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How Nagpur’s Women Took Justice Into Their Own Hands

How Nagpur’s Women Took Justice Into Their Own Hands
How Nagpur’s Women Took Justice Into Their Own Hands

Some stories are never truly told, only remembered. Not for lack of words, but because of what they reveal. This one unfolds in the narrow lanes of a neighbourhood many in Vidarbha's Nagpur had long chosen to ignore.


It is not a story shaped by headlines or verdicts. Its sharpest edges lie in the silences that lasted too long, the questions still whispered two decades later.



A Fear That Grew Too Familiar


In the heart of Nagpur’s Kasturba Nagar lived a man the police knew by name and residents by fear.


Bharat Kalicharan, more widely known as Akku Yadav, was no mystery to the people he tormented. Over more than a decade, he became a symbol of what goes wrong when systems forget the people they exist to protect.

He wasn’t a shadow figure operating in secrecy. He was out in the open, walking the same streets as his victims, visiting their homes.

The allegations were many and consistent. Rape, extortion, murder, intimidation. Girls as young as ten were assaulted. Men who resisted found themselves or their families beaten, and some were even killed. Victims filed reports. Doors were knocked on. Yet Yadav continued, often released hours after being taken into custody.



The community’s pleas were as ignored as their pain. Yadav’s reach extended beyond the slum’s borders, helped along by bribes and the calculated indifference of local police. Each complaint seemed to deepen his confidence. Women were routinely discouraged from pursuing cases, sometimes having their names leaked to the very man they accused. Those brave enough to speak were met with shrugs, delays, and in some cases, threats.


Kasturba Nagar, home to around 300 families, carried its trauma silently. Many of its residents were Dalits, pushed to the margins not only socially but institutionally.

Their reports of abuse fell into the spaces that paperwork doesn’t quite reach, where caste and gender decide the weight of a statement. Over time, silence began to feel safer than the law.



The Day the Courtroom Turned

The Courtroom Killing of Akku Yadav
The Courtroom Killing of Akku Yadav

It wasn’t a well-orchestrated campaign or a rallying cry that brought things to a head. It was a gas cylinder, a kitchen match, and a woman called Usha Narayane. Educated and employed, Narayane was one of the few in her community who had options outside the slum.


But when Yadav threatened her openly and with the same vulgar assurance he had used for years, she chose to stay. She locked herself inside her home and dared him to come in, promising to blow up the building if he did.


That act, defiant and desperate, marked a shift. Within days, people began speaking more openly.

On 6 August 2004, a group from the neighbourhood marched to Yadav’s home and tore it down. Police moved quickly, but not to investigate the years of complaints against him. Instead, they advised Yadav to surrender, reportedly to protect him from a now-angry crowd. It was the first time many had seen him afraid.



He was remanded in custody. A court date was set for 13 August. And Kasturba Nagar waited.


When the day arrived, around 200 women travelled to the Nagpur District Court. Some carried small knives hidden in their clothing. Others came with red chilli powder, the kind used in kitchens. They filled the benches of Courtroom Number 7, watching as Akku Yadav was brought in.

What triggered what followed is still disputed. Some say he insulted one of the women he had previously attacked. Others claim he made another threat, but whatever the spark, it didn’t take long. A woman stood, struck him with her slipper, and spoke words the courtroom would never forget: “We can’t both live on this Earth together.”


Dozens of women rose with her. Chilli powder was thrown. Knives appeared. Court officials and the two police escorts fled. Within minutes, Yadav lay dead, his body bearing dozens of wounds. One of the most notorious figures in Nagpur was killed not in a back alley or prison cell but on the floor of a courtroom, surrounded by the very people he had once hunted.


Justice on Trial


What followed was as complex as the incident itself. Police arrested five women at the scene. More were identified later. In total, 21 individuals were charged, including Usha Narayane, though she maintained she was not present. Charges ranged from murder to conspiracy, and at one point, even suggested the group had acted against the state itself.


Yet, the narrative didn’t follow the expected path. Over 100 lawyers offered to represent the women free of charge.

Public protests broke out. Legal professionals, including retired judges, questioned whether these women were defendants at all. In Kasturba Nagar, the sentiment was clear that if one went to prison, all would go.


The case struggled in court. Witnesses recanted or gave conflicting accounts. Some police officers who had filed the original reports later contradicted themselves. Yadav’s own brothers claimed to have seen the killing but were not considered reliable. Forensic work was incomplete. Key evidence, like blood-soaked clothes, was never fully analysed.



After ten years, the court issued its decision. All 18 remaining accused were acquitted.

The judgment pointed to the poor quality of the investigation and acknowledged what had been long suspected, that local police had failed to act, failed to protect, and in some cases actively supported Yadav.


The trial ended not with a sense of victory or loss, but with a quiet exhale. No one was punished. But for once, someone had been stopped.


In the time since, the events of that August afternoon have been revisited through documentaries, books, and legal essays. Many ask what it means when people believe the only path to safety lies in breaking the law. Others focus on the silence that preceded the violence and how a neighbourhood was failed not once, but repeatedly, until it took justice into its own hands.


The discussions it sparked are not about justification but context. When reports of assault are ignored for years, when victims are treated as nuisances, and when those sworn to serve side with predators, the law begins to lose its meaning.



Kasturba Nagar did not reject the rule of law lightly. It was pushed to a point where it felt like the only route left.

While no single policy arose directly from the incident, it became part of the national conversation around victim support and police accountability. Later reforms, including fast-track courts for sexual violence and stricter rules for police conduct, unfolded against the backdrop of cases like this one. The lynching, though rarely cited in official documents, lingered in the collective mind as a cautionary tale.


For many in Kasturba Nagar, life has moved on. Some still live in the same homes. Some have left. A few prefer not to speak about that day. Others remember it as a moment they reclaimed something that had long been taken from them, not vengeance, but control.


Courtroom Number 7 still exists. Proceedings continue. Papers shuffle. Doors creak open and shut. But for those who were there that day, it is not just a room. It is a memory shaped by absence: of protection, of justice, and of the sound of footsteps that never came.


References




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