On the night of April 16, 2020, a horrifying mob lynching unfolded in Gadchinchale village, located in Maharashtra’s Palghar district. Two Hindu sadhus—70-year-old Chikne Maharaj Kalpavrukshagiri and 35-year-old Sushilgiri Maharaj—along with their 30-year-old driver Nilesh Telgade, were brutally beaten to death by a mob. The three were on their way from Nashik to Surat to attend the funeral of their Guru, Shri Mahant Ramgiri.
The incident occurred during the nationwide COVID-19 lockdown, when fear and uncertainty had gripped the whole nation. Reports from the time suggest the villagers had been alarmed by alleged rumours circulating on WhatsApp, claiming that gangs involved in child abduction and organ harvesting were active in the region. As a result, many villagers formed night patrol groups to guard their settlements.
It was around 10 PM when the vehicle carrying the sadhus was stopped by a forest department sentry at a local checkpoint. Mistaking them for thieves, a mob of villagers—armed with sticks and axes—attacked the trio. According to reports, the victims were believed to be part of a child-lifting gang, a rumour that had gained traction during the lockdown through social media misinformation.
Despite the presence of police personnel at the scene, the mob overwhelmed them. Four policemen, including a senior officer, were injured while trying to intervene. Video footage from the night later went viral, showing a harrowing scene where one of the victims, Kalpavrukshagiri, was being led out of a building by a police officer. The mob surged forward, attacking him as he pleaded for his life, while helpless policemen attempted to stop them. In another clip, a police patrol vehicle was seen overturned, its windows shattered—evidence of the scale of violence that unfolded.
Though several villagers, including juveniles, were arrested following the incident, the investigation has somehow failed to uncover the core motive behind the killings. To this day, the question lingers—was this merely a case of mistaken identity, or was something more sinister at play?
Organiser Visits Palghar: A Ground Report
While covering the Maharashtra Assembly elections in November last year, Organiser decided to revisit the forgotten village of Gadchinchale to understand what really happened that night.
Tucked away in the lap of nature, Gadchinchale is a quaint village of about 100 mud-and-wood houses, separated by lush fields. The village is not very remote; a cab ride from Nashik to Palghar, approximately 150 kilometers, is smooth and well-connected via road. Given the ongoing election season, security was tight—multiple checkpoints dotted the journey, each thoroughly inspecting vehicles. One such checkpoint marked the entrance to Gadchinchale.
Upon arrival, our team approached the locals at the checkpost. Initially warm, their demeanour quickly turned cold when asked about the lynching. Conversations were abruptly cut off, and we were told only the village Sarpanch could speak on the matter—conveniently, he was “not in the village.” Even showing press identification yielded no results.
After waiting nearly an hour, we walked to a cluster of shops about 500 meters ahead. There too, our queries were met with silence. A narrow path leading uphill caught our attention. A passerby mentioned that some families lived at the top, so we decided to explore.
What we found was unexpected
Atop the slope stood a Church—its presence surprising in this predominantly tribal area. Several houses nearby bore crosses on their gates. Though most of the houses were empty, as residents were away at work, those we encountered struggled to converse in Hindi. Many belonged to tribal communities, reportedly Warli, Katkari, Konkana, K Thakur, M Thakur, and Bhilla—Warli being the dominant tribe in Palghar.
The presence of a Church in such a location raised new questions. Was there more to the incident than met the eye? Could the religious and demographic makeup of the region have influenced the collective silence and lack of cooperation? These were questions that remain unanswered.
The Palghar lynching was not just an isolated act of violence—it exposed deeper fears, misinformation, and possibly hidden agendas in the region. And despite the video evidence, the arrests, and the media glare, justice continues to elude the victims.
Shifting faith over the years
We began our investigation by meeting residents near a local church. One tribal woman, Vandana Pawar, who has lived in the village for three years, told us, “I am a Hindu. I don’t go to church, but many in the village do.” She added that although her ancestors followed Hinduism, she has seen several relatives and fellow villagers start attending church over the years. “People believe that their pain or illness will be cured if they follow their path,” she said, referring to the promises of healing often associated with prayer meetings.
According to Vandana, no one directly offered money to convert, but many were drawn to Christianity because of the belief that “all problems will be cured.” Despite this, she firmly resisted the pressure and continued her Hindu practices.
Another villager, Soman Bhai Pawar, echoed similar sentiments. “I am Hindu. I go to the temple, not to church. I don’t attend healing meetings either,” he clarified. Pointing to a cross that had been erected in the vicinity, he admitted, “Yes, someone built it. It’s there, but I don’t go.” His tone reflected a quiet disapproval, or perhaps indifference, toward the religious shift that has taken place among many in the area.
When asked about the night of the lynching, Vandana recalled that the villagers only came to know about the incident the next morning. “It happened at night. People were asleep after dinner. We found out only later,” she said. “Everyone was scared when the police came. Some people even ran away fearing arrest.”
The incident, in which a mob brutally killed two Hindu Sadhus and their driver amid rumours of child theft, remains shrouded in unanswered questions. Many villagers, especially those we approached near the church, hesitated to speak openly. Some believed the attackers had been provoked by rumours, others simply said they were “outsiders” and didn’t know what really happened.
The church in question continues to operate, drawing attendees every Sunday. According to locals, most families in the nearby lanes attend its services, except for a handful of households. Yet, there remains a segment of the population — largely Hindu tribals — who hold fast to their traditional faith, wary of the slow but steady changes in the village’s spiritual landscape.
Several villagers confirmed that in April 2020, when the fatal mob attack occurred, the village was gripped by a wave of panic. Rumours had spread rapidly that child abductors were roaming the area disguised in saffron robes — a fear that had reached such intensity that even respected ascetics were not spared.
Neeru Nikude, a local Christian tribal woman, recalled, “Yes, at that time, people believed anyone in saffron would take children. That’s what was being said in the village.” However, she turned silent when asked if such rumours were directly propagated through the church, saying that church attendance was irregular then due to the lockdown. “I was on duty that day, so I don’t know what was said in church, but people were talking all around,” she said.
Another resident, Kamal Vijay Pawar, who identified as a Christian tribal, revealed that his family’s conversion stemmed from personal experiences. “My father and sister were very sick. After going to church, they were cured, so we started believing,” he explained. Though still bearing the Hindu surname ‘Pawar,’ he said they had undergone baptism as children and now only kept images of Jesus Christ at home. “We don’t keep other gods’ pictures,” he added, acknowledging the complete shift in religious allegiance.
A few villagers, still reluctant to speak openly, acknowledged that pastors from outside often visited. “They tell people, ‘Convert, you’ll get money, you’ll get benefits.’ Some fall for it. But not everyone.” For those who held on to their traditional beliefs, the growing influence of churches in tribal areas has become a sore point, both culturally and politically.
Yet beneath the surface of this religious change lies a deep undercurrent of political and communal tension.
Witness accounts from the day of the attack
Vishnu Lal Bhawar, a forest department employee and long-time resident of the village, was among those who tried to stop the mob on the night of the lynching. He remembered warning people, “Don’t go near them — there are cameras, and this will backfire.” But his words went unheeded. The sadhus, on their way from Nashik to Surat, had entered the village after losing their way. They were stopped, assumed to be child kidnappers, and then brutally attacked.
Bhawar added that the frenzy was not entirely spontaneous. According to him, “Some political person came and provoked the people.” He named Kashinath Chaudhary of the Nationalist Congress Party (NCP), alleging that he had incited the villagers with the words, “Whoever comes in saffron, do this to them.”
Today, while churches continue to draw tribal families in large numbers, especially on Sundays, the incident of 2020 remains a dark stain on the collective memory of Gadchinchale. Fear still lingers — not just from that night, but from the silent religious shift reshaping the identity of the tribal community. A section of villagers remains Hindu, continuing their traditions and temple visits. Others have embraced Christianity, often citing miraculous recoveries and emotional peace as the reasons. But in both faiths, one thing remains common — no one has forgotten the night the sadhus were killed, and few dare speak openly about it.
Bhawar, now under police protection, sat quietly on his verandah, guarded not just by security personnel but by the burden of truth he had chosen to tell. “I gave a statement in court. That’s why I was given security,” he said, his voice firm but weary. Along with him, four others from his village and three from nearby Dabari were listed as witnesses in the brutal lynching of the sadhus.
The protection, he claimed, was necessary. “We tried to stop them. We told people not to gather, not to attack. There were even cameras installed. But they didn’t listen. When things went out of control, we were blamed.” He paused, then added, “Some even called us traitors.”
This backlash, he explained, came largely from villagers who had converted to Christianity. “They said we helped the police. They threatened us. Some even accused us of sabotaging the community.”
The lines between religion, rumour, and political manipulation had blurred so thoroughly that trust between neighbours, among communities, had evaporated.
Another witness, Sonu Bhorsa, alleged that one of the triggers was a widespread and dangerous rumour: that saffron-clad men were roaming tribal areas, abducting children and harvesting kidneys. “People were already scared. So when the sadhus’ vehicle appeared, that fear turned into rage.”
His grandson, Kiran, joined the conversation. A young man in his twenties, he had been detained for a month despite, he claimed, being the first to inform the police. “My phone location got flagged, so they picked me up. I wasn’t even at the spot. We had to leave the village during lockdown and stay away for two months.”
The atmosphere was tense, but he opened up. “The sadhus didn’t deserve what happened. But the real question is—how did they even get here? During lockdown, the entire country was shut. Even the Prime Minister couldn’t attend his mother’s funeral. How did these men cross multiple checkpoints?”
This question, though rhetorical, pointed to the administrative loopholes that still remain unanswered. “They weren’t thieves. But their travel during lockdown did raise suspicion. People were already panicked. Still, it was wrong to attack them. Only the guilty should’ve been punished—not the whole village,” he said, echoing the sentiment of many here.
The correspondent responded, explaining that during the time of the incident, people across the nation were walking home from various states, and the sadhus were on their way to a funeral. “The attackers should have asked before attacking them,” she said.
He replied, “Madam, the media portrayed us as terrorists, and look at what happened. We felt so bad.” The correspondent pointed out that sadhus, who are typically given food and blessings, were attacked as if they were criminals. The videos that circulated sparked widespread outrage among Indians, emphasising that the attack was unjust.
Instead of acknowledging the wrongness of the act or identifying those who instigated the attack, he shifted the blame, implying the sadhus were at fault. He remained silent on the role of the church or the ongoing conversion activities in the village.
In the aftermath, around 250 people from Gadchinchale were arrested. Villagers claim many were innocent, caught up in the case due to proximity or panic.
An investigation which led to more questions
While speaking with a local survivor of the violence, we were told that despite a large police presence that night — “around 21-22 officers,” as one man recalled — chaos prevailed. “Madam, when the crowd comes out in villages, it’s massive. The actual attackers are few, but you can’t recognise them. Even we couldn’t identify who was doing the beating,” he said. According to him, even the police were overwhelmed and began fleeing the scene.
His grandson, later revealed that he was jailed for a month in connection with the lynching. “But I was the one who first called the police,” he claimed. The irony was not lost on him. He questioned, with a bitterness laced with suspicion, “How were the sadhus even allowed to reach here?”
This sense of bewilderment, even accusation, was echoed by several villagers. A dominant sentiment we encountered was not remorse or guilt over the brutal killings, but rather distrust and suspicion of the outsiders.
“Who were they really? Why were they here? Was it true they were child or kidney thieves?” Some claimed rumors had been circulating for a week prior to the incident — and that these whispers set the stage for mob violence. But no one could explain how such a massive crowd managed to gather at 9 PM in a region where most people go indoors by 6:30 PM.
The biggest silence, however, surrounds the possible role of external influences- both Church and political. While many refused to comment openly, the underlying tension around religious conversions and the influence of the Church was palpable. A few even suggested that converted Christians from nearby areas played a part — but no one was willing to go on record. “There are political angles too,” a villager said cryptically, hinting at a deeper conspiracy involving local power brokers and outside influences.
The fear still lingers. “Many from our village are still in jail,” a young man said quietly, “That’s why people are not speaking openly.” And perhaps this silence speaks volumes of fear, mistrust, and unresolved pain.
There are still no clear answers. Who spread the rumors? Who incited the mob? Who ensured that those in saffron were portrayed as criminals in the eyes of the villagers? Why didn’t the police stop them at checkpoints if lockdown was strictly enforced?
Despite five years having passed, Gadchinchale remains a village entangled in doubt and silence. The villagers demand answers, but have few to give. For now, the killings remain a scar on the community’s conscience — and a case in desperate need of deeper, unbiased investigation.
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