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By:

Shiv Sethi

7 June 2026 at 1:28:56 pm

Contours of Darkness

In the evolving landscape of Indian non-fiction, where true crime writing frequently succumbs to spectacle and narrative sensationalism, The Pune Serial Killers authored by Sujata Sapre and Prof. Anandajit Goswami and published by Srishti Publishers asserts itself as a work of formidable intellectual authority and narrative sophistication. It is not a mere reconstruction of crime but a deeply reflective inquiry into the architecture of violence and the fragile moral ecosystems that enable it....

Contours of Darkness

In the evolving landscape of Indian non-fiction, where true crime writing frequently succumbs to spectacle and narrative sensationalism, The Pune Serial Killers authored by Sujata Sapre and Prof. Anandajit Goswami and published by Srishti Publishers asserts itself as a work of formidable intellectual authority and narrative sophistication. It is not a mere reconstruction of crime but a deeply reflective inquiry into the architecture of violence and the fragile moral ecosystems that enable it. The book revisits the Joshi-Abhyankar murders of 1970s Pune, yet its ambition extends far beyond documentation. Sapre and Goswami transform a historically specific incident into a layered meditation on criminal psychology, social transformation, and ethical disintegration. In doing so, they align themselves with the introspective and psychologically probing tradition of true crime writing, inviting comparison with The Stranger Beside Me. However, where Ann Rule’s work derives its unsettling power from personal proximity and the shock of recognising monstrosity within the familiar, The Pune Serial Killers adopts a more distanced and analytical stance. It is less concerned with the intimacy of evil than with its conditions of possibility. The authors move beyond individual pathology to interrogate the broader social and cultural matrices that normalise or enable violence, thereby transforming a narrative of crime into a wider critique of a society in moral transition. Similarly, when placed alongside Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter, which emphasises prosecutorial detail and courtroom drama, this work distinguishes itself by shifting attention from legal resolution to existential inquiry. The crime here is not simply solved; it is interrogated as a phenomenon embedded within broader cultural and psychological frameworks. The authors’ portrayal of Pune is particularly striking. Conventionally imagined as a centre of intellectual refinement and cultural stability, the city is reconfigured as a site of latent contradictions. Beneath its academic and civilisational veneer lies a terrain marked by aspiration, alienation, and suppressed volatility. This reimagining elevates the narrative beyond regional specificity, situating it within a universal discourse on urban modernity and its discontents. Linear Simplicity Structurally, the book resists linear simplicity. Its narrative unfolds through a carefully modulated interplay of perspectives, blending investigative detail with psychological introspection and sociological commentary. This layered construction demands an attentive reader, yet it rewards such engagement with a richer and more unsettling understanding of events. The psychological exploration of the perpetrators constitutes the intellectual core of the work. The authors reject reductive binaries of monstrosity and normalcy. Instead, they present individuals shaped by a complex convergence of personal ambition, emotional fracture, and environmental influence. Crime, in this framework, emerges not as an isolated act but as a gradual process of internal corrosion and external reinforcement. Particularly compelling is the examination of group dynamics within the gang. Power, hierarchy, and the performance of dominance are rendered with clinical precision. The crimes acquire a chilling coherence when viewed through this lens, revealing how collective identity can intensify individual deviance. In contrast to many Western true crime narratives that isolate the individual psyche, this work foregrounds the collective dimension of violence, offering a more expansive analytical scope. The prose is marked by restraint and intellectual clarity. There is no indulgence in gratuitous detail, no attempt to aestheticise brutality. This disciplined approach recalls the narrative economy of works such as Emmanuel Carrère’s The Adversary, where the power of the text lies in its refusal to sensationalise. Sapre and Goswami maintain a similar ethical distance, allowing the gravity of the crimes to assert itself without narrative manipulation. Historical Moment Equally significant is the book’s engagement with its historical moment. The 1970s in India were characterised by economic strain, ideological flux, and shifting social hierarchies. The authors integrate these elements with subtle precision, suggesting that the crimes were not merely personal aberrations but manifestations of a deeper societal unease. This contextual depth aligns the work with sociological studies of crime that view deviance as both an individual and systemic phenomenon. In its final assessment, The Pune Serial Killers stands as a landmark contribution to Indian true crime writing. It does not merely recount what happened; it interrogates why it became possible. In doing so, it elevates the genre from reportage to reflection, from narration to critical thought. This is a work that lingers not for its depiction of violence, but for its uncompromising exploration of the conditions that produce it. It compels us to recognise that the boundaries we draw between civilisation and savagery are neither fixed nor secure, but perilously thin, constantly negotiated within the human mind and the society it inhabits. (The writer is a literary critic and book reviewer.)

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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