Bride, betrayal and bloodshed in Telangana

The Hindu

a day ago

The jasmine garlands on the gate had barely withered when the mourning began. Just weeks after a grand wedding in Gadwal, about 190 kilometres from Hyderabad, Ganta Tejeshwar vanished without a trace, and his bride wept the loudest.
She held her mother-in-law's hand, filed a missing person's report and prayed fervently, pleading for the safe return of her 30-year-old husband. But the truth, as it would soon unravel, was far darker than anyone could imagine.
Today, the dirt road that snakes past Gadwal Fort into Ganjipet lies heavy with silence. It's late June — hot, humid, and unnervingly quiet. Not long ago, the same lane rang with wedding songs, laughter and the clink of bangles. Now, only hushed murmurs and the occasional sob of the youth's grieving parents punctuate the air.
At the edge of a dusty, unpaved lane, Tejeshwar's bungalow — once the centre of celebration — stands shrouded in sorrow. Neighbours and villagers arrive in trickles, whispering the same question: How could a newlywed bride plot something so brutal?
Inside, his parents — 63-year-old Jayaramulu, a retired land surveyor, and 56-year-old Shakuntala — sit side by side on a single bed in their spacious living room, their backs against a wall that gleamed with wedding silks just weeks ago. Between them, they clutch a framed photo of Tejeshwar, their fingers trembling, the glass misted with tears.
'We waited so long to see him married,' Shakuntala whispers, her voice cracked and eyes downcast. 'And now, this is all we have left.'
Beside them sits his twin, Tejavardhan, face lit only by the glow of his phone screen. He scrolls through old Instagram reels, of Tejeshwar dancing to a Telugu song in a park. In another, he is seen leading a group of children. 'Dancing was his passion,' Tejavardhan says, his voice low. 'It never worked out as a career, but he never stopped. He danced for the love of it.'
Tejeshwar was more than a brother, more than a son. He was the family's pride: a private land surveyor waiting on a long-anticipated government posting, and a self-taught dance instructor loved by local children.
From cold feet to a cold plot
The match had come through mutual acquaintances. Ishwarya, from Kurnool in neighbouring Andhra Pradesh, was poised, well-spoken and a seemingly perfect fit, matching Tejeshwar in height. The engagement was celebrated on December 26, 2024, and the wedding was finalised for February 13 this year.
The family spared no expense — 1,000 invitations printed with intricate gold detailing, maroon accents on beige paper and a gleaming Lord Ganesha motif at the centre. The K.S. Function Hall on Kurnool Road was booked, the caterers finalised, the menu planned down to the last sweet.
But just a week before the wedding, Ishwarya disappeared.
'She stopped answering calls. Her phone was switched off. Tejeshwar waited and then finally called her mother,' recalls Boya Srinivas, his brother-in-law. The news that followed shocked everyone — Ishwarya had fled to Chennai. No explanation, no warning.
The wedding was called off. The family lost thousands to vendors, priests and decorators. More than the money, it was the embarrassment and heartbreak that stung.
And then, just as suddenly, she returned.
'She told Tejeshwar that her mother had pressured her to back out because they couldn't handle the financial strain,' Srinivas says. 'She cried, begged him to take her back.'
Against the advice of his family and the pleas of his twin, Tejeshwar forgave her.
Tejavardhan, unable to accept his brother's decision, moved out of the family home and rented a house nearby. 'I told him she was already in a relationship. I had done a background check and warned him,' he says, shaking his head, disbelief still fresh in his voice. 'But he wouldn't listen.'
'He said she loved him, and that was enough,' his father Jayaramulu adds, now bedridden after a recent accident. He recalls how Tejeshwar went from one relative to another, asking them to help convince the family. He was determined to make it work.
The wedding eventually took place on May 18 this year, at the Beechupally Temple on the banks of the Krishna River, just 15 kilometres from their house. Though unconvinced, the family attended, choosing Tejeshwar's happiness over their doubts and suspicion. They welcomed Ishwarya into their home.
But things never felt right.
'She didn't behave like a new bride,' says Tejeshwar's sister, Susheela. 'She barely interacted with us. She never helped with chores, always stayed locked in the room, always on the phone. She only waited for him to return from work to take her out.'
There were brief moments — she made tea once for everyone — but for the most part, Ishwarya remained aloof. She avoided meals cooked by her mother-in-law, ordered junk food instead, and rarely sat with the family.
Still, Tejeshwar didn't complain. He continued working, teaching dance, trying to bridge the gap between his family and his wife. But unease hung in the air.
Then came June 17. That afternoon, Tejeshwar had called home. He was just 15 minutes away, he said, and asked Ishwarya to have lunch ready. But he never returned.
As night fell, panic set in. His phone was unreachable. Calls went unanswered.
The next morning, the family rushed to the police station, and Ishwarya went with them. She wept, she prayed, she held her mother-in-law close and stroked her hair.
But all along, she knew. Ishwarya had helped plan the murder.
The murder plot
As suspicion mounted, police turned to call records, and what they uncovered shattered the facade. Over 2,000 calls and messages had been exchanged between Ishwarya and 35-year-old Tirumala Rao, a bank manager with Canfin Homes, totalling more than 20,000 seconds of conversation. The digital trail revealed not just intimacy, but coordination.
The affair had begun months earlier in Kurnool. Ishwarya's mother, Sujatha, who worked as a sweeper at Rao's bank, introduced them. Rao, a married man, had helped both mother and daughter secure home loans and slowly tightened his grip. But when Ishwarya's wedding threatened the affair, a chilling decision was made.
Rao enlisted a former driver, Kummari Nagesh, and a friend, Parashuramudu. Masquerading as land buyers, they spent time with Tejeshwar, gaining his trust and mapping his movements. As the wedding approached, Rao escalated the plan — a GPS tracker was secretly installed beneath Tejeshwar's bike, says Jogulamba Gadwal Superintendent of Police T. Srinivasa Rao.
On June 15, the trio tried to locate him near Gadwal Fort and Sangala Cheruvu but failed. They returned two days later, this time with a rented SUV, black-tinted windows and weapons — two sickles and a knife —stashed under the seat.
At 8.30 a.m. on June 17, they called Tejeshwar again. He agreed to meet them near Kistareddy bungalow. He had no idea what awaited him.
He climbed into the front seat, and the group drove toward Mogali Ravula Cheruvu, pretending to scout land. After a stop for breakfast, they steered the car towards Kurnool. Around 20 kilometres out, they abruptly turned back.
It was just past 11 a.m., as they passed a temple, Parashuramudu moved to the back seat, feigning fatigue and then attacked. A blow to the head with a sickle. Tejeshwar screamed. The car stopped.
What followed was brutal: slashing, stabbing and finally, strangulation. His body was shifted to the middle row and covered. The men crossed the Krishna River to Panchalingala, disposing of his phone and bag in the water. Then they met Rao and handed them ₹1 lakh and instructed them to disappear.
Later that night, they moved the body again — this time dumping it near the newly-constructed Galeru Nagari Sujala Sravanthi canal. The killers returned to Kurnool and celebrated with drinks. Two days later, another ₹2 lakh was paid through an intermediary.
Back in Gadwal, Ishwarya kept up her act, playing the grieving bride.
But the police were closing in. CCTV camera footage, mobile data and relentless sleuthing led them to the getaway vehicle. On June 20, at a checkpoint in Pulluru, the car was intercepted and the conspirators were finally arrested.
The murder of Tejeshwar is not an isolated tragedy, it is part of a grim and growing pattern. Across India this year, newly-wed men have been killed in eerily similar plots involving married women and their lovers, leaving families shattered and the public rattled.
In May, Indore resident Raja Raghuvanshi, just 11 days into marriage, was allegedly murdered by contract killers hired by his wife Sonam and her partner, while honeymooning in Meghalaya.
In Uttar Pradesh's Meerut, Saurabh Rajput, a former merchant navy officer, was drugged, chopped into pieces and stuffed into a cement drum by his wife Muskan and her lover, Sahil Shukla, in March.
The same month, in Auraiya (U.P.), 25-year-old Dilip Yadav was stabbed to death two weeks after his wedding — another victim of a conspiracy led by his wife Pragati and her lover.
Background checks the new norm
These chilling cases have triggered a surge in pre-marital background checks across the country.
'We have seen a 30-40% rise in background verification requests over the past five years — and a clear 10–15% spike just in 2025,' says Kumar from Scout Detective Agency in Hyderabad. 'Most marriages today are arranged through online platforms where families barely know each other. Now, background checks have become routine. Families want to know everything — character, job conduct, financials and even romantic history. If the person's behaviour or body language seems off, they ask us to dig deeper.'
Captain D.K. Giri, who founded Sharp Detectives in Secunderabad in 1978, confirms the trend. 'Back then, these checks were rare. Today, I get five to seven requests a day — both pre- and post-marital,' he says.
Even within his own home, the shift is stark. 'Three of my five sons, aged 44, 32 and 30, have decided not to marry at all. They say it's not worth the risk,' Giri says. He believes societal pressure is partly to blame. 'Children are pushed into marriage without emotional alignment. The heart is elsewhere, but they go through with it to please the family. That dishonesty often leads to devastating outcomes.'
Diana Monteiro, a counselling psychologist in Hyderabad, sees this pressure play out often in her practice. 'Arranged marriages aren't inherently the problem. Forced ones are,' she says.
'Once a match is approved by elders, the emotional or logical concerns of the bride or groom are dismissed. Emotional blackmail and abuse are commonly used to pressure them into agreeing. But when problems arise after marriage, the same families ask, 'Why did you marry if you didn't want to?' or they blame the child for not fighting hard enough,' she adds.
She notes growing fear among young people. 'I find people more cautious, more sceptical. I have heard half-anxious, half-joking remarks like, 'Hope they don't kill me',' she shares.
She highlights to the pressure around past relationships. 'Many young men expect their wives to have no history, no baggage. That creates secrecy. If the truth comes out and the man reacts violently, it can lead to unimaginable consequences.'
But even as men are increasingly at risk in such headline-grabbing cases, the larger picture still reveals a society where women continue to suffer in silence. This is just one layer of a much deeper issue, says Purnima Nagaraja, therapist and consultant mental health expert, pointing to widespread dowry deaths and crimes against women in the country.
'Our society continues to expect women to be submissive, tolerant and silently endure suffering. The idea that women themselves could be behind such violent acts is a bitter pill to swallow,' she says.
According to her, the root problem lies in how marriages are still arranged — more as alliances between caste, class, and income brackets than between compatible individuals: 'Elders often hold the belief that love can happen after marriage. But today's generation lives in a world shaped by social media, dating culture and conversations around choice and intimacy.'
Back in Ganjipet, the wedding album gathers dust on the shelves. In the flickering light of a corner room, Tejeshwar's father stares at his son's photograph — the last one taken before the ceremony. His hands tremble as he touches the frame, his voice barely a whisper. 'Why him?' he asks.
It is a question no one can answer.