The Crack That Broke the Silence

On the surface, the city hardly even flinched. Bombay continued to buzz, Calcutta continued to grind, and Guwahati remained nestled in the creases of northeast India—untouched, as if unchanged. But beneath that incessant city beat, corpses were stacking up.

The destiny of 26 people, all sharing nothing but the commonalities of one thing—poverty—was sealed by a man infamously referred to as the "Stoneman." Motive: unknown. Fear: unrestricted. His technique was always the same—head stoned, silent murder that reflected very well on the way India treats its poorest of its people.

Between 1985 and 2009, a shadow shifted between railway platforms and footpaths, choosing victims with no roof over their heads, no bank accounts, no next of kin to count in official statistics. Their names just got into the newspapers. They died and were dealt with more documentation than sorrow. And with their silence, the Stoneman prospered.

The Timeline of Blood and Stone

The first known murders occurred in Bombay in 1985. During a six-month period, twelve homeless men were killed, their skulls crushed while they were sleeping. No motive seemed apparent, no theft had been committed, and there were no witnesses. Then the murders ceased just as abruptly as they had started.

In 1989, the killings picked up again—this time in Calcutta. Thirteen additional fatalities. Same technique, same type of victim. Most assumed the Bombay Stoneman had moved on. But with more police patrols and fear gripping the public, no suspect was ever definitely identified.

By 2009, in Guwahati, comparable murders caused panic again. Stones were being employed as weapons once more. The authorities, always careful to prevent mass hysteria, downplayed the serial link. But the pattern was clear.

A Crime in the Shadows

Serial killers are rare in India, and even rarer are the ones who successfully evade identification across decades. What made the Stoneman so effective was not just the brutality of his crimes, but the indifference surrounding them.

They were the most invisible of India's citizens: street dwellers, beggars, the mentally ill, and daily wage workers. They had no protections in the city—only a footpath to lie on and, later, a stone to the head. They were not simply murders; they were erasures. Silent deletions of lives that did not count.

In the words of one local reporter who wrote about the Calcutta killings: "The police treated it like a sanitation issue, not a murder spree." No candlelight vigils. No online campaigns. The Stoneman moved in a vacuum of compassion, facilitated by an institution that had little use for the people he murdered.

When Violence is Applauded

One of the most disquieting aspects of this case was the public feeling that lay just below the fear. Within the middle and upper classes, there were whispers—some even outright praise—for the so-called vigilante murderer. They viewed him as a person 'cleaning up' the streets, taking out what they saw as ugliness.

This response underscores the profound class divide that is ingrained in Indian cities. The poor's lives were disposable, their presence bothersome. It was not merely that the Stoneman attacked the poor—it was that their killing was acceptable, even desirable, to those who never had to fear sleeping on the pavement.

The psychological impact of this tacit endorsement cannot be exaggerated. A city that permits a serial killer to be considered a social purifier betrays a chilling complacency. The Stoneman not only murdered with a rock—he did so with the support of societal indifference.

Theories, Suspects, and Systemic Apathy

Albeit irregular arrests, like that of a Calcutta rickshaw puller who was picked up and released because there was no evidence, the real identity of Stoneman remains unknown. Police records are sketchy, and forensic evidence, where available, is hopelessly outdated.

Some believe the killings were done by more than one perpetrator, each following in the footsteps of the original spree. Others have argued that the killer might have met his death or simply gone on to greener pastures. But not having definitive answers is not only a failure in investigation—it's a failure of will.

Years ago, activists and writers drew attention to how little was said about these cases compared to those where middle or upper-class victims were involved. The message was clear: justice is a luxury of the rich.

The Forgotten Names

Among the few identified victims were:

• Raghu, a street vendor who had lost his home through slum demolition.
• Shanti, a mentally ill woman rejected by her family.
• Babu, a Bihar migrant worker who scraped together enough to remit cash to his family.

These names emerged not from police statements, but from local NGOs and activists who had served in the neighborhoods where the killings took place. Their narratives were cobbled together in bits—a friend recalling a favorite tea stall, a fellow pavement dweller remembering a night of merriment before the stillness.

Their humanity, so long abandoned by government systems, was put together again not by officialdom but by empathy. And even that could bring only remembrance, not justice.

A Call for Memory and Justice

Today, more than a decade after the last reported Stoneman killing, the case is still one of India's most haunting unsolved mysteries. It serves as a chilling reminder of the outcome when justice is selective and emplacement is a luxury.

India's rapid urbanization continues to produce more street dwellers, more forgotten people. Until policies prioritize human life over development aesthetics, and until media tell their stories with the same urgency as those of the elite, the lessons of the Stoneman era will remain unlearned.

The erasure of those street dwellers did not happen with a sound, only a cold stone to the head. But their memory is asking for more. Their deaths were not accidents, they were a mirror. One that reflected the cracks in our cities, and the brutality that lies within plain view.

What Needs to Change

The case of Stoneman has not only revealed a killer, but systemic rot. As India advances on the path of modernization, the base it constructs cannot be built upon the bodies of the poor. A structural change is necessary—a change in the way the police prioritize cases, a change in how cities accept (or criminalize) the homeless.

Mental health care, stable housing, and employment security are not frills. They are defenses against the vulnerabilities that rendered the Stoneman's victims vulnerable to attack. There also needs to be a change in attitudes. Treating street dwellers as a nuisance instead of as fellow human beings only makes dehumanization a stronger incentive.

This isn't about apprehending a murderer who might no longer be alive. This is about making sure there is never such a society again, so apathetic that a person like the Stoneman can go decades without being held accountable.

Justice delayed, in this instance, has been justice denied. But memory can become resistant. And if the state won't remember these names, we must.

Let their lives break the silence once more.

.    .    .

References:

• Gupta, R. (2011). The mystery of the Stoneman murders: Serial killing in India. Calcutta Crime Chronicles. Retrieved from https://archive.org/details/stonemanmurders
• Indian Express. (2009, February 18). 'Stoneman' strikes again in Guwahati. The Indian Express. Retrieved from  https://indianexpress.com
• Mukherjee, R. (2013). Invisible victims: Street dwellers and systemic neglect in India. Journal of Urban Social Studies, 14(2), 89–103. Retrieved from https://archive.org
• National Crime Records Bureau. (2009). Annual crime reports (19852009). Ministry of Home Affairs, Government of India. Retrieved from https://ncrb.gov.in/en/crimeindia
• Roy, S. (2010). Streets of fear: The forgotten victims of India's urban crimes. New Delhi: Frontier Press. Retrieved from https://archive.org/details/streetsoffearbook
• Sen, A. (2016). Class and crime in urban India. India Law Review, 8(1), 22–47. Retrieved from https://archive.org