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On a chilly February morning in 2002, a lone figure stood before a burnt corpse on a hospital gurney. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and charred flesh. The face of the body was unrecognizable – blackened and battered beyond identity. As a mother gently placed her palm against the body's hand, her intuition cut through the horror. The hand’s shape and size – not much larger than her own – told her what she dreaded most: this was her son, Nitish. Two nights earlier, he had vanished from a wedding. Now, in the soft dawn light, Neelam realized her life had been irreversibly halved into before and after. The boy she had raised and loved was gone, in the most brutal way imaginable. This is the story of that February morning, that boy, and that one mother’s fight for justice. This is the story of Nitish Katara.
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Spring break in the Caribbean — warm waters, neon nights, and a kind of freedom that feels endless. For most, it’s a fleeting escape. But for one young woman, it became the last place she was ever seen. On a quiet stretch of sand in Punta Cana, as dawn crept over the horizon, a 20-year-old student from the University of Pittsburgh vanished without a trace. Clothes left behind, stories that don’t quite align, and a search that has raised more questions than answers. This is the story of that island, that spring break, and that student. This is the story of Sudiksha Konanki.
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This is the story of Raghunandan Yandamuri – an aspiring techie, a doting friend… and the first Indian-American on death row. It’s the story of Baby Saanviand her grandmother Satyavathi, and a botched ransom plot that became a double murder.
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Delhi’s winter evenings have their own rhythm—narrow lanes cloaked in silence, the air heavy with woodsmoke and the scent of dinners being prepared behind closed doors. But on one such night in January 1996, that stillness was broken by something unspeakable. Inside a quiet home in Vasant Kunj, a nightmare unfolded—one that everyone around had feared, one that the victim herself had warned of, and one that, chillingly, would go on to change the country. This is the story of that quiet winter evening in Delhi, that Vasant Kunj home, and the one woman who found herself stuck behind its walls in the presence of pure evil. This is the story of Priyadarshini Mattoo.
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It is a still summer day in Bihar. The year is 2007. A mother returns to a classroom and finds her baby’s cot empty. Panic ripples through the village as neighbors scatter into the fields, calling the child’s name. In the middle of the chaos stands a boy no older than eight, watching with a smile that doesn’t belong on a child’s face. Within hours, he will confess to a string of murders that will shock the world and earn him a chilling title — the youngest serial killer alive. This is the story of Amarjeet Sada.
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In Delhi, luxury hotels are meant to be escapes from reality—spaces of glittering chandeliers, muffled corridors, and the quiet promise of privacy. But on a cold January night in 2014, one such corridor led to a room that would become the center of a mystery still whispered about years later. Inside lay the body of Sunanda Pushkar—socialite, businesswoman, wife of one of India’s most high-profile politicians. Her death was sudden, shocking, and wrapped in layers of intrigue. Was it illness, despair, betrayal—or something far darker? This is the story of Sunanda Pushkar.
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The case we have for you today is of a successful, driven and happy couple who were doing their best, their very best to raise their son and live their life to the fullest, until one day, their lives and the lives of everyone who knew them were turned upside down. This is the story of one of Bangladesh's most infamous crimes. This is the story of Sagar Sarowar and Meherun Runi.
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Houston’s late-summer heat can feel suffocating—thick air clinging to the skin, the city humming under streetlights. On one such night in August 2024, a brief, trembling phone call shattered that quiet. The building manager of a modest apartment complex near Texas Southern University picked up to hear a stranger’s voice: there was a dead body in his apartment. Moments later, he was standing in the doorway of a crime scene that would haunt an entire community. This is a case that would send shockwaves through Houston’s Nepali community, ignite an urgent manhunt, and unravel a story that touched on immigration, vulnerability, and predation. And at its heart was the life of a young woman who had crossed oceans to build a future—only to have it violently stolen. This is the story of that Texas evening, that phone call, that one girl. This is the story of Muna Pandey.
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It was a freezing February night in upstate New York. Snowflakes swirled in the wind, settling over a quiet strip mall in the small town of Orchard Park. Inside one of the units — a modest television studio lined with bright posters and soft studio lights — two people stood on the brink of an ending. On paper, they were a power couple. He, a charismatic businessman from Pakistan. She, an architect with a sharp mind and a warm smile. Together, they had built America’s first English-language Muslim television network — a dream born in the wake of 9/11, a vision of countering stereotypes and celebrating community. But dreams can hide nightmares. Behind the glossy photos, the awards, the handshakes with community leaders, was a marriage on the brink of catastrophe. What happened next that chilly Friday would shock the nation, ignite debates about culture and religion, and leave an entire community questioning how well they really knew the people they celebrated. This is the story of Aasiya Zubair.
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In the early 90s, Bollywood crowned a new queen. At just 19, she was everywhere—on every poster, every magazine cover, every marquee. She was dazzling, unstoppable, and hungry to prove herself. A star so bright it felt like nothing could dim her light. But then, one night, it ended in a way no one saw coming. The industry went into shock. Fans demanded answers. Rumors exploded—about her marriage, about the people in her home that night, about secrets Bollywood still won’t discuss openly. Decades later, questions remain. Was it an accident? Was it something more sinister? Or was it the unbearable cost of fame at too young an age? This is the story of that star and that one night. This is the story of Divya Bharti.
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Under the soft July sun in Gurugram, as the kitchen clock ticked just past 10:30 a.m. on July 10, 2025, a quiet home in Sushant Lok echoed with gunfire. A promising young tennis coach, just 25, lay still on the kitchen floor—her dreams cut short in broad daylight. She had played for India. Coached the next generation. Laughed with friends hours before she died. And then—she was gone. No intruder broke in. No stranger fled the scene. The truth would unearth a betrayal far more devastating. This morning of unspeakable tragedy shattered a family, stunned a nation and ignited urgent conversation about autonomy, patriarchy, and violence against women. This is the story of that July morning and that one girl that has taken India by storm. This is the story of Radhika Yadav.
He was young, brilliant, and fearless — an IIM grad who took a job no one wanted. One night, he vanished after a routine inspection in a small Indian town. What happened next would expose a chilling underworld no one was ready to face.
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Dharmasthala, Karnataka. For centuries, its name has meant justice. It's a place where faith feels tangible, a sanctuary where a Hindu deity is served by a Jain family in a rare show of harmony. But in July of 2025, a story would emerge that threatened to turn this sacred ground into a crime scene. A story that suggests for years, while pilgrims prayed for salvation, others were being buried in shallow graves. It began when one man decided he could no longer carry the weight of what he had done, and what he had seen. A man who claimed that he held the key to over one hundred unsolved deaths. This is the story of the skeletons of Dharmasthala.
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The case that I have for you guys today is one that sent Pakistani authorities on the largest manhunt for Pakistan's most notorious serial killer. This is the story of a man whose only motive in life was to hear the cries of a hundred mothers. This is the story of Javed Iqbal.
Under the soft orange wash of a Rishikesh dusk, the air held its breath. A girl, nineteen, bright-eyed, new to the city and newer still to her first job, walked the narrow paths of Vanantra Resort, hemmed in by forest on one side and the rush of the Ganga canal on the other. It was the kind of evening where the world feels hushed, the kind where ordinary things--like a phone ringing unanswered or a light flickering on and off--begin to feel loaded with meaning. And for days after that dusk, the only thing louder than the silence surrounding her absence was the rising voice of a father searching for his daughter, denied help at every turn. No FIR. No urgency. Just a closed door at every police station he visited. The roads he walked were met with apathy, even as each hour that passed pulled Ankita further from reach. By the time the news broke, it had already been six days. Six days of unanswered questions. Six days of phone calls met with lies. Six days before the Ganga revealed what the system tried to bury. This is the story of that Rishikesh resort, that 2022 evening, and that girl. This is the story of Ankita Bhandari.
A chill wind whispered through the sugarcane fields of Uttar Pradesh, carrying with it the scent of rigid traditions belonging to a bygone era. In villages where life moved with the seasons and ancient customs held strong, a new tension was starting to build. For generations, the idea of freedom for women, the freedom to choose, to be, to experience the world around them as men would, was a forbidden thought, a dangerous secret. But in 2014, as the world outside moved faster, even these quiet places began to feel a tremor of defiance. It was a time when a simple phone could open up a world of possibilities, and with it, a rush of fear and anger. In a world desperate to control, some dared to dream of freedom, and for two young girls, that dream would become a terrible nightmare. This is the story of that little village in Uttar Pradesh and its open fields. This is the story of Padma and Lalli.
New Delhi, India's capital and a city of 30 million people is infamous for being the suicide capital of the world. Yet the case that I have for you today still gives me and countless other Delhi residents sleepless nights. This is the story of a banyan tree, a happy seemingly home, a mass suicide of 11, and a shared secret nobody still fully understands to this day. This is the Burari case.
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"If you don’t hear from me… they’ve killed me.” Those were a girl’s words. Not in a dramatic diary entry, not to a friend over a cappucino, but in a cold, trembling text to the boy she loved. She was eighteen. Eighteen and afraid — of the very people who gave her life. So when the sun rose on a quiet field in northern Italy nearly six months later, and a search dog started barking over a shallow patch of soil — no one said it out loud, but everyone standing there already knew whose body they were about to find. The spot was ordinary — the edge of a disused farmhouse, flanked by crop lines and fencing. But from under that earth came bone. Then plastic. Then hair. And in that moment, a message that once sounded like fear… became a prophecy. This is the story of an honor killing that shook Italy. This is the story of Saman Abbas.
To mark 5 years of Desi Crime, here is a special episode of Chai & Chithi. We bring to you the scariest, eeriest, most terrifying tales, sent in to us by our listeners, all while we recount some of our most pivotal moments at Desi Crime. From discussing its inception, to its successes, and its pitfalls along the way, Aishwarya and Aryaan welcome you to the 5 years anniversary special.For extra episodes, early access, silly bloopers, subscribe at: https://www.patreon.com/thedesistudios or join our YouTube family https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnbfV0YvrxWMq3h0hmo13Jg/joinFor fastest updates, follow our socials at: https://www.instagram.com/desicrime/Aryaan https://www.instagram.com/aryaanmisra/Aishwarya https://www.instagram.com/aishwaryasinghs/To buy Desi Studios merch, visit: https://kadakmerch.com/collections/desi-studios
