When one man kills another we look for motive; when one man kills many men we look into his mind. Raman Raghav has confessed to killing twenty-four men, women and children. He is charged with the killing of only the last two of his victims. He has pleaded guilty. The judge rejected the pleas of insanity put forward by his counsel. ‘I am not mad,’ says Raman angrily, ‘you are all mad.’
What made Raman Raghav the way he is – by his own confession the most fiendish killer of our times? I pieced together his life story from his confessions and what he said to the doctor who kept him under observation.
Raman Raghav is one of a family of six from a village in Tirunelveli district of Tamil Nadu. He had little affection for his mother, but he says he loved his father. The reason he gives sounds odd. ‘My father taught me to steal and commit murder. He was doing these things himself. He had gone to jail for theft.’ The paternal influence was decisive. ‘Theft is a good profession,’ says Raman. He should know because, says he, ‘I have been doing it since childhood.’ He did not study much: ‘Three books in two years.’
Raman Raghav’s parents died early.
His three sisters and the only brother (whom he loved and admired) are also dead. His only surviving relative is his sister, Parvati.
Hatred of women is a dominant aspect of Raman Raghav’s character. How he came to despise and at the same time crave their company is not quite clear. However, his first real experience of them provides a clue. As is customary among certain castes in Tamil Nadu, a marriage was arranged for him with his sister’s daughter, Guruamma. Before he could consummate the marriage he was arrested for theft and sent to prison. Meanwhile Guruamma became pregnant by another man – and died giving birth to a stillborn baby. This betrayal was followed by another. Village elders found him another woman. Raman discovered that the mate proposed for him had been discarded by another man and had children by him. He also found that he could get what he wanted without having to marry.
A boy he had befriended persuaded him to join him in Bombay. Here he had his third experience of feminine perfidy. The two friends were employed in a textile mill. Raman worked during the day, his friend on the night shift. One rainy night his friend’s wife invited him to share her bed. He refused. Next morning the wife complained to her husband that Raman had tried to seduce her. Raman was thrown out of the chawl.
Thus was Raman Raghav betrayed, abandoned, abused. To his way of thinking, there was always a woman behind every episode. He became a confirmed misogynist and a lone wolf. If no one had any use for him, he in turn had no use for anyone. He became a mawali (vagabond). He was arrested for vagrancy and beaten by the police. He went in and out of jail on convictions of petty pilfering, robbery and violence. He apparently also killed a man or two but got away with it. Twice he was sent to mental institutions for observation as a borderline case; both times he was discharged as normal. He describes his life in Bombay. ‘I used to visit prostitutes frequently. I used to steal because I got more money by stealing.’
Sex assumed the proportions of an obsession. ‘Everybody needs his ration,’ he told the doctor philosophically, ‘just as a motor car requires petrol, so the body requires sexual satisfaction.’
Crime and sex became Raman Raghav’s daily ration. Where he got his sex from we do not know – perhaps the caged red-light district of the city – but for his crime he chose the distant suburbs and for his victims the poor shanty dwellers, often separated from each other by marsh and scrub and swamp and foul-smelling sewers. There he robbed and killed and raped in the still hours of the night. He created absolute terror in the region; people were afraid to come out of their homes after dark. He struck them in their homes – the killing was often senseless, eliciting no more than ten paise. But each one was carefully planned and had characteristic features about it which made it clear that it was the work of one man. First, he used a blunt weapon, an ankada. Later, he used the sharp point of a heavy iron bar and stabbed his sleeping victims above the ear. People who saw him disappear in the dark said he wore his hair and beard long and carried a trishul and was therefore a sadhu. Some said the killer was able to change into a dog – or just turn into vapour. Not till his confession was it known that the man was Raman Raghav.
The chronicle of killings will chill anyone’s blood.
A tea stall vendor who adulterated Raman’s tea narrowly escaped having his skull bashed in. Others were not so lucky. ‘I saw a bearded Muslim sleeping on his khat (bed),’ states Raman in his confession. ‘It was three o’clock at night… I dealt him a blow on the head with the iron bar. The bearded fellow died.’ This yielded some money – Rs 262. But the next killing a few days later only produced ten paise and a little ghee. A few days later Raman struck again – this time a whole family. For some days he watched their movements. He says: ‘On a khat in the said hut were asleep a man, a woman and a child. They had fastened the door and gone to sleep. I climbed (in) from the rear and saw that the woman was feeding the child with powdered milk. I saw a chain on her neck. Up to three o’clock at night the woman did not sleep. I saw a black mani, one inch long, set on a gold chain. Hence I returned…. I kept watching the said hut for three to four days. Even then the woman was not asleep. On the fifth day she was asleep. I entered the hut by cutting with the rod the ropes that were used to close the front door. Standing in the open space between the two khats, I dealt the man two to three blows with the rod. He died. The woman started crying. Then the child also started crying. The child was about two months old. I gave two to three blows to the child with the rod. He died. The woman also died… I got inside and broke off the gold chain from the woman’s neck. I put it in my pocket. I thought of sleeping with the woman. By the side of her head was a kerosene lamp. I put out the lamp, but someone switched on the electric light on the top… A woman ran up. She saw me and I saw her. She must (have been) aged about seventy years. She saw the blood and started crying out.’
The killings continued – all at night, all with the same kind of weapon, either smashing the skull or piercing it above the ear – and every time the killer mysteriously vanished into the swamps. The most fiendish of his deeds is recounted thus: ‘At a distance of about half a furlong a woman and two children were asleep in a hut. The children were aged eight to nine years. The woman was asleep in the middle. I gave three to four blows to the woman. She died…’
‘Do you believe in God?’ asked the doctor.
Raman replied: ‘When I was a child I did. I do not do so now.
I do not go to temples.’
‘Why?’ asked the doctor.
‘Because,’ replied Raman, ‘God is partial to women.’
Raman’s lust-hate relationship with women is best expressed in his sexual symbolism. When the jail barber shaved off his moustache, he was furious, and wanted to kill him. He did not speak to anyone for seven days. It was like someone cutting off his head with a sword (castration complex?). ‘I do not want to look like a woman or a hijra,’ he said. He explained his reaction to the doctor. ‘If I slap your child won’t you feel bad? That’s how I feel about my moustache.’
Raman wants women. He made an offer to the administration. ‘I should be let (out) on bail for one year. I will not do any theft or murder. I want a woman to stay with me for that one year. Not as my wife, only as a companion. The woman should be below thirty years of age. If a child is born, it is the responsibility of the government to look after my child. A prostitute would do. I want a woman for sexual intercourse and not only for preparing food…’
According to Raman he was beaten and given ganja to induce him to confess. He refused. Then his ‘inner voice’ ordered him to speak. ‘I did not confess under coercion. I confessed at the command of the inner voice,’ he says.
Excerpted with permission from Portrait Of A Serial Killer, Khushwant Singh, edited by Mala Dayal, Aleph Book Company.
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What made Raman Raghav the way he is – by his own confession the most fiendish killer of our times? I pieced together his life story from his confessions and what he said to the doctor who kept him under observation.
Raman Raghav is one of a family of six from a village in Tirunelveli district of Tamil Nadu. He had little affection for his mother, but he says he loved his father. The reason he gives sounds odd. ‘My father taught me to steal and commit murder. He was doing these things himself. He had gone to jail for theft.’ The paternal influence was decisive. ‘Theft is a good profession,’ says Raman. He should know because, says he, ‘I have been doing it since childhood.’ He did not study much: ‘Three books in two years.’
Raman Raghav’s parents died early.
His three sisters and the only brother (whom he loved and admired) are also dead. His only surviving relative is his sister, Parvati.
Hatred of women is a dominant aspect of Raman Raghav’s character. How he came to despise and at the same time crave their company is not quite clear. However, his first real experience of them provides a clue. As is customary among certain castes in Tamil Nadu, a marriage was arranged for him with his sister’s daughter, Guruamma. Before he could consummate the marriage he was arrested for theft and sent to prison. Meanwhile Guruamma became pregnant by another man – and died giving birth to a stillborn baby. This betrayal was followed by another. Village elders found him another woman. Raman discovered that the mate proposed for him had been discarded by another man and had children by him. He also found that he could get what he wanted without having to marry.
A boy he had befriended persuaded him to join him in Bombay. Here he had his third experience of feminine perfidy. The two friends were employed in a textile mill. Raman worked during the day, his friend on the night shift. One rainy night his friend’s wife invited him to share her bed. He refused. Next morning the wife complained to her husband that Raman had tried to seduce her. Raman was thrown out of the chawl.
Thus was Raman Raghav betrayed, abandoned, abused. To his way of thinking, there was always a woman behind every episode. He became a confirmed misogynist and a lone wolf. If no one had any use for him, he in turn had no use for anyone. He became a mawali (vagabond). He was arrested for vagrancy and beaten by the police. He went in and out of jail on convictions of petty pilfering, robbery and violence. He apparently also killed a man or two but got away with it. Twice he was sent to mental institutions for observation as a borderline case; both times he was discharged as normal. He describes his life in Bombay. ‘I used to visit prostitutes frequently. I used to steal because I got more money by stealing.’
Sex assumed the proportions of an obsession. ‘Everybody needs his ration,’ he told the doctor philosophically, ‘just as a motor car requires petrol, so the body requires sexual satisfaction.’
Crime and sex became Raman Raghav’s daily ration. Where he got his sex from we do not know – perhaps the caged red-light district of the city – but for his crime he chose the distant suburbs and for his victims the poor shanty dwellers, often separated from each other by marsh and scrub and swamp and foul-smelling sewers. There he robbed and killed and raped in the still hours of the night. He created absolute terror in the region; people were afraid to come out of their homes after dark. He struck them in their homes – the killing was often senseless, eliciting no more than ten paise. But each one was carefully planned and had characteristic features about it which made it clear that it was the work of one man. First, he used a blunt weapon, an ankada. Later, he used the sharp point of a heavy iron bar and stabbed his sleeping victims above the ear. People who saw him disappear in the dark said he wore his hair and beard long and carried a trishul and was therefore a sadhu. Some said the killer was able to change into a dog – or just turn into vapour. Not till his confession was it known that the man was Raman Raghav.
The chronicle of killings will chill anyone’s blood.
A tea stall vendor who adulterated Raman’s tea narrowly escaped having his skull bashed in. Others were not so lucky. ‘I saw a bearded Muslim sleeping on his khat (bed),’ states Raman in his confession. ‘It was three o’clock at night… I dealt him a blow on the head with the iron bar. The bearded fellow died.’ This yielded some money – Rs 262. But the next killing a few days later only produced ten paise and a little ghee. A few days later Raman struck again – this time a whole family. For some days he watched their movements. He says: ‘On a khat in the said hut were asleep a man, a woman and a child. They had fastened the door and gone to sleep. I climbed (in) from the rear and saw that the woman was feeding the child with powdered milk. I saw a chain on her neck. Up to three o’clock at night the woman did not sleep. I saw a black mani, one inch long, set on a gold chain. Hence I returned…. I kept watching the said hut for three to four days. Even then the woman was not asleep. On the fifth day she was asleep. I entered the hut by cutting with the rod the ropes that were used to close the front door. Standing in the open space between the two khats, I dealt the man two to three blows with the rod. He died. The woman started crying. Then the child also started crying. The child was about two months old. I gave two to three blows to the child with the rod. He died. The woman also died… I got inside and broke off the gold chain from the woman’s neck. I put it in my pocket. I thought of sleeping with the woman. By the side of her head was a kerosene lamp. I put out the lamp, but someone switched on the electric light on the top… A woman ran up. She saw me and I saw her. She must (have been) aged about seventy years. She saw the blood and started crying out.’
The killings continued – all at night, all with the same kind of weapon, either smashing the skull or piercing it above the ear – and every time the killer mysteriously vanished into the swamps. The most fiendish of his deeds is recounted thus: ‘At a distance of about half a furlong a woman and two children were asleep in a hut. The children were aged eight to nine years. The woman was asleep in the middle. I gave three to four blows to the woman. She died…’
~~~
‘Do you believe in God?’ asked the doctor.
Raman replied: ‘When I was a child I did. I do not do so now.
I do not go to temples.’
‘Why?’ asked the doctor.
‘Because,’ replied Raman, ‘God is partial to women.’
Raman’s lust-hate relationship with women is best expressed in his sexual symbolism. When the jail barber shaved off his moustache, he was furious, and wanted to kill him. He did not speak to anyone for seven days. It was like someone cutting off his head with a sword (castration complex?). ‘I do not want to look like a woman or a hijra,’ he said. He explained his reaction to the doctor. ‘If I slap your child won’t you feel bad? That’s how I feel about my moustache.’
Raman wants women. He made an offer to the administration. ‘I should be let (out) on bail for one year. I will not do any theft or murder. I want a woman to stay with me for that one year. Not as my wife, only as a companion. The woman should be below thirty years of age. If a child is born, it is the responsibility of the government to look after my child. A prostitute would do. I want a woman for sexual intercourse and not only for preparing food…’
According to Raman he was beaten and given ganja to induce him to confess. He refused. Then his ‘inner voice’ ordered him to speak. ‘I did not confess under coercion. I confessed at the command of the inner voice,’ he says.
Excerpted with permission from Portrait Of A Serial Killer, Khushwant Singh, edited by Mala Dayal, Aleph Book Company.
