corroborated James’s story. Both men now face multiple charges: destroying evidence, abetting murder, and participating in a criminal conspiracy. The builder’s downfall underscored how greed and fear can topple even those who believe themselves untouchable.

As the prosecution builds its case for the upcoming trial, every sensational detail is being deployed to ensure the jury will be unmoved by Sonam’s tears. Days ago, she was photographed arriving at a corrections hospital in handcuffs, clad in a crisp white salwar kameez, her face a mask of composed sorrow. Defense lawyers whisper of a plea bargain, hinting that their client may testify against higher-ups in exchange for leniency. Yet with three accomplices already convicted, and the shadow of that pistol looming large, any deal seems unlikely to reduce Sonam’s peril from life imprisonment to a less severe term.

Behind closed courtroom doors, the state’s forensic lead, Dr. Meera Goswami, prepared a chilling demonstration. A re-enactment of the shooting scenario—complete with a life-sized dummy, a replica of the homemade firearm, and synchronized audio of the Bali nuclear’s single-shot crack—will leave jurors in no doubt that the pistol was intended not as a roadside curiosity, but as a weapon of death. “When they see how little force is needed to kill at point-blank range,” Dr. Goswami told reporters, “they’ll understand why the conspirators brought it along.”

Yet beyond the cold calculus of evidence, the human toll continues to resonate. Raja’s family in Indore has been shattered, their grief compounded by a sense of betrayal. His mother, Jamuna Devi, broke down in court, clutching a faded wedding photograph. “My son didn’t deserve to die this way,” she wept. “He came to Shillong with dreams of starting a new life. Instead, he walked into a trap.” Social media has erupted with public outrage, thousands demanding capital punishment for Sonam and Raj, and calling for a deeper purge of the hawala networks that funded the crime.

Meanwhile, in Shillong, the blood-stained rock where Raja fell has become a grim tourist spot, with local guides recounting the lurid details to travelers. Police have cordoned off the area, erecting mesh barriers to preserve the scene, but the memory of that fatal push lingers like a curse on those winding paths. For residents, the case has shattered the illusion of calm that surrounds the city’s verdant hills, reminding everyone that violence can lurk beneath even the most picturesque vistas.

The pistol’s story is now woven into every narrative strand: a symbol of premeditated malice, a fallback weapon never used, and a ghostly reminder of how close the conspirators came to sowing even greater terror. Did they lack confidence in their own strength and therefore carry a gun “just in case”? Or did they plan to silence Raja forever, only to be deterred by the echo that would have betrayed them? No witness account recalls the crack of gunfire, but thanks to James’s misstep, forensic science has captured the ghost of that shot—etched in melted metal, charred ashes, and the unshakeable certainty that before he died, Raja was just inches away from a bullet’s deadly path.

As the trial date approaches, all eyes are on Sonam, seated behind bullet-proof glass, her steely gaze scanning the courtroom each morning. On one side sit her defense attorneys, poring over psychiatric reports and financial records in search of mitigating circumstances. On the other, a line of state prosecutors, armed with digital reconstructions and forensic exhibits that lay bare every nefarious turn in the plan. Somewhere in the middle sits the jury, tasked with weighing Sonam’s dramatic transformation from bride to alleged conspirator against the wall of evidence that leaves little room for doubt.

In the hush before opening statements, the prosecutor’s final words to the jury will likely center on that pistol: “It was never meant to collect dust. It was meant to kill.” Whether the jury will agree remains to be seen, but one thing is certain: in India’s annals of modern crime, the Sonam Raghuwanshi case will be remembered not just for the fatal push that ended Raja’s life, but for the chilling presence of that weapon—a silent promise of death that underpinned every calculated move. And as the hills of Shillong fade behind the courthouse walls, the question lingers for all of us: how many more lives hang in the balance, hidden inside charred ashes and unspoken threats, waiting to be unearthed?