Brutal Story of Bangalore Gangsters

Alright. Sit down. You want to know about the real Bangalore? Not the glass towers and the startup cafes. I’ll tell you. But you have to understand, this isn’t a movie. There’s no glamour here. Just the smell of fear, old blood, and cheap politics.

Let’s start in the parks. You know them, the quiet ones under those big trees. In the 70s, that’s where it began. Not with some grand plan, but with something… smaller. More vicious. Young couples, thinking they’re safe, whispering in the shadows. Then they’d come. Jayaraj’s men. They wouldn’t just rob them. They’d… they’d make a spectacle of it. Humiliate them. Break them. This was their audition. To see who could be the most cruel. And it worked. The city learned its first lesson: Nowhere is safe. Not even your most private moments.

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And the man who taught them that? Jayaraj. A bodybuilder fired from a good job at HAL. He found a better employer: politics. The Chief Minister’s own son-in-law, Nataraj, picked him up. Gave him a fancy title—”Indira Brigade.” Sounded like a youth wing. It was a death squad. Their office? A torture room in Jayaraj’s garage in Wilson Garden. I want you to picture that. A normal-looking house, with a backyard where men were taken to have the spirit beaten out of them with pipes and knives.

His signature move? Walking into a courtroom. 1977. A sword under his shawl. He didn’t just attack his rival, Gopi, outside. He chased him inside. Into the hall where the judge sat. That wasn’t just murder. That was a message carved into the pillars of justice itself: Your laws are a joke. I am the law.

                                         Jayaraj and Kotwal Ramachandra 

Of course, he went to jail. And nature abhors a vacuum. Kotwal Ramachandra crawled. A deserter from the Navy. A big man, six feet tall, who liked to dress well. Don’t let that fool you. He had the same hobby: terrorizing couples in parks. A retired cop told me, his voice still heavy with disgust, “He was a perverted character.” He took over Jayaraj’s extortion rackets. But he was stupid. He threatened the Chief Minister’s daughters in their beauty parlour. Even your political masters will cut you loose when you start touching their families.

His end? It’s the template for how things work here. March 22, 1986. A farmhouse in Tumkur. Jayaraj, fresh out of jail and wanting his throne back, sent four men. They found Kotwal asleep. Or maybe just unguarded. One hit him on the head with a machete. Another on the neck. A third with a nunchaku. The police statement is chillingly simple: “Kotwal died without offering resistance.” They burned his body. Disposed of the bones in the Bay of Bengal. To mock the investigation, they buried dog bones in his grave. That’s the respect you get. You die like an animal, and they treat your remains like

 Then came the shift. The 90s. Liberalisation. The IT dream was starting. And the gangsters saw a new goldmine: land. The violence moved from the city centre to the outskirts—Nelamangala, Devanahalli. Where farms were becoming layouts. That’s where you get scenes like 2012, on the Tumkur Road highway. A politician, BEML Krishnappa, in his SUV. A truck blocks him. Thirty men with guns and machetes get out. They shoot him. Then, to be sure, they hack his body. In the middle of a traffic jam. People stuck in their cars, listening to this… butchery. This was over a property dispute between two cousins, Seena and Shankara. Their feud left nine people dead. Not just them. Lawyers, farmers, realtors. Anyone who saw anything, knew anything. Wiped out.

This is the real business. It’s not about ruling the city anymore. It’s about a five-acre plot on the edge of town. And the men who guard that business? They’re a different breed now.

Take Silent Sunil. A name that says it all. He wasn’t a loud don. He was a craftsman. A contract killer so good, for years the police didn’t even know he existed. His method? If you wanted someone killed, you had to provide the fall guys. He’d tell them to meet at a spot. They’d wait for “Sunil” to arrive. He’d already be there. He’d slip in, do the job, slip out. The idiots you hired would be left holding the weapons, covered in blood, for the police to find. He ran his empire from prison. His men collected “hafta” from… from cemeteries. Think about the symbolism. Extorting the grieving. That’s the bottom of the barrel.

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And these are the guys who are still around. Onte Rohith. Bachchan. They don’t want to be famous gangsters. They want to be politicians. A corporator seat. A panchayat post. That’s the new trophy. It gives you a badge, a file, a way to launder your power into something that looks legitimate. The dhaba owner who used to fix deals for them, Dhaba Seena, he became the APMC President. That’s the career path now.

So you see the cycle? It never really ends. It just… evolves. It starts with a thug in a park stealing a kiss and a wallet, backed by a politician who needs a blunt instrument. It becomes a monopolist controlling the city’s cooking oil. Then a real estate shark murdering for a plot near the airport. The weapons upgrade from knives to guns. The ambition upgrades from fear to a chair in the city council.

The dark reality? It’s a system. A market. We are the product. Our safety, our land, our peace of mind—it’s all a commodity to be traded, protected, or seized. And the violence is just the cost of doing business. The only constant is the whispered threat, the sudden ambush, and the grim understanding that in this other Bangalore, beneath the one you live in, everyone is just waiting for their turn to be the hunter… or the prey.

source of information- Indian_gangsters