We took a muddy, dusty path to reach a house in Kasganj, accompanied by a curious crowd of villagers. At the sound of their voices, the door opened but immediately half-closed upon seeing unfamiliar faces. From behind the door, a voice asked, 'Why come so late at night? There are children in the house. The power is out. Leave now.’
After more persuasion, the door opened but the conversation was terse. With a face like stone, the mother said, 'I've already lost my eldest son. If we talk, we might lose everything else too.'
This woman from Kasganj is the mother of one of the shooters who killed gangster Atiq Ahmed. These killers weren't notorious figures in the world of crime; they did it, allegedly, for name only. They are in jail, but their families’ imprisonment is not recorded in any police files. Living an almost underground life in three districts of Uttar Pradesh, these families fear every new face and avoid familiar ones.
More than a year after Atiq’s assassination, the calendars in these three homes have stopped on that fateful day. AajTak.in explored the lives of these families buried under the weight of their children’s crimes.
Our first stop was the village in Hamirpur where shooter Sunny Singh lived.
A local man, guiding us to Sunny’s house, said, ‘They are simple people, who wouldn’t even kill an ant. Yet they were caught up in such a mess.’ Pausing for a moment, he added, ‘Since losing his job, the brother now drinks. The children starve. If someone talks to him, he asks for money but doesn’t speak. You’ll see for yourself.’
At the end of an alley stood two small houses. One belonged to Sunny.
Source: aajtak
After the incident, Sunny’s two-room house turned into a police outpost for his family's safety. Now, it lies empty with an unlocked door. Inside, signs of police presence linger: broken chairs, discarded bottles, and a termite-infested bed. The actual owner left no mark here. No photos, utensils, or towels. No one visits this open, abandoned house—not even thieves.
Sunny’s family lives nearby. His brother, his sister-in-law, and their children. I stood in the only room upon entering. A baby was sleeping on a dirty cot. The elder brother, Pintu, sat in a corner, gesturing for me to sit in the other.
Pintu remarked, ‘We don’t know what happened. We saw it on the news. Then the police came. They stayed in Sunny’s house for almost a year. Wherever we went, they followed for our safety.’
Why? What threats did you face? Maybe because of my brother’s deeds. Now he’s in jail. We can’t even take care of our children. We used to run a tea and snack stall but had to close it. Now we just stay home, fearing anything could happen. Was your brother always like this? No. He ran away at six after being scolded. Never returned. He had a temper but we never thought he’d do this. Who lived in that house if Sunny never returned? Silence… ‘Now, what should we say?’ Calling out to his wife, he says, ‘You talk, I get scared.’ Did you meet him recently? Yes, we went last month. But we didn’t talk much. He just said, ‘Be careful. Don’t go out. Watch over the kids. The world’s dangerous. We cried. You committed the act, now the world’s dangerous! How are you handling expenses now? We sold everything. With police around, I occasionally worked. Made samosas in shops or did other jobs. But now, nothing. We live on credit.
Source: aajtak
After killing Atiq, your brother chanted a religious slogan, didn’t he? Yes. He was very devout. Always prayed. Hot blood. He saw wrong and corrected it. rat Sunny’s wife took over, ‘Since Sunny Singh (mentioning his full name) did that act, our situation deteriorated. Relatives help occasionally but who will support us for life? We have no fields. No income. Just fear.’ What do you think drove Sunny to do this? How would I know? I never met him. Nine years of marriage and he never came. Not during our marriage or when the kids were born. We saw on TV that he did this. Such a big act quietly. Such a big act? We never had any brushes with the police before. Then they lived with us. Everywhere they went, people noted our family connection to the act. Do you know what your brother-in-law did? Saw it on TV. It even seems right. Even the cops said you’re now known. Be confident. Don’t be afraid. But fear crept in. We can't go out. If we do, it’s terrifying. I’m alone with three children. How are you managing your daily needs? Somehow. Had lunch today but don’t know about dinner. Can’t pay school fees. Can’t get a ration card. Each time I try, there’s a new excuse. We've sold everything from our wedding gifts. See, gestures to broken nose ring-only thing left.
Source: aajtak
A Zigana pistol, a Turkish-made firearm worth around 500,000 rupees, was found with Sunny and the other two shooters. We also discussed this with his elder brother. Trying to dodge the question, he got irritated, ‘How would we know? Sunny did it, ask him. We can barely afford tea and snacks from the shop.’ As we left the village, we met a few people who said, ‘Their condition is awful. The boy got caught up. He was a small-time crook. How did he muster the courage to confront such a big man with a foreign pistol? He couldn’t even get a country-made weapon!'
Source: aajtak
About 100 kilometers away from Hamirpur is Banda district.
In this area, surrounded by the Munna and Ken rivers, lived Atiq’s second shooter, Lavlesh Tiwari. Initially willing to meet us, Lavlesh’s younger brother, Ved, stopped answering calls upon our arrival.
Upon reaching their home, we found the door open, but the narrow lane dark and silent even during the day. When I called, Ved stepped out, saying, ‘I can’t talk. My elder brother forbids it. Please leave.’ Saying this, he closed the door. We tried contacting Ved’s close ones again. After an hour, he agreed to meet us in the car outside the city, without cameras. He asked me to stop whenever he said so. 'My brother was in college in Lucknow, but dropped out. He rarely visited home, maybe a few days a month. We don’t know where he lived or what he did.' Why didn’t you ask? ‘I would ask, but I don’t know what my parents said. He fell in with the wrong crowd and it changed him.’ Who else lives in your household? My parents. One brother is a monk, another is married. Everyone knows Lavlesh. And there's me. That’s why I didn't want to meet you. I don’t want to risk our family’s safety. The frail young man, around 21, seemed frightened even inside the car. He kept looking out the window and feeling his pockets repeatedly. Did any group or agency help you after the incident? ‘No. Only you media people came. The police took us in for two months. I was in the first year of my graduation. I left my studies and found a mall job. Our elder brother helps with some money. Poverty existed before, but now fear accompanies it. We could have gotten police security, but refused. The less attention, the better. Lavlesh had previously slapped a girl. Did he have a record? No, that was different. A girl insulted his friends and he reacted. He didn't have affairs. He was always into prayers. When the incident happened, we learned from TV and the police. I know nothing more. Have you visited him in prison over the past year? No. Our parents visited once or twice but didn’t share much. Ved spoke quickly, avoiding eye contact. Lavlesh’s acts cast a perpetual shadow. How did he afford an expensive pistol? Please don’t ask that. We’re puzzled too. If we had money, would we be like this? Did you see our house? Now, let me go. Talking might worsen things. Have you or your family ever received threats? No direct threats, but there’s fear. It was a serious event. We’re simple people. If anything happens, we’re doomed. Ved’s voice trembled with fear. He left, ensuring no one noticed our meeting.
Source: aajtak
We moved to a distant village in Kasganj that night, heading to the house of Arun Maurya, the third and final shooter. Our local source made several calls, explaining how difficult it was to reach due to muddy paths merging with fields. Only once have media folks made it here after the 'incident,' a term everyone used for Atiq’s murder. We arrived at dusk. The muddy path made every step a challenge, and soon, a crowd gathered, questioning our presence. Our guide assured them, ‘We won't disturb their wounds. We’re here to know the family's condition. Maybe, we can help.' With uncertain expressions, the crowd followed.
Source: aajtak
The house we stopped at stood silent, darker than the rest. Recognizable by its quietness.
Upon the villagers’ calls, the wooden door opened slightly but closed upon seeing unknown faces. I placed my hand on the door, saying, ‘Don’t be scared. We just want to talk. Why. What do you want to talk about? Who are you? Why come this late? We’re from Delhi. We work for a news channel. Your young son is in jail. You might be in danger. Talking might help. Perhaps, the administration might aid you. Fear flickered, but the door still stayed ajar. Though hesitant, I made the offer, ‘I’m a woman too. Let me come inside alone.' The door finally opened. Darkness couldn't hide the house's decay—a room with unplastered walls and a government calendar, a jute cot, and a cart laden with mattresses, hinting it doubled as a bed at night.
Source: aajtak
Are you Arun’s mother? My token question lingered in the air. She retorted, 'Are you here for statements? Don’t do this. Look at my children. He’s in jail. My husband is on the run. Just leave. We’re neither police nor government officials. We just want to talk. We said we wouldn’t push for statements. After much persuasion, she agreed on the condition that we wouldn’t show faces or record them. She stood firm, as though ready to throw us out at a wrong word. With a hint of sadness, she began, 'Arun was the eldest of three. He was not yet 18 during the
