Villupuram, Tamil Nadu: A dilapidated house, its thatched roof sagging and on the verge of collapse, stood at the corner of the street. The spiced aroma of mutton biryani filled the air, drawing people from their homes. Plates and bowls in hand, the entire street rushed to claim a share of the Sunday feast—a baby shower had turned the neighbourhood into a festival. 

A few feet away, under the shade of a tree, Anju, who uses only one name, sat on a frayed mat, staring into space. Her children, hungry, huddled beside her. They had not eaten since the previous noon. 

The biryani was close enough to smell but out of reach—they knew they would be shooed away if they tried. So, she waited, eyes fixed on the road, hoping her eldest son would return with money to buy a handful of rice and dal. 

“It’s 3 pm, and none of us have eaten since noon yesterday,” said Anju. “I am waiting for my son to return with money—that’s how we have been living, hand to mouth.”

More than a year ago, on 11 April 2024, Anju saw her husband, Raja fall dead in front of her because of violence she alleged the police had inflicted on him. Since then, Anju and her three children have been living in squalor and fear—barely getting by, harassed and humiliated. 

My review of the case files, including an autopsy report, and interviews with Anju and her family revealed discrepancies in the police version: the police investigation unfolded after a complaint that Anju said she never filed; the timings and events after Raja’s injuries differ from police claims; and two police stations in the same vicinity recorded complaints that contradict the other. 

Raja’s death was one of four alleged custodial deaths reported in Tamil Nadu within 12 days in 2024 and among 669 reported nationwide over the preceding five years—an indicator of a systemic national crisis. 

These data, said experts, were an underestimate because many deaths in custody were not recorded as such or went unreported.

That is not surprising because 70% of police personnel in India believe that they should be allowed to use force without fear of punishment, and a third have “a high propensity” to justify torture, according to a survey of police attitudes released in 2025.

Punishment, as the data reveal, is rare. 

When custodial deaths are reported, convictions are low: Tamil Nadu reported over 100 deaths in police custody between 2001 and 2018, according to National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) data, the latest available, with no convictions over these 17 years. 

The situation is similar when it comes to atrocities against scheduled castes. In 2022, there were 93 convictions, 92 in 2023 and 114 in 2024, while acquittals were nine to 10 times as many: 877, 1,093, and 1,092 respectively, according to NCRB data.

Custody to Coffin

Raja, 43, belonged to what is called an MBC or most backward classes community: Dalits on the lowest rung of the Hindu hierarchy. He was a cook at a wine shop in the Tamil Nadu town of Villupuram, about 160 km south of state capital Chennai and home to about 138,000, according to a government population projection for 2025.

On 11 April 2024, during routine patrols at the marketplace, police spotted Raja illegally selling liquor in plastic packets. He was arrested at 9 am and taken to Villupuram taluk police station and detained under section 4(1)(a) of the Tamil Nadu Prohibition Act for illegally selling liquor. 

His family was not informed by the police, a violation of then section 50A of the Code of Criminal Procedure (CrPc) 1973 (now section 48 of the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita 2023). It was only when his son Kubeeran, then 18, went in search of his father that he discovered he had been arrested. 

Anju rushed to the police station, but she was told to go home and was assured that Raja would return soon. 

The police claimed in their statements to the court that during his interrogation at the police station, Raja complained of dizziness. Inspector S Arumugam then granted Raja station bail and he went with his employer Mani at 10.50 am. 

Station bail allows anyone arrested to be released from police custody with conditions, such as reporting to a police station at specified times, or living at a particular address.

Anju recalled events differently. 

She said that at noon, Raja staggered into the house—his shirt ripped open, rubbing his chest frantically.

 “He kept saying, ‘I am leaving you. I can feel it. It’s all ending,’” said Anju. “Then he called out to our daughter, looked at her, and collapsed—dead.” 

"If Raja complained of chest pain while in police custody, why was he allowed to leave with his employer without receiving appropriate medical care?" asked Anju.

Anju rushed him to the nearest government hospital, where he was declared dead on arrival. Within minutes, she alleged, the police arrived, took custody of the body, and told the family to file a complaint to claim it. 

The policemen at the Villupuram taluk police station refused to comment, and when I contacted the inspector on 21 March, he asked me to call at a different date and then never responded. A policeman at the station said on condition of anonymity that nobody would give me a statement.

Several calls and mails to jurisdictional deputy superintendents of police, sub-inspectors of two police stations through which Raja was processed also went unanswered. 

One officer, speaking on condition of anonymity, said, “There is nothing to say. We’ve been told not to address this. The family is poor—how long can they fight? So why does this matter?”

Up to 12% 0f Tamil Nadu police personnel agreed “to a great extent” and 32% “to some extent” with a statement that Dalits were “naturally prone to committing crimes”, according to The State of Policing in India Report 2025, published by Common Cause, an advocacy group, and the Centre for the Study Developing Societies, a think tank.

A Complaint She Never Filed

On the day that Raja died, a first information report (FIR)—the starting point of a police investigation—was filed at Villupuram West police station under section 174 of the CrPC, investigation into an “unnatural death”.

The FIR was supposedly based on a complaint from Anju, who said she never filed such a complaint. She said the police made her sign blank papers, promising it would help her access benefits after her husband’s death.

Under section 154(1) of the CrPC, Anju, who is illiterate, should have been verbally informed of the details of the complaint, but she claimed the police failed to do so.

I accessed a copy of the FIR, which claimed that Anju told the police that Raja had complained of chest pain on the day he was detained, at 8:30 am—a time at variance from that recorded in the Villupuram Taluk police station—because of which Anju took him to the government primary health centre (PHC) in Maharajapuram, a few feet from their house.

Anju said after Raja was released on station bail, it was his employer who had taken him to the PHC at around 11:20 am. The doctors referred him to Villupuram Government Hospital for an ECG.

“If I had to take him to a doctor, why would I go 6 km away when the government hospital is less than a kilometre away?” said Anju. “Such a blatant lie, and yet the police have written this false statement.”

A senior officer from the taluk police station, speaking on condition of anonymity, brushed aside this discrepancy. “The other police station didn’t know about this complaint,” he said. “So they would’ve reported it as such.” 

The local deputy inspector general of police (DIG), who requested that his name be withheld, said he could not comment on the allegation because Raja’s death occurred before he took over. The previous two DIGs did not respond to phone calls.

A Death Wrapped in Doubt

An hour after he was declared dead at the government hospital, the police took Raja’s body for a postmortem. 

The police claimed they transported Raja’s body to Villupuram Medical College for an autopsy at 3:30 pm on the same day, 11 April 2024. The report submitted by the police to the court said the postmortem was done between 4:10 pm and 5:10 pm. 

“The deceased would appear to have died due to combined effects of aspiration and pre-existing coronary atherosclerosis,” read the report.

However, according to Kubeeran, the family had brought his father’s body back home by 4:30 pm. He questioned how the autopsy was completed in such a short time.

The morning after the incident, Kubeeran received a call from a police officer inquiring if the family would bury or burn the body. The officer allegedly urged him to burn the body, even offering to cover expenses. We tried speaking to the personnel at the two police stations involved. They refused to comment.

Latha, a neighbour of the family, who only uses one name, said,  “If the police were truly innocent, why should they give such advice? Because if we burn the body, then exhumation and postmortem re-examination cannot be done, and we can’t find out if he was assaulted.”

A Second Postmortem, Too Late

During Raja’s funeral and in the days that followed, his family found officers frequently patrolling their neighbourhood. They were under immense pressure, from relatives and others, to drop the case, they said.  

The family felt intimidated. 

Just when the helplessness appeared nearly overwhelming, they met Aseervatham, a human rights activist from People’s Watch, a non-governmental organisation that monitors human rights violations and supports survivors.

With Aseervatham’s support, Anju filed a writ petition that the Madras High Court admitted on 18 May 2024. Justice R Sakthivel asked why the FIR had still not been forwarded to the judicial magistrate, and flagged inconsistencies in the station records. 

The prisoners’ register showed Raja was granted station bail because he felt dizzy and unwell—but the judge noted that no police personnel accompanied him to the health centre. 

“This also creates serious suspicion around the death of the deceased,” said Justice Sakthivel. “Thus, a Section 176 inquiry (referring to a magisterial inquiry alongside the police investigation) is essential to unearth the truth.”

In a rare move, the court then ordered the exhumation of Raja’s body and a second postmortem—an outcome few cases of custodial death manage to achieve. 

The procedure was carried out on 22 May 2024, 41 days after Raja’s cremation, in the presence of the family, local police, and the district collector. 

By then, the body had significantly deteriorated. The autopsy report noted the body was "decomposed and partly skeletonised”, which limited the forensic conclusions that could be drawn.

I sought comments from four director generals of police, two serving and two retired. They either did not respond to calls or said they did not know enough to comment. 

3 School Dropouts

While the family continues to fight for justice, Raja’s death has had a cascading effect on their well-being. 

All three children, aged 16 to 19, dropped out of school, just days after their father’s death. The oldest, Kubeeran, was to start college but now works odd jobs to support the family. 

“I had to quit college to support my family. I have been pushing my siblings to study. But just look at our house,” said Kubeeran. “Every time it rains, water enters the house along with insects and even snakes. 

“People also talk down to us because we don’t have a father,” said Kubeeran. “Journalists and politicians promised help, but they’ve all disappeared.”

His younger brother, Sanjay Gandhi, 17, failed 10th standard and said he had lost the motivation to study. 

“My father always had my back,” said Sanjay Gandhi. “Even if I got into trouble, he was there. Now, I feel lost.” 

Mahalakshmi, 16, quit her education as well. 

“He died four days before my birthday,” she said. “We had matching clothes, we were so excited. Instead, I had to say goodbye to him in that dress. We used to fight a lot, but just when he was becoming my friend, he left me.”  

Aseervatham noted that in such cases, the impact on the family forced children to drop out, marry early, or even face abuse. He had often tried to reintegrate children so affected into school, he said, but Raja’s family's difficult social and economic circumstances had extracted a heavy toll.

‘Why Fight for a Man Like Him?’

Human rights activist P V Ramesh recalled how the police reacted in May, when he held protests demanding justice for Raja. 

“Why fight for a man of his caste?” he quoted the police as saying. “You’re not making a difference by saving someone like him.”

Police biases against those from lower castes and minorities have been previously documented. 

Ramesh alleged police repeatedly tried to intimidate him against organising protests and demanding action against the officers involved. 

Aaseervatham agreed. “The police only care about protecting their image,” said Ramesh. “They asked why I was speaking for a man who sold illicit liquor. But justice isn’t conditional—it’s a right.”

Henri Tiphagne, executive director of People’s Watch, pointed out a deep-rooted caste bias in Tamil Nadu’s justice system. 

“We expect both ruling and opposition parties to raise issues of custodial deaths. But they don’t,” said Tiphagne.

“Tamil Nadu claims to uphold social justice, yet a person’s worth is still judged by caste and class. The real problem is a lack of accountability.” 

They concurred that the judiciary, too, has failed to take suo motu cognizance of such cases. 

The Data Mismatch

Tamil Nadu reported 11 custodial deaths in 2018–19, 12 in 2019–20, 2 in 2020–21, four in 2021–22 and seven in 2022–23—the latest data available, according to the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC). 

These figures are based on data provided by the home ministry to the Lok Sabha, the lower house of Parliament, on 1 August 2023. In five years, India reported 669 custodial deaths, with Tamil Nadu—India’s fifth most-populous state—ranking fourth nationally with 40 deaths.  

Activists said the data did not align with deaths. 

Data from the government’s own agencies differ from each other. For instance, in 2020, the NCRB reported 76 custodial deaths in India, while the NHRC recorded 90, reported the Status of Policing in India Report (SPIR) 2025.

Ramesh said while the NHRC and the State Human Rights Commissions (SHRCs) were supposed to investigate cases such as Raja’s, they remained largely inaccessible to marginalised families. 

The process of filing a complaint often demanded legal knowledge, paperwork, and rigorous follow-ups in state capitals, difficult for such families. 

Dismissing Torture

Research conducted by The Square Circle Clinic, an advocacy group, revealed systemic flaws in how the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC) processes complaints. 

The report found that in 2020, the NHRC decided 102 complaints relating to deaths in police custody. Of these, 52% were dismissed, with the Commission concluding that the State bore no liability. 

These decisions relied heavily on post-mortem reports—documents that frequently cited natural causes such as cardiac arrest or underlying health conditions as reasons for death, said Gale Andrew, a researcher with The Square Circle Clinic. 

But as the case of Raja illustrates, such reports may obscure more than they reveal. Andrew said that delays were common in cases of custodial deaths, with over 90% of complaints decided more than two years after being filed. Families are left waiting, silenced, and sidelined.

Ramesh said India and Tamil Nadu needed decentralised avenues for justice, including district-level human rights bodies.

Back in Villupuram, a neighbour, Sumathi, joined in the conversation with Raja’s family. 

Just three months after Raja’s death, she said, her brother—31-year-old N Arputharaj, died in judicial custody. Like Anju, she, too, was not informed in time, was denied access to his body, and never received autopsy records.

“Our caste and class comes before our cause,” said Sumathi.

(Smitha T K is an independent journalist with a decade of experience reporting on climate, caste, conflict and politics.)

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