It was supposed to be a homecoming filled with joy. Saurabh Rajput, a former merchant navy officer, had returned from London to surprise his wife, Muskan, on her birthday. He brought gifts. He brought love. What he didn’t know was that he had also brought himself to his own execution.

Within days, his body would be found in 15 pieces—stuffed inside a plastic drum, covered in cement, hidden behind locked doors in a rented house in Meerut. And the woman he loved, the one who had once smiled in wedding photos beside him, would become the prime suspect in what is now being called the most chilling murder case of the year: “Pyar Ke 15 Tukde.”

The horror of the case isn’t just in the brutality of the act. It’s in the calm, calculated precision with which it was planned. Months in advance. Piece by piece. Just like the victim himself.

Saurabh married Muskan in 2016. They had a daughter in 2019. By all appearances, they were a happy couple. But beneath the surface, something had changed. When Saurabh left his overseas job to spend more time with his family, Muskan grew distant. And while he believed he was rebuilding his home, Muskan was allegedly building something else—a relationship with a man named Sahil Shukla.

According to police, Muskan and Sahil’s affair wasn’t just emotional. It was strategic. Investigators say Muskan manipulated Sahil with emotional stories and even used fake Snapchat messages—claiming to be her deceased mother—pushing him to help her commit the unthinkable.

On March 4, 2025, the plan was set in motion.

Saurabh had no clue that night would be his last. He was given sedatives. Then, according to forensic reports, he was stabbed multiple times—his throat slit, his wrists gashed. But that wasn’t the end.

His body was methodically dismembered into 15 pieces. The limbs were wrapped, labeled, and packed into a large blue plastic drum. Cement was poured over the remains to prevent the smell from leaking out. A fan was left running in the room to slow decomposition. Doors were locked. Curtains drawn. Life moved on.

Muskan and Sahil didn’t flee. They went on vacation. They posted Instagram stories from Manali and Shimla, using Saurabh’s account to post fake updates, pretending he was alive and traveling separately. It was all part of the illusion—a cover-up as cold as the crime itself.

But what they didn’t anticipate was a mother’s instinct.

Saurabh’s mother, worried when she couldn’t reach him, filed a missing person report. Days turned into weeks. Police began tracking digital footprints. Suspicion turned to evidence. And on April 6, nearly a month later, the horror came to light.

Police raided the house in Meerut. The door was forced open. What they found inside froze them in place. The stench. The drum. The body in pieces.

Saurabh’s family broke down when they heard the news. His mother collapsed. His younger sister, who had always looked up to her protective brother, screamed, “He went there for love. He died because of it.”

The news spread like wildfire. Social media dubbed it the “Pyar Ke 15 Tukde” case. But what gripped the public more than the details was the why.

How could a wife—a mother—commit such a crime? Was it passion? Greed? Hatred? Or something even darker?

According to the confession reportedly given to the police, Muskan claimed she “wanted out.” That she was “tired of pretending.” That she “loved Sahil” and had no other way. But the premeditation suggested otherwise.

Investigators recovered CCTV footage of Muskan and Sahil buying cement, renting the house, shopping for the drum, even rehearsing the fake messages. Nothing was impulsive. It was all mapped out like a script for a horror film.

Psychologists now analyzing the case say it points to a deep lack of empathy, possible psychopathy. But others believe it may have been a toxic web of manipulation—Muskan controlling Sahil, using love as a weapon.

Sahil himself, in custody, has broken down repeatedly. He told officers he did it “for her,” that he believed her when she said Saurabh was abusive. But no proof of abuse has surfaced.

Meanwhile, Muskan has remained eerily calm. No remorse. No tears. Just silence.

The court has extended her police custody. A crime scene reconstruction is scheduled. Investigators are combing through digital records, phone calls, deleted messages. The cement barrel is now key forensic evidence. Even the knife used in the murder was reportedly recovered from a water tank.

But even with confessions and evidence, one question haunts this case.

Did Saurabh suspect anything?

Was there a moment, even in his final breaths, where he realized the truth? That the woman he had trusted—loved, lived with, raised a child with—was not the person he thought she was?

We may never know.

But what we do know is this: behind every shocking crime is a story. A story of love turned rotten. Of trust twisted into a weapon. Of human nature’s darkest corners.

The “Pyar Ke 15 Tukde” case is not just a murder story. It is a reminder that monsters don’t always come from outside. Sometimes, they wear bangles. Sometimes, they kiss you goodnight. Sometimes, they smile at you—and plan your death in the same breath.

As Saurabh’s family prepares for a long legal battle, the country watches in stunned silence. There are no answers that will bring him back. Only questions that will never stop echoing.

What did he do to deserve this?
How long had it been planned?
And what kind of love ends with a body in 15 pieces?

Because sometimes, the scariest thing about evil—is how familiar it looks.