‘If only someone would say what happened that night’

When Napeansea Road guard Sanjay Pandit found himself under police scrutiny after his son was accused of murder, mid-day decided to revisit families destroyed by a freak crime

Sanjay Pandit is guarded when he takes our call with a gingerly, “Hello...” He is on a train to Sitamarhi district in Bihar where he hails from when we manage to connect with him. “Right now,” he says, “I have no idea [about the future]. My parents have been calling me and crying non-stop. I haven’t seen my son in days. I am going home to be with them.”

Pandit, who until two weeks ago, was a security guard at a building beside Tahnee Heights, a residential highrise in Napeansea Road, saw his life turn turtle when his son Kanhaiya, 19, was arrested for allegedly murdering his employer’s wife. Kanhaiya was recently employed as a domestic help by Tahnee resident and jeweller Mukesh Shah. The day after he joined duty, Shah’s wife Jyoti was found strangled when Shah returned home. Jewellery worth R3 lakh was missing from the apartment. As was Kanhaiya.

Niddhi and Prakash Kukreja lost their elder daughter Jhanvi to a gruesome death on New Year’s Eve 2020. Today, the family is reduced to a ghost of what  it once used  to be. Pic/Shadab Khan

The Malabar Hill police launched a manhunt and arrested him at Lokmanya Tilak Terminus, where he had boarded a train to Bihar. This was on March 12, barely a few hours after the crime. The stolen jewellery was recovered from his belongings.

We ask Pandit if there was anything in Kanhaiya’s demeanour that gave away his intentions and desperation for money. “Woh mera beta hai,” he says. “You think, if I had known that he desperately needed money, I wouldn’t have helped him out somehow? I would have done anything to prevent him from doing something 
so dastardly.”

The Tahnee Heights building at Napeansea Road, where Kanhaiya Pandit is alleged to have murdered his employer Mukesh Shah’s wife, Jyoti, on March 11. Pic/Atul Kamble 

For the 45-year-old, the last two weeks have been a whirlwind. It was the police who informed him about Kanhaiya being on the run. The next day, he watched as his son was brought to Esplanade Court in shackles, and fielded endless calls from friends and family. He is close to breaking down.

“My father is 65,” Pandit tells us, “My mother is nearing 60. They are unable to fathom what happened and I’m worried that something untoward will happen to them. I will stay with them for a week or so before I return. I have no clue what I’ll do then.” 

Sushant Satpute (in blue) with his mother Suvarna (seated) and grandmother shortly before his arrest 

Because Pandit had been an old hand in the area, Kanhaiya was quickly hired by the Shahs on his recommendation. It was no surprise that following the murder on March 11, the police detained and grilled the father. But, he had no answers. Eventually, Kanhaiya called Pandit to tell him that he was on a train to Bihar, and had reached Nashik. Pandit did his duty and informed the police. The police alerted the GRP, who apprehended Kanhaiya at Bhusaval station.

Police officers whom mid-day spoke to said that the families of those involved in crimes, both victims and accused, are the worse off. And a frequent role that beat constables have to play is that of counsellor. They are regularly contacted by family members of alleged accused, seeking help in drumming sense into the hot-headed young ones, or by relatives of those who have lost their kin to crimes like murder.

Jhanvi with her parents and younger sister Manya in happier times 

“It’s common and very unfortunate,” says retired Assistant Commissioner of Police Sunil Deshmukh. “Back when I was with the Anti Terrorism Squad and the underworld was at its most active in Mumbai, a filmmaker, who was doing quite well at the time, brought his son to me. The boy had been released on bail after an arrest in a gang-related assault case, and his father pleaded with me to save his son from becoming a gangster—a very attractive prospect in those days.”

Deshmukh gave the boy a dressing down, asked him to keep in touch. “We kept a close watch on him.” Eventually, the boy went on to become a valued informant for the police, and now works, bringing home a stable income.

Jhanvi with Diya Padalkar, her close friend and next door neighbour—and now the accused in her murder 

Deshmukh was lucky in this instance. But policemen agree that despite their best efforts, often it’s the families of individuals involved in crimes that suffer.

It was 2022. Nerul resident Suvarna Satpute was recovering from the scars of an abusive marriage when tragedy struck. She had left her first husband with son Sushant when he was just six months old, having had enough of physical abuse. After years of fending for herself, she found love again and was now married again. Sushant was in school by then and doing well. She had acquired a diploma in nursing and landed a job at a private Ayurveda clinic.

Then, on February 9, 2022, Sushant was picked up by the police for allegedly bludgeoning Satpute’s father Laxman Ghuge to death at his Wadala residence.

Kanhaiya Pandit, Sanjay Pandit and Sunil Deshmukh 

“My world collapsed! Sushant was addicted to cigarettes and drugs too. His behaviour was anxious and he was angry all the time. I tried my best to get him back on track, telling myself that he had a hard childhood. But the police’s contention—that he killed my father when he refused to give him money to buy cigarettes—pulled the ground from under my feet.”

The next two years she calls the toughest of her life, not only because she had to see her son as a murder accused but also because her family had turned on her.
“All I was doing was sticking by my son, which any mother would do. But my mother and sisters saw this as betrayal. They hate me for choosing my son over my dead father. Pan saheb, tumhi saanga, what was I supposed to do? What would you have done?” 

Help came in the form of Dard Se Hamdard Tak, a non-profit that works with undertrials from marginalised sections. It took up Sushant’s case and, after a two-year trial, met with success this month, when the Sessions Court acquitted Sushant of all charges. The court observed that he was arrested because he had visited his grandfather the previous night, and that the prosecution did not have corroborative evidence, like fingerprints or CCTV footage, to back its claim. The police’s inadequate investigation had “created doubt about the truthfulness of the case”.

Satpute’s fight, though, is far from over. Her son is back but continues to struggle with addiction. Her family have cut her out, alleging that she may have been on the “murder plot” too. When she spoke to mid-day on the phone, she said was in hiding, in another state. Sushant, meanwhile, has disappeared on her. “Can you try to find him?” she asks us. “Can you tell him to call me if you do?”
 
I lock myself in the bedroom and cry every night, after everyone else has gone to sleep. My family is supportive, but the manner in which my husband died makes it unforgettable. I wake up in tears every day and go to sleep the same way.”

Tejasvee Ghosalkar’s husband, former corporator Abhishek Ghosalkar, was shot by political rival Mauris Norhona in February. The murder was streamed live on Facebook and watched by lakhs. Clips of the gruesome killing went viral within minutes of the crime.

Following the incident, Ghosalkar says she locked herself in her bedroom. Then, she left her four-year-old son in the care of relatives and isolated from the world for days. “I’ve hardly answered my phone. I have disconnected from the world,” she tells this writer, who was able to connect with her via acquaintances after trying to call her unsuccessfully for two days.

The couple got married 10 years ago and the wedding was attended by over 15,000 guests. It was a busy occasion and they felt they did not get to enjoy it as much as they wished. They had planned a second destination wedding in Goa or Jaipur on the occasion of their 14th anniversary this year.

“I haven’t told our son about his father’s death. He asks where Abhishek is. I have no answer.” Ghosalkar  says she has recently begun visiting the Shiv Sena (UBT) office in IC Colony, Borivali, to pick up where her husband left off. The office is where constituents would arrive to meet her husband and share their grievances. It was the same with Abhishek’s father Vinod, a Sena veteran.

It’s home that she dreads coming back to.

“The house is filled with memories of him. We used to do everything together. He introduced me to a life of love and respect. We were so happy…” 
 
It’s been three years since Prakash and Niddhi Kukreja’s daughter,  Jhanvi, a student of Jai Hind College, was found dead on the terrace of their Santa Cruz residence on the intervening night of December 31, 2020 and January 1, 2021 where a neighbour, Yash Ahuja, had thrown a party. The police had booked her friends Diya Padalkar, 19, and Shree Jogdhankar, 23, under IPC sections 302 (murder) and 34 (common intention). The two were accused of banging her head on the staircase leading to a crack in her skull, said the remand application. The Khar police had told mid-day that she was found with her clothes messed up and scratches on her body. She was allegedly dragged to the ground floor from the second floor by her hair. They said that they had found clumps of hair and blood stains on the scene. Growing closeness between Padalkar, who was Jhanvi’s close friend, and Jogdhankar, could have been the reason for the incident, the police had suspected.

We meet the Kukrejas at their residence. The house is quiet, gloomy. Niddhi tells us that until three years ago, the apartment was filled with laughter. “Jhanvi was the life of this house. In fact, she’d light up any place that she went to. She was studying psychology and had made up her mind to become a counsellor. She used to tutor our younger daughter, Manya, and so many of her friends. She was kind. She would accompany my mother to the doctor. Her favourite birthday activity was to distribute gifts among the poor. Wherever someone needed help, she was there.”

Padalkar, Niddhi tells us, grew up in this home. She lived next door to the Kukrejas but her friendship with Jhanvi saw her come over to study and to play. The Padalkars would celebrate festivals with the Kukrejas and since the family was largely vegetarian, Padalkar would drop in to enjoy Niddhi’s fish curry.

“And yet, that night, Diya didn’t come over to tell us that something had gone wrong. Jhanvi was lying dead on the terrace. Diya’s father took her to the hospital for an injury that she had sustained on her lip… nobody told us. Forget that night, they never spoke to us about what happened that night ever,” Niddhi says. As much as the loss, the betrayal hurts too.

“The Padalkars immediately moved out,” Prakash says. “They didn’t come for Jhanvi’s funeral, they didn’t call, they did nothing. We ran from pillar to post just so that we could have clarity on what happened that night to our child. Whatever we know, we know from the post-mortem report—that her skull had cracked open, that a clump of hair was lying around and that there were a total of 48 injuries on her body.” He pauses for breath.

Prakash says that he hears that the Padalkars have moved on. “We heard that the family took a trip to Lonavala. The other day, a friend told me that Diya was seen partying with a group of friends.”

Niddhi interjects, asking Prakash if he’d like to go freshen up since he has just arrived home from work. She turns to us after he has shut the door to their bedroom. “It’s not easy for him. I’ve stopped allowing him to accompany me to court.” Prakash, who is in the leather industry, has grown reticent and barely speaks. Niddhi, who works with a jewellery outlet in Bandra, took a two-year break before she could get back to work. 

In May last year, the Sessions court framed charges against Padalkar and Jogdhankar. He is lodged in the Byculla Jail; Diya is out on bail. The police submitted to the court that Jogdhankar was romantically involved with Jhanvi, and when she saw him get physical with Diya, it led to an altercation. Friends mid-day had spoken to when the incident occurred had denied any knowledge of the relationship.

Niddhi asks their daughter Manya, 17, to come meet us. She spends most of her time locked up in her room, Niddhi says. Manya walks out, and sits on a chair, not making eye contact. She throws a look now and then at their pet, Laila. In a few minutes, she asks her mother to excuse her and returns to her room. “I used to have to tell her to stop prancing around and go to sleep…”

We ask Niddhi how the family has managed to cope. “You don’t. You can’t cope with something like this.” 

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