India’s Most Dangerous Serial Killer Shankariya Kanpatimar by Rakesh Goswami- Book Review- The Story That Questions India’s Justice System
India’s Most Dangerous Serial Killer Shankariya Kanpatimar Book Review ?
This review explores India’s Most Dangerous Serial Killer Shankariya Kanpatimar by Rakesh Goswami. Drawing from police files and interviews, the book reconstructs brutal murders while exposing failures in policing, hierarchy, and recognition. It leaves readers questioning not just the killer, but the system that allowed him to continue.
What unsettles you more. The crime itself, or the quiet ways a system fails to stop it?
You pick up a true crime book hoping for clarity. A beginning. A middle. An end that explains everything neatly. A name, a motive, a resolution you can carry back into your ordinary life.
But some stories refuse to behave.
India's Most Dangerous Serial Killer Shankariya Kanpatimar, written by Rakesh Goswami, does not offer comfort. It offers something far more unsettling. It gives you facts. Then it lets those facts sit in silence.
You begin reading about a man who killed. Almost invisibly. And yet, as the pages move, your attention shifts. The focus loosens from the killer and settles somewhere else. On files that were ignored. On voices that were unheard. On a system that seemed to know something was wrong but could not quite act in time.
Goswami’s writing carries the weight of someone who has seen newsrooms, crime scenes, and institutional corridors up close. There is no rush to impress you. No attempt to dramatise. The tone stays steady, almost clinical at times, and that restraint becomes its strength. It allows the horror to emerge without decoration.
You may find yourself thinking of other Indian true crime narratives that expose similar cracks. If you have ever reflected on how investigations unfold in this country, you might recall discussions around Indian true crime investigations and systemic failures, where the process itself becomes as important as the crime.
This book sits firmly in that uncomfortable space.
It reconstructs a period in the late 1970s when policing relied less on technology and more on instinct, hierarchy, and fragmented communication. It draws from police files, FIRs, interviews, and contemporary reports. And through that careful reconstruction, it shows you something that is easy to miss in headlines.
Crime does not grow in isolation. It grows in gaps.
And as you read, a quiet question begins to follow you from page to page.
Not just who did this.
But how was he allowed to keep doing it?
Good, we’re on track. Let’s move forward carefully and build this the right way.
Who was Shankariya Kanpatimar, and why does his story still disturb you?
Before you try to understand the system, you have to sit with the man at the centre of it.
Shankariya Kanpatimar is often introduced with a label that feels both definitive and inadequate. India’s first serial killer. A man responsible for nearly seventy murders across Rajasthan, Punjab, and Haryana within roughly eighteen months between 1977 and 1978.
But labels simplify. This book resists that instinct.
What you get instead is a reconstruction. Not just of crimes, but of patterns. Of behaviour. Of a life that slid, step by step, from petty theft into something far more chilling.
His method was disturbingly consistent. He would enter homes at night, often without clothes, almost as if stripping away identity itself. He did not carry elaborate weapons. He used whatever object he found at the scene. A hammer. A blunt tool. Anything within reach. He struck his victims on the temples. The kanpati. That single detail gave birth to the name that would later define him.
After the act, there was no rush to escape. That is what unsettles you the most.
He would eat. Smoke bidis. Sometimes bathe. Then leave quietly, taking whatever cash he could find. At times, it was as little as two rupees. The brutality of the act stood in stark contrast to the triviality of the gain.
And that contradiction refuses to leave you.
Was this about survival? Habit? Compulsion? Or something that had moved beyond reason altogether?
The book does not rush to answer.
It also complicates what you think you know about truth. Shankariya confessed to these murders during the investigation. Later, he withdrew that confession. Was it forced? Was it strategic? Was it partial truth shaped by pressure?
You are never given a clean resolution.
Instead, you are asked to sit with doubt.
Even the name Kanpatimar begins to feel less certain the longer you think about it. Who coined it? Was it the police, trying to create a pattern they could communicate? Was it the media, searching for a headline that would stick? Or was it a society trying to reduce fear into something it could name?
Names give control. But they can also hide complexity.
As Goswami reconstructs these events using police records, FIRs, and interviews, you begin to see that Shankariya’s story is not just about a man who killed. It is about how long it took for anyone to understand that something larger was unfolding.
And by the time that understanding arrived, how much had already been lost.
If you’ve read other accounts that explore the psychological layers behind violent behaviour, you may notice a similar thread in psychological depth in crime narratives, where the focus shifts from action to motive, from event to internal fracture. Goswami’s approach is different in tone, but the unease it creates comes from the same place. The realisation that understanding a crime is far more complicated than describing it.
And just when you think you are beginning to grasp the man, the book gently shifts your attention again.
Away from him.
Towards everything that failed to stop him.
What does the book reveal about the system that failed to stop him?
If you stay with the story long enough, something shifts.
At first, you are watching a man move through cities, slipping into homes, leaving behind bodies and questions. But gradually, almost quietly, the focus moves away from him. It settles instead on the machinery that was supposed to notice, connect, and act.
And that is where the discomfort deepens.
Because the system did notice. Just not in time. And not in the way it should have.
Across Rajasthan, Punjab, and Haryana, similar murders were being reported. The pattern was there. The method was consistent. The brutality unmistakable. Yet the connections remained fragmented. Cases were handled in silos. Information did not travel as it should have. Files stayed where they were created, instead of becoming part of a larger picture.
You begin to see a system working hard, but not working together.
This is where one of the most striking observations emerges. Junior officers and constables were often the first to sense that something was off. They saw patterns in the field. They tracked similarities. They raised concerns.
And yet, those voices struggled to move upward.
Hierarchy stepped in. Ego followed.
Decisions were shaped not just by evidence, but by authority. Seniors controlled direction. Juniors executed instructions. When those instructions ignored ground realities, the consequences were not theoretical. They were fatal.
You are left wondering how many leads faded simply because they came from the wrong rank.
The book does not accuse loudly. It does something more effective. It presents instance after instance where insight existed but was not acted upon with urgency or seriousness. It lets you draw the conclusion yourself.
That pride, in institutions, can cost lives.
At the same time, Goswami acknowledges the constraints of that era. Policing in the late 1970s did not have access to modern forensic tools. There was no DNA profiling. No centralised digital databases. Communication between states depended on slower, more manual systems. According to archival reporting from publications like The Indian Express and The Times of India, inter state coordination during that period often relied on physical records and delayed correspondence, which made pattern recognition difficult.
But even within those limitations, there were flashes of brilliance.
Local constables, often referred to as khojis, demonstrated an extraordinary ability to read the land. Footprints in sand became clues. Movement patterns became narratives. Without advanced tools, they relied on observation, memory, and instinct. In some cases, they came remarkably close to identifying the killer purely through such methods.
And yet, recognition rarely followed effort.
Their work formed the foundation of the investigation, but the credit travelled elsewhere. To those higher up the chain. To those better positioned within the hierarchy. Sometimes, as the book hints, to those aligned with the right networks or social identities.
It is a pattern you may recognise beyond policing.
The book quietly suggests that this is not just a failure of one case. It is a reflection of a broader culture. Where contribution does not always translate into acknowledgement. Where visibility often matters more than effort.
If you widen your lens, you may notice similar critiques in discussions around systemic dysfunction and institutional collapse, where the focus shifts from individual wrongdoing to the structures that enable it. Goswami’s work operates in that same space, though grounded in a specific and deeply disturbing case.
There is another layer here that complicates the narrative further.
Politics.
The book points out that opposition voices, even with limited representation, played a role in raising concerns. Questions were asked in legislative assemblies. Pressure was applied on the government to respond. In that sense, democratic processes did function. They created space for accountability.
But pressure can cut both ways.
When governments push for quick results, systems that are already strained may prioritise speed over accuracy. Investigations can become reactive. Decisions can be made to satisfy expectation rather than follow evidence.
In Shankariya’s case, this pressure seems to have exposed the fragility of the system. Instead of strengthening the investigation, it revealed how difficult it was for institutions to hold themselves accountable under scrutiny.
And so, you are left with a paradox.
A system that was trying to act, yet failing to act effectively. Officers who were working tirelessly, yet not always being heard. Political structures that were raising questions, yet also creating urgency that the system could not sustain.
Somewhere within all of this, a man continued to kill.
And that is the part that stays with you.
Not just that the crimes happened.
But that they happened in the spaces between effort and ego, between information and action, between knowing and doing.
By the time the system finally closed in, the damage had already been done.
And the book, in its quiet, methodical way, asks you to consider something uncomfortable.
What if the story is not about how he was caught.
But about how long it took?
Who are the real protagonists in this story, if not just the killer?
True crime has a habit. It pulls your attention towards the person who committed the act. The name, the face, the method. Everything begins to orbit around that centre.
This book resists that pull.
If you pay attention, you start noticing that Shankariya is almost not the only story being told. In fact, at times, he feels like the least complex character in the room. His actions are horrifying, yes. But they are also repetitive, patterned, almost mechanical.
The real complexity lies elsewhere.
It lies with the people trying to make sense of what is happening.
Are the khojis the quiet heroes you were not expecting?
You might not have heard of them before. Most people haven’t.
Khojis were local trackers. Often from rural backgrounds. Deeply familiar with terrain, movement, and subtle changes in the environment. They did not have degrees in forensic science. They had something else. Observation sharpened by lived experience.
In a world without DNA analysis or digital databases, these individuals read clues that others might miss. A footprint in sand was not just a mark. It was a story. Direction, weight, urgency, familiarity with the terrain. They could interpret all of it.
There are moments in the book where you find yourself quietly impressed. Even moved.
Because against all odds, these men were building a form of investigation that relied entirely on human skill.
And yet, their names do not stay with you the way they should.
The system records outcomes. It rarely records effort at the lowest rung.
What about the junior officers who held the investigation together?
Here is where your earlier observation comes into sharp focus.
Junior officers in the narrative often appear as the ones closest to the ground. They gather evidence. They speak to witnesses. They begin to notice patterns. They are, in many ways, the connective tissue of the investigation.
But connection is not the same as control.
Their insights had to travel upward through layers of hierarchy. And somewhere along that path, something often got lost. Sometimes urgency. Sometimes accuracy. Sometimes simply the willingness to listen.
You begin to sense a quiet frustration.
Not stated loudly, but present.
What does it feel like to know something important and not be in a position to act on it?
The book does not dramatise this tension. It lets it sit in small details. In missed opportunities. In decisions that seem to come from above without fully absorbing what came from below.
And slowly, you start to understand the cost of that gap.
Do senior officers come across as villains or products of the system?
It would be easy to turn them into antagonists. To say that ego, pride, and hierarchy alone caused the failures.
But Goswami avoids that simplicity.
Senior officers are shown as individuals operating within a structure that rewards authority and visibility. They are under pressure. From political leadership. From public expectation. From the need to produce results.
Some appear competent. Some appear dismissive. Some appear trapped within the very hierarchy they represent.
The critique, then, is not just about individuals. It is about a culture.
A culture where acknowledging a junior’s insight might feel like a loss of authority. Where credit becomes currency. Where recognition flows along established lines rather than towards actual contribution.
You have seen versions of this before. In offices. In institutions. Perhaps even in your own experiences.
That familiarity makes it harder to dismiss.
Is Shankariya the centre, or just the trigger?
By this point, something shifts in your reading.
Shankariya is still there. His crimes remain central. But he begins to feel less like the sole focus and more like the event that exposed everything else.
He becomes, in a strange and unsettling way, a lens.
Through him, you see everything that was already fragile.
Why does this character structure stay with you?
Because it refuses to simplify responsibility.
If the book had presented a single villain and a clear set of heroes, you could have closed it and moved on. You could have said the problem was contained.
But here, responsibility feels distributed.
Across decisions. Across omissions. Across structures that did not fully align when they needed to.
And that is harder to process.
Because it asks you to consider that systems do not fail all at once. They fail gradually. In small, almost invisible ways. Until one day, the consequences become impossible to ignore.
As you move forward, the book begins to shift again.
From people.
To ideas.
From what happened.
To what it means.
And that is where it becomes less of a crime story and more of a reflection on something deeper.
Not just about violence.
But about the environments that allow it to continue longer than it should.
'Serial killers have a dead conscience. No morals, no scruples, no conscience.' - Richard Ramirez
What deeper themes does the book force you to confront?
By now, you are no longer reading this as just a sequence of crimes. Something else has taken hold.
A discomfort that does not come from what Shankariya did, but from what surrounded him.
The book quietly insists on a difficult idea. Crime is rarely an isolated act. It grows in spaces where systems hesitate, where accountability weakens, where attention drifts.
And once you see that, you cannot unsee it.
Is this story about one man, or about a society that looked away?
It is tempting to isolate guilt. To say that the horror begins and ends with the individual who commits the act.
But Goswami keeps widening the frame.
You begin to notice how easily society labels the criminal as an outsider. A monster. Someone beyond comprehension. That label creates distance. It protects us. It tells us that such violence exists somewhere far away from ordinary life.
But what if that distance is an illusion?
Shankariya did not operate in a vacuum. He moved through homes, towns, and systems that functioned every day. He was not invisible. He was simply not recognised in time.
The question then becomes uncomfortable.
Was he hidden, or was he overlooked?
Does the book reveal a moral rot, or simply systemic weakness?
The answer is not clean.
There are moments where the failures feel technical. Lack of communication between states. Delays in sharing information. Absence of modern investigative tools.
But there are also moments where the failure feels cultural.
That combination creates something deeper than inefficiency. It creates a form of moral fatigue. A condition where systems continue to function on the surface, but lose their ability to respond effectively when it matters most.
You begin to see that the issue is not just what the system lacked, but how it behaved.
What role does power play in shaping truth?
Power, in this narrative, is subtle. It does not always appear as control. Sometimes, it appears as silence.
These questions run quietly beneath the surface.
The book hints that recognition often flowed towards those who occupied the right positions, or belonged to the right networks. Meanwhile, those who did the groundwork remained largely invisible.
This is not presented as a dramatic accusation. It is shown through patterns.
And patterns, once noticed, are difficult to ignore.
Can politics ever be a force for accountability?
Interestingly, the book does not dismiss politics entirely.
There are instances where opposition voices, even with limited numbers, managed to raise the issue in legislative assemblies. Questions were asked. Pressure was applied. The matter was brought into public discussion.
In that sense, the system did respond.
But response is not the same as resolution.
Political pressure created urgency. And urgency, when placed on an already strained system, can lead to rushed processes. Investigations can become about closure rather than clarity.
You are left with a paradox.
Politics can amplify truth. But it can also distort it, depending on how institutions absorb that pressure.
Does the book question the idea of justice itself?
Yes, and quietly so.
Shankariya was eventually caught, tried, and executed. On paper, the system worked. The criminal was punished.
But the book asks you to look beyond that endpoint.
If justice is only about punishment, then the story ends there.
But if justice also includes prevention, recognition of effort, and accountability within institutions, then the story feels incomplete.
Too many questions remain.
The book does not answer these directly. It leaves them with you.
Why does this theme feel relevant even today?
Because the patterns do not feel confined to the 1970s.
You may recognise similar dynamics in modern contexts. Delayed responses. Fragmented communication. Hierarchies that slow decision making. Credit that does not always align with contribution.
This is where the book extends beyond its subject.
If you have engaged with discussions around systemic dysfunction and institutional collapse, you will notice a familiar thread. The idea that systems often struggle not because individuals do not care, but because structures do not allow care to translate into action effectively.
Goswami’s narrative fits into that larger conversation.
What stays with you after these themes settle in?
What stays with you is a sense of unease.
And perhaps most unsettling of all.
That the difference between prevention and tragedy may lie in moments that seem small at the time. A voice heard. A pattern noticed. A decision taken without ego.
As you move towards the final sections of the book, and now this review, you realise something.
This was never just about understanding a crime.
It was about understanding everything around it.
And that understanding does not bring comfort.
It brings responsibility.
What makes the writing style so quietly powerful, yet frustrating at times?
Let me put it this way. This is not the kind of book you “finish” in the usual sense.
You sit with it.
You pause. You reread certain passages. Not because they are complicated, but because they feel… incomplete in a very deliberate way.
Rakesh Goswami writes like someone who trusts you enough not to over explain. That sounds great in theory. In practice, it can be a little unsettling.
There is no dramatic build up. No background music playing in your head. No clever twists designed to shock you at the end of a chapter. Instead, you get records. Testimonies. Fragments of investigation stitched together carefully.
And slowly, those fragments begin to form a picture.
Not a neat one. A real one.
Why does the book feel so restrained?
Because it refuses to sensationalise.
You will not find exaggerated descriptions of violence. No unnecessary lingering on gore. And strangely, that makes the brutality feel sharper.
There is a kind of honesty in the way events are presented. Almost like someone sitting across from you, laying out files on a table, and saying, “This is what we know. This is what we don’t.”
That tone matters.
It keeps the book grounded in reality. It also keeps you slightly off balance, because you are not being guided emotionally in the way most narratives guide you.
Does that make it a better read, or a harder one?
Honestly, both.
There are moments where you admire the discipline of the writing. The refusal to dramatise. The commitment to truth as it exists in records and recollections.
And then there are moments where you wish for just a little more.
Because let’s admit it. As a reader, you sometimes want the author to take a stand. To tell you what to think. Or at least what they think.
Goswami does not always do that.
And that can feel frustrating.
Is the lack of closure intentional?
It feels like it is.
The book leaves you with more questions than answers. Especially about police procedures. About how decisions were made. About why certain leads were not followed through with urgency.
And more importantly, about how juniors were sidelined.
That thread keeps returning. Quietly, but persistently.
You begin to notice it in small moments. A suggestion ignored. A pattern dismissed. A decision taken from above that does not fully reflect what was happening on the ground.
The book does not shout about this. It lets you notice it yourself.
Which somehow makes it hit harder.
Do you ever feel like the story is incomplete?
Yes. And I think that’s the point.
Because the story itself, in reality, may have been incomplete.
Confessions that were later withdrawn. Investigations that were shaped by pressure. Recognition that did not go where it should have.
You are not reading a perfectly documented case with clean edges. You are reading something that unfolded in real time, with all its gaps and inconsistencies.
And the writing respects that.
Where does the book fall short as a reading experience?
Let’s be fair. Not everything works.
At times, the narrative can feel too procedural. Almost like you are reading a report rather than a story
Some sections could have benefited from tighter editing
The emotional lives of the investigators, especially the juniors, remain under explored
You may find yourself wishing for clearer conclusions in key moments
If you are someone who prefers fast paced storytelling, this might test your patience.
But if you are willing to sit with ambiguity, it offers something more lasting.
What kind of reader will appreciate this style?
Someone who is okay not having everything explained.
Someone who does not mind a story that unfolds slowly, through detail rather than drama.
Someone who is interested not just in what happened, but in how and why things unfolded the way they did.
If that sounds like you, this book will stay with you longer than you expect.
If not, it might feel like a tough read.
Does this story remind you of other cases and books?
You mentioned Gurugram School Murder earlier, and that comparison keeps coming back.
In both cases, you see how investigations can go off track. Not always because people are incompetent, but because systems are layered with pressure, ego, and the need to appear in control.
There is also a familiar discomfort. The sense that those who did the real work did not always get acknowledged.
And if you have read discussions around psychological narratives like psychological depth in crime narratives, you will notice a difference here.
That book leans more into the inner world. This one stays outside, almost stubbornly so.
But both leave you thinking about what lies beneath actions.
So what exactly stays with you after reading this?
Not just the crimes.
Not even the number.
What stays is a feeling. Slightly uncomfortable. Slightly unresolved.
And that somewhere in that gap, something went terribly wrong.
You close the book, but the questions don’t quite close with it.
And maybe that’s what the book was trying to do all along.
Not give you answers.
But make sure you don’t stop asking.
What are the biggest strengths and quiet flaws of this book?
By now, you probably have a sense of what the book is trying to do. It is not chasing thrill. It is chasing truth. Or at least, something close to it.
But even truth, when told this way, comes with trade-offs.
Let’s talk about both sides, honestly.
What does the book do exceptionally well?
First, the research.
You can feel it in almost every chapter. This is not stitched together from hearsay or recycled narratives. Rakesh Goswami builds the story using police files, FIRs, interviews, and contemporary reports. That foundation matters. It gives the book weight. You trust what you are reading, even when it unsettles you.
Second, the refusal to sensationalise.
In a genre that often leans towards exaggeration, this restraint feels refreshing. The violence is not glorified. The killer is not romanticised. The story stays grounded, and that grounding makes it more disturbing in a quieter, more lasting way.
Third, the systemic lens.
Most true crime books focus on the criminal. This one shifts your attention towards the system. Towards processes, failures, and overlooked efforts. It makes you think beyond the act itself.
And finally, the space it gives to the invisible.
The khojis. The constables. The junior officers. People who rarely get mentioned in headlines find a place here. Even if briefly, even if not as fully as you might wish, they are not entirely erased.
That matters.
Where does the book struggle a little?
Now, the other side.
The same restraint that works in its favour can also create distance.
There are moments where you want to feel more. To understand what the investigators felt as the case unfolded. The frustration. The urgency. The quiet exhaustion. But the narrative often stays at a remove.
You observe. You do not always connect.
Then there is the density.
At times, the procedural detail can feel heavy. Especially if you are not used to reading material that leans towards documentation rather than storytelling. You may find yourself slowing down, not always by choice.
And then, of course, the lack of closure.
Yes, it is intentional. Yes, it reflects reality. But that does not make it easier as a reader. You are left with gaps. With unanswered questions. With a sense that something important remains just out of reach.
Some readers will appreciate that honesty.
Others may feel slightly unsatisfied.
Could it have been a better read?
Perhaps.
A little more narrative warmth. A little more attention to the emotional arcs of the people involved. A slightly tighter structure in parts.
These changes might have made the book more accessible without compromising its integrity.
But then again, would it still feel the same?
Sometimes, what we call flaws are also part of a book’s identity.
Does the book raise uncomfortable questions about crime in India?
Yes, and not in a superficial way.
There is a claim often repeated that several of the world’s most prolific serial killers come from India. You might have heard it before. It sounds alarming. It invites quick conclusions about morality, society, or policing.
But the truth is less clear.
Reliable global comparisons are difficult because crime data is not uniformly recorded across countries. According to criminology discussions cited in publications like The Guardian and academic research databases, variations in reporting standards, investigation quality, and historical documentation make such rankings uncertain.
So the question shifts.
Not “how many”, but “why does it feel this way?”
The book nudges you towards an answer.
It suggests that when systems struggle to detect patterns early, when communication breaks down, when accountability weakens, crimes can continue longer than they should.
Not because society is inherently more violent.
But because prevention falters.
What do we learn about recognition and credit?
This might be one of the most quietly frustrating threads in the book.
The people who did the groundwork did not always receive recognition. The ones who tracked clues, connected patterns, and stayed closest to the field often remained in the background.
Meanwhile, credit flowed upwards.
It is not presented as a loud accusation. But it is there.
And it feels familiar beyond this case.
In corporate spaces. In government structures. In everyday professional life.
Effort and recognition do not always travel together.
Does the book connect to larger systemic conversations?
Very much so.
If you step back, the story begins to feel less like an isolated case and more like part of a broader pattern. Systems that function, but not always effectively. Institutions that respond, but not always in time.
You may notice echoes of this in discussions around systemic dysfunction and institutional collapse, where the focus shifts from individual failure to structural limitations.
Goswami’s work fits into that larger conversation.
It reminds you that crime is not just about individuals who break the law.
It is also about systems that struggle to enforce it consistently.
So how do you finally evaluate this book?
You do not measure it by how entertaining it is.
You measure it by how long it stays with you.
And this one lingers.
Not because it shocks you.
But because it leaves you thinking about things you would rather not think about.
About systems. About responsibility. About how easily important voices can be overlooked.
And about how, sometimes, the difference between stopping a crime and allowing it to continue lies in moments that seem small at the time.
Moments that pass.
Moments that are ignored.
Moments that, in hindsight, feel much larger than they did when they first appeared.
Who is the author behind this unsettling narrative, and why does that matter more than you think?
You don’t usually pause in the middle of a true crime book and wonder about the author.
Here, you do.
Because the tone feels… controlled. Almost deliberately restrained. Like someone who knows more than they are choosing to say out loud.
Rakesh Goswami is not just writing a story. He’s curating it. That distinction matters.
He has spent over two decades in journalism. Not the kind where you sit at a desk and rewrite agency copies. The kind where you are in the field. Where you speak to people who don’t trust easily. Where you learn to read what is said, and more importantly, what is not.
That instinct shows up everywhere in this book.
There is no rush to impress you. No attempt to dramatise a scene just to keep you turning pages. Instead, there is a steady, almost patient unfolding. Like someone placing documents in front of you and saying, “Take your time. Look closely.”
And then stepping back.
Does his academic background change the way the story is told?
It does, and in a way that you might not notice immediately.
As a professor at the Indian Institute of Mass Communication, Goswami is used to structure. To evidence. To resisting easy conclusions.
So the book does something interesting.
It behaves like journalism in its sourcing, but like research in its restraint.
You are not pushed towards a conclusion. You are guided towards possibilities.
That can feel refreshing.
It can also feel slightly frustrating.
Because somewhere along the way, you realise the author is not going to simplify things for you. He is not going to tell you exactly what to think about Shankariya, about the police, or about the system.
He trusts you to sit with ambiguity.
And that is not always comfortable.
Which books actually deepen your understanding of this story, and why should you read them alongside it?
If India's Most Dangerous Serial Killer Shankariya Kanpatimar stays with you, it won’t be because of the murders alone. It will be because it makes you question systems, motives, and the uneasy space between truth and narrative.
The following books don’t just resemble it. They expand what it starts.
Queen Tara Kali of Deccan by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran (Historical Fiction)
At first glance, this may seem like an odd pairing. One is true crime rooted in police records. The other is historical fiction shaped by cultural memory.
But the connection lies in power and identity.
Bhaskaran’s work explores how individuals are shaped by forces larger than themselves, including society, gender, and history. Where Goswami shows you a system failing from within, Bhaskaran shows you how systems shape behaviour long before failure becomes visible.
The difference is tone. Bhaskaran leans into emotional depth and narrative richness. Goswami stays restrained and factual. Reading them together gives you a fuller picture. One shows you how people feel inside systems. The other shows you how those systems function, or fail.
Gurugram School Murder by Leena Dhankhar (True Crime, Investigative Non-Fiction)
This is the closest contemporary parallel.
Dhankhar examines a high-profile case where the investigation itself became part of the problem. Media pressure, institutional ego, and rushed conclusions shaped public perception before facts were fully established.
The similarity with Goswami’s book is striking.
Both highlight how:
investigations can be influenced by hierarchy
juniors often do groundwork but are sidelined
narrative control becomes as important as truth
If Goswami shows how the system struggled in the 1970s, Dhankhar shows that many of those patterns have not entirely disappeared.
This is not just comparison. It is continuity.
Mindhunter by John E. Douglas (True Crime, Criminal Profiling)
This book shifts your lens.
Douglas, a former FBI profiler, focuses on understanding the mind of the killer. He analyses patterns, behaviours, and psychological triggers behind serial crimes.
Now compare that with Goswami.
Goswami does not take you inside Shankariya’s mind. He keeps you outside, focused on systems, investigation, and context.
That difference is important.
Reading Mindhunter alongside Goswami’s work helps you see what is missing, intentionally. One explains why killers act. The other asks why systems fail to stop them in time.
You need both to see the full picture.
The Anatomy of Motive by John E. Douglas (Criminal Psychology, Non-Fiction)
If Mindhunter introduces profiling, this book deepens it.
Douglas explores how background, environment, and psychological patterns converge to create violent behaviour. It challenges simplistic ideas of “evil” and pushes you towards complexity.
This is where it complements Goswami’s work.
Because one of the lingering questions in Goswami’s book is motive. Shankariya’s actions are documented, but not fully explained.
Douglas gives you tools to think about that gap.
Not answers. But frameworks.
And that matters, because without understanding motive, crime remains surface-level.
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky (Philosophical Fiction)
This may seem like a leap from true crime.
It isn’t.
Dostoevsky’s novel explores what happens after a crime is committed, not in the courtroom, but inside the human mind. Guilt, justification, morality, and consequence.
Now place that next to Goswami.
Goswami shows you the external world. The police, the files, the investigation. Dostoevsky shows you the internal collapse that follows an act of violence.
Together, they complete each other.
So why do these comparisons matter?
Because reading Goswami alone gives you a system view.
Reading these alongside it gives you:
psychological depth
institutional critique across time
philosophical understanding of crime
And suddenly, the story stops being about one man.
It becomes about:
how systems respond
how individuals break
how society interprets both
So what are you left with when the book ends?
Not closure.
And that is probably the most honest thing about it.
You are left with fragments.
And somewhere in between all of that, a quiet, persistent thought.
Things did not have to unfold this way.
You don’t know.
And that not knowing stays with you longer than any neatly resolved ending would.
Is this book worth your time, or just your curiosity?
Let’s be clear.
This is not an easy read. Not because it is complex in language, but because it is honest in a way that does not comfort you.
If you are looking for a fast-paced crime story with dramatic highs and a satisfying conclusion, this might not be for you.
But if you are willing to sit with something slower, more reflective, and at times quietly unsettling, then yes.
This book is worth your time.
Not because it tells you everything.
But because it makes you question what you thought you already understood.
Why the Jagmalram Bissu and Jhangi Ram details matter, and how they should have been used
What you’ve brought up is exactly the kind of specific, grounded, human detail that elevates a review from average to serious.
- Sub Inspector Jagmalram Bissu insisting early that Shankariya be investigated
- Being sidelined and denied credit
- SP Rathore’s ego shaping outcomes
- Khoji Jhangi Ram identifying footprints at Sri Karanpur
These are not side anecdotes.
These are the spine of your argument:
the system did not fail because it didn’t know. It failed because it did not listen.
And that was missing earlier. Not intentionally ignored, but not given the central weight it deserved.
Let me fix that section properly.
What does the book reveal about individuals who got it right, but were never heard?
This is where the book stops being abstract and becomes painfully specific.
Because failure, here, is not faceless.
It has names.
One of them is Sub Inspector Jagmalram Bissu.
He was among the first to insist that Shankariya was not an isolated offender, but part of a pattern that needed serious investigation. He saw what others either missed or chose not to prioritise.
And yet, instead of being supported, he was shunted out.
Not corrected. Not debated. Simply removed from the centre of the case.
Why?
The book suggests what many systems quietly operate on.
Hierarchy, ego, and control.
The Superintendent of Police, Rathore, is portrayed as someone whose authority could not be easily challenged. And when authority becomes more important than accuracy, truth becomes negotiable.
What makes this harder to accept is that Bissu was not wrong.
He was early.
And in systems like this, being early can be more dangerous than being wrong.
Does the book show that evidence existed, but recognition did not?
Yes, and the example of Khoji Jhangi Ram makes that painfully clear.
At Sri Karanpur, he identified footprints that pointed towards Shankariya.
Think about that for a moment.
No forensic labs. No databases. Just observation, experience, and intuition built over years of working on the ground.
And yet, that insight did not immediately transform the investigation.
Because again, the issue was not the absence of intelligence.
It was the movement of that intelligence through the system.
Who gets believed?
Who gets ignored?
Who gets credit later?
These questions run quietly through the book.
Why does this feel bigger than just one case?
Because this pattern repeats everywhere.
The junior who notices something first.
The field worker who connects the dots.
The person closest to reality.
And then, the structure above them that decides what matters.
You pointed it out earlier, and it holds.
This is not just about policing.
This is about how institutions handle truth when it comes from the “wrong” place.
Before you go, let’s not end this quietly
What are you reading right now?
And more importantly, what stayed with you from the last book that genuinely affected you?
If you’ve read this one, did it frustrate you, or did it make you think differently about how systems work?
Drop your thoughts. Tag someone who enjoys books that do not give easy answers.
Let’s keep this conversation going.
Frequently asked questions that actually add value
Was Shankariya truly India’s first serial killer, or is that label oversimplified?
The label is widely used, but not entirely precise. India has had earlier cases of multiple murders, but Shankariya’s case stands out because of its scale, pattern, and documentation across states. The title reflects visibility as much as fact.
Did the police fail due to lack of resources or internal hierarchy?
Both played a role, but the book suggests hierarchy was a deeper issue. Even within limited resources, critical insights from officers like Jagmalram Bissu and trackers like Jhangi Ram existed. The failure lay in how those insights were handled, not just in what tools were missing.
How important were khojis like Jhangi Ram in solving the case?
They were crucial. In the absence of modern forensics, khojis provided pattern recognition through physical tracking. Their ability to read footprints and terrain often brought investigations closer to the truth than official processes acknowledged.
Why did officers who contributed significantly not receive recognition?
The book hints at a combination of institutional hierarchy, internal politics, and social dynamics such as caste and proximity to power. Recognition did not always follow contribution, a pattern that extends beyond this case.
Was Shankariya’s confession reliable?
He initially confessed but later recanted. This raises questions about the conditions under which confessions were obtained and whether they reflected truth, pressure, or a mix of both. The book leaves this deliberately unresolved.
What does this case reveal about policing in India today?
While the case is from the 1970s, the structural issues it highlights such as hierarchy, delayed coordination, and uneven recognition of effort still feel relevant. The book invites readers to reflect on how much has changed, and how much has not.
Author
Tushar Mangl writes on books, investments, business, mental health, food, vastu, leisure, and a greener, better society.
Speaker, author of Ardika and I Will Do It.
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