In the quiet, agrarian heartland of Madhya Pradesh, where the rhythm of life is dictated by the monsoon and the harvest, a sinister shadow has been cast over two small villages. Chandana and Binjana, in the Dewas district, have become the epicenter of a tragedy that has left 13 families mourning and an entire community grappling with fear and anger. The deaths, which occurred between late September and mid-October, were initially shrouded in confusion—a sudden ailment, a rapid decline, and then silence. But as the number of victims grew, it became clear that this was no ordinary sickness. It was poison, disguised as alcohol. The police, alerted by the cries of grieving relatives, launched an investigation that would unravel a chilling tale of technological savvy, criminal audacity, and a complete disregard for human life. What they discovered was not a simple bootlegging operation, but a sophisticated network that used artificial intelligence, a pharmacy of chemicals, and a web of corruption to flood villages with fake liquor, all while hiding in plain sight among legitimate supplies. The arrest of ten individuals, including the alleged mastermind Ajay Rathore, has brought some measure of justice, but for the families of the deceased, the scars run deep. This is the story of a crime that bridged the ancient and the modern, and of a community left to pick up the pieces.
The investigation began as a response to the most basic of police duties: to determine why people were dying. Between September 27 and October 16, reports emerged of 13 deaths in the two villages, with the first two fatalities recorded in Chandana on October 15 and 18. The victims, mostly laborers and farmers, had reportedly consumed alcohol from local sources before falling violently ill. Their symptoms—vomiting, seizures, organ failure—were consistent with methanol or chemical poisoning, but no one had yet identified the source. The families insisted that their loved ones had drunk spurious liquor, a term that carries a heavy history in India, where illicit alcohol has long been a scourge in rural areas. The police, initially slow to connect the dots, soon realized they were dealing with a pattern. A breakthrough came on October 26, when a patrol intercepted a car on a road near the villages. Inside, they found three men: Vinod Jaiswal, Ajay Rathore, and Rameshwar Songara. In the vehicle were six cartons containing 54 litres of what was later confirmed to be counterfeit country liquor. This was the first tangible piece of evidence linking the deaths to a criminal enterprise. As the accused were brought in for questioning, they began to talk, revealing a network that extended far beyond the three men in the car. Within days, seven more individuals were identified and arrested, including employees of licensed liquor shops—a detail that would prove crucial in understanding how the poison reached such a wide audience.
At the heart of the operation was Ajay Rathore, a name that now evokes both outrage and disbelief. According to police, Rathore was not a traditional moonshiner; he was a modern criminal who used artificial intelligence as his guide. In a startling revelation, investigators stated that Rathore allegedly employed AI tools to learn how to prepare fake liquor. This is not the dusty, folk knowledge of homemade brews passed down through generations, but a calculated, tech-driven approach to toxicology. Rathore reportedly sourced chemicals from a well-known medicine market in Indore, a bustling commercial hub about 70 kilometers from Dewas. There, he purchased industrial-grade substances that, when mixed with water, could mimic the appearance and, to some degree, the taste of legitimate alcohol. The mixture was then poured into old bottles, which were collected from scrap dealers who had no idea their discarded glass would become instruments of death. These filled bottles were not randomly distributed; instead, they were integrated into an illegal distribution network that had established, if precarious, routes to rural consumers. But the most diabolical aspect of Rathore’s scheme was his alleged strategy of mixing his counterfeit bottles with the stock of licensed liquor outlets. This meant that when a villager bought a bottle from a shop that had legal permission to sell alcohol, they might unknowingly receive a lethal concoction that looked exactly like the genuine product. The cover was perfect: the fake liquor traveled under the umbrella of officialdom, making it nearly impossible for consumers to detect its true nature until it was too late.
The arrests, which came after the October 26 interception, were just the beginning of a larger police operation that sought to dismantle the entire supply chain. The accused, in their interrogations, named seven others who were allegedly involved in the sale of the illicit liquor. These included not only street-level sellers but also employees of licensed liquor shops, suggesting that corruption extended into the very system designed to regulate alcohol sales. Police seized a substantial amount of evidence: fake liquor valued at approximately Rs 7.25 lakh, including the 54 litres recovered from the car, as well as a car, ten mobile phones, and Rs 10,000 in cash. The mobile phones, in particular, were likely to contain communication records that would further map the network. Eight of the accused were remanded to three days of police custody, giving investigators the time to pursue leads and uncover deeper layers of the operation. Two others were sent to judicial custody, their fates to be decided in a court of law. The police also acted on a crucial piece of intelligence: they sealed a godown on the fourth floor of a building in Indore’s medicine market, a location believed to be the epicenter of the chemical supply chain. This godown, hidden in plain sight among legitimate pharmaceutical wholesalers, was where Rathore allegedly purchased the poisons that would eventually cause so much suffering. The sealing of this facility was a significant step, but it also raised troubling questions about oversight. How had a market dedicated to medicines become a source for industrial chemicals? And how many other such operations were still active, undetected?
The timeline of the counterfeit liquor’s production and sale, as pieced together by police, reveals a chilling efficiency. The fake liquor was allegedly prepared between October 2 and October 6–7, a window of just a few days. It was then sold between October 7 and 12, a period that coincides with the spike in deaths in the villages. This means the entire operation—from chemical procurement to production to distribution to consumption—took less than two weeks. The speed suggests a well-oiled machine, perhaps with prior experience, and it underscores the urgency of the police investigation. Even as they worked to stop the current outbreak, officials were also probing how the liquor was manufactured, distributed, and mixed with the stock of licensed outlets. They sought to understand not just the mechanics of the crime, but the vulnerabilities in the system that allowed it to happen. The deaths in Chandana and Binjana were not isolated incidents; they were the result of a systemic failure that permitted a motivated criminal to exploit gaps in regulation and enforcement. The families of the victims, who had initially alleged that their relatives consumed spurious liquor, have found their suspicions confirmed. Yet for them, the arrests and seizures offer little comfort. They have lost fathers, brothers, sons—the working-age men who supported their households. The trauma of watching a loved one seize and then slip away, powerless to help, is not erased by a court verdict. The community is left with a stark reminder of how fragile life can be, and how greed can turn an everyday act like sharing a drink into a death sentence.
As the legal process moves forward, the larger implications of this case resonate far beyond Dewas. It speaks to the dark side of technological progress, where AI is not solely a tool for innovation but can be harnessed for criminal purposes. It highlights the persistent public health crisis of illicit liquor in India, where, despite laws and regulations, millions of people are exposed to lethal substances each year. The use of old bottles and the smuggling of chemicals through a medicine market underscore the need for stronger oversight of both raw materials and recycled containers. The role of licensed liquor shop employees raises questions about corruption and corporate accountability. And at the grassroots level, it reminds us of the importance of community vigilance, of neighbors watching out for neighbors, and of the need for accessible, safe alternatives to alcohol, especially in rural areas. For now, the ten accused are in custody, and the police continue their investigation. But for the people of Chandana and Binjana, the echoes of those 13 deaths will linger. The village that once knew each other by name must now live with the memory of a time when a bottle of drink could be a harbinger of tragedy. In the aftermath, there is a collective resolve to ensure that such a crime never happens again—a resolve that must be matched by action from every level of society, from the local police to national policymakers. Only then can the victims rest in peace, and can the living begin to trust in the systems that are meant to protect them.