It started quietly, like most tragedies do.
In our village in Raigad, Maharashtra, people still whisper about the night Krishna Khandvi disappeared. He was a simple man — cheerful, hardworking, a husband, a son. On October 9th, 2025, he didn’t come home after work. His father, Namdev, and younger brother, Karan, kept calling him, but his phone was switched off.
By nightfall, panic set in. They searched every nearby market, asked drivers, friends, anyone who might’ve seen him. One driver finally mentioned that he’d seen Krishna riding toward Pali with two other men on a motorcycle.
The next morning, Namdev filed a missing person report at the Nagothane Police Station. Assistant Police Inspector Sachin Kulkarni began checking CCTV footage from nearby highways and toll booths. What they found changed everything.
Krishna was last seen with two men — but he never returned.
After hours of questioning, the suspects broke down. They confessed — Krishna had been murdered. The reason was something no one was prepared for.
Behind the entire plot was his own wife, Dipali.
Dipali had been secretly involved with another man, and together they decided to get rid of Krishna. The two men Krishna was last seen with were hired by her. It wasn’t a crime of passion — it was a calculated execution.
The police followed the clues, recovered Krishna’s body, and the truth came out in pieces — the betrayal of a man who trusted too much, and a woman who let greed and lust consume her.
While Maharashtra was still reeling from that case, another chilling story emerged from Gujarat’s Valsad district.
In August 2022, a car was found parked near the Par River. Inside was the lifeless body of a woman — strangled, bruised, and left to rot.
The woman was identified as Vaishali Balsara, a beloved Garba singer known across Gujarat. Her husband, Haresh, was the one who recognized her car and confirmed the worst.
At first, people thought it might be an accident or suicide. But the ligature marks on her neck told a different story. Someone had killed her — and tried to make it look natural.
The police set up six investigation teams, scanning over a hundred CCTV cameras and questioning dozens of people. Slowly, a name kept coming up — Babita Kaushik, Vaishali’s close friend.
She was eight months pregnant at the time. No one wanted to believe she could be involved.
When questioned, Babita tried to mislead the officers. She claimed Vaishali had left with two men, one of whom she could identify. But the police were sharp — her statements didn’t add up. When they showed her CCTV footage from that night, she pointed to an innocent man. That’s when the officers knew she was lying.
Under pressure, Babita broke down and confessed everything.
She was drowning in debt — ₹25 lakh that she couldn’t repay. In her desperation, she planned Vaishali’s murder. Using Facebook, she contacted two contract killers from Punjab, agreeing to pay ₹8 lakh for the job.
She lured Vaishali to an abandoned factory, pretending she wanted to return the borrowed money. When Vaishali arrived, Babita greeted her warmly, even joked with her. But inside the car, the killers waited.
One of them pressed a chloroform-soaked cloth over Vaishali’s face. She struggled — then went still. They strangled her and left her body in the backseat. Before leaving, Babita carefully placed her handbag and belongings to make it look like she had fallen ill and died inside the car.
The killers disappeared. Babita went home, pretending nothing had happened.
But the police didn’t stop. Forensic evidence, CCTV footage, and phone records exposed the entire conspiracy.
In the end, both stories — Krishna’s and Vaishali’s — revealed the same bitter truth: sometimes, monsters don’t live in haunted houses or dark alleys. They live beside us — in our homes, in our friendships, wearing familiar faces.
And in both Maharashtra and Gujarat, the echo of those betrayals still lingers — a reminder that the dead may rest, but the truth never does.
