Five gunshots in NCR that killed the big fat Indian wedding in one month

Ghaziabad: Ansh had just stopped crying, his teary eyes fixed on the wedding procession below. From his third-floor balcony, cradled in his father’s arms, the two-and-a-half-year-old watched the flashing lights, the dancing figures, and the drunken cheers blending with four DJ’s thumping bass.

And then, in a second, Ansh died. He would never cry again.

Inside, his mother was making dinner. His uncle tended to the other child. Outside, the oblivious baraat danced on.

Panic gripped the house. Screams, swallowed by sheer horror. They rushed him to the hospital, his 34.8-inch body cradled in desperate arms. But the doctors’ words were final. Their only son was gone. And in his place—numbness.

“My only son is gone. All I want now is for no other parent to go through this,” Vikas Sharma said, his voice heavy with the weight of that night.

Beneath the flashing lights and thunderous music of the big fat Indian weddings, is a deadly custom: gunshots. What was once a symbol of festivity in open fields has now become a silent killer in crowded lanes, turning moments of happiness into nightmares. Stray bullets claim innocent lives, children watching from balconies, unsuspecting guests in a crowd, or brides and grooms caught in the very rituals meant to celebrate their union. 

Over the last month, Noida and Ghaziabad have reported over five accident cases due to celebratory firing – a ritual of machismo and might that plagues many rural and semi-urban pockets of north India. Despite stricter laws under the Arms (Amendment) Act 2019, enforcement remains weak, and justice often slips through the cracks. Bollywood movies have only reinforced this culture of celebratory firings. Scenes of joyous wedding processions marred by gunfire are scattered across films like Tanu Weds Manu (2011), Gangs of Wasseypur (2012), Omkara (2006), and Bandit Queen (1994). What the big screen glorifies, reality often turns tragic.

In places like Noida and Ghaziabad, families bear the weight of this recklessness, a father mourns a lost son, and another waits anxiously outside a hospital. 

The Arms (Amendment) Act, of 2019 introduced stricter firearm regulations. The law bans guns at weddings and public gatherings, making celebratory firing a punishable offense. It also enforces harsher penalties for illegal firearm possession, with sentences ranging from seven years to life imprisonment. Additionally, individuals can now own only two firearms instead of three, and tougher measures have been introduced to combat arms trafficking and illegal weapons manufacturing.

“In over 60 per cent of cases, illegal weapons like tamanchas (home-made pistols) are used”

Despite these laws, incidents persist and enforcement remains a challenge. In a recent case in Ghaziabad, groom Himanshu Chaudhary fired celebratory shots alongside his friend at his wedding. He was arrested under Section 51 and spent three days in jail before securing bail. 

“If people start using logic, they will realise celebratory firing is pointless and dangerous. It risks lives and should be stopped. This isn’t new—it’s just being reported more in NCR now. In over 60 per cent of cases, illegal weapons like tamanchas (home-made pistols) are used, often passed down through generations, making them hard to trace,” said Noida DCP Ram Badan Singh.

What is left behind 

Laughter and music echoed through Muradnagar, Ghaziabad, as Rajesh Kumar, a retired man from Kannauj village, hosted a grand event—his retirement party and his son’s engagement, all in one joyous gathering. Neighbours, relatives, and friends had gathered in the open space a little far from their house. 

At around 8:30 PM, amid the dancing, drinks and cheering, someone decided to fire shots into the air. A bullet, unclaimed by any hand, found its way through the crowd, striking Priyanshu Tyagi, a 21-year-old guest, in the abdomen.

A neighbour’s child came running to the Tyagi household. “Priyanshu has been shot,” he said. Inside the house, Priyanshu’s father had just returned from work, and the family was preparing to leave for the function. The news sent them into a frenzy.

When they reached the venue, a tight circle of people had already formed around Priyanshu, who lay motionless on the ground. And then, they rushed him to the nearest private hospital.

A final-year student of BA honours, Priyanshu had dreams and ambitions—none of which included being caught in the crossfire of someone else’s reckless joy. Back home, his mother now continues with her daily chores in silence, making tea and shooing away stray dogs. Her hands were busy. She did not speak of her son’s condition, nor did anyone dare tell her the full truth. When she left the room, the men of the family finally spoke, their grief no longer held back.

“We don’t tell his mother how critical Priyanshu is,” said her brother. “He’s unconscious. We don’t know if he will even make it back home. Her parents keep on saying to bring him back to the house. How can we?”

No one knows who fired the shot or whose gun it was. “Only Priyanshu could tell who fired the gun,” a villager said. 

Despite the FIR, the shooter still roams free, unknown and unseen. Priyanshu’s father remained resolute. “At the very least, we need to know who fired that bullet,” he said. 

Kumar’s household is not untouched by the weight of the incident. His wife sits with her legs trembling despite the brave smile she struggles to maintain. “We don’t know what happened or when it happened. We were inside our home, busy with work,” she said. Sonu, who got married in March, murmured the same words. “I don’t know anything about it.”

For Himanshu Chaudhary’s mother, the nightmare hasn’t ended yet. Ever since the police and media started showing up at her door, she has been battling frustration and anger. Her son, instead of beginning his married life at home, was taken straight to jail.

“It’s because of the media that we are suffering like this,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion. “I am a heart patient. If something happens to me, who will be responsible? Just leave us alone. We have suffered enough.”

There were no victims in this incident—except for the family itself.

The trouble began on 19 February, when a video of celebratory firing at Himanshu’s wedding in Modinagar surfaced online. Himanshu, a resident of Harsh Vihar, Delhi, is seen dancing before pulling out a gun and firing in the air. Guests cheer. Moments later, a man in a black shirt, Suraj, appears with two more rifles, handing them to the newlyweds and urging them to fire again. Himanshu obliges, while his bride, Tanu Chaudhary, holds up a gun.

The video spread like wildfire, catching the authorities’ attention. That’s when Himanshu was arrested.

Gaurav Poonia, the banquet hall owner, insisted that they had done their best to prevent such situations. “No one listens after drinking. We cut the DJ’s line at 10 o’clock and even called the police to stop the music,” he said.

When the police contacted him, he reviewed the footage and cooperated with the investigation. “The groom went to jail under Section 51, while the bride was released under Section 41,” he said.

Poonia said the punishment was excessive. “A mistake was made, but that doesn’t mean you hang someone for it. No one benefits from such a harsh punishment,” he said.

For Sharma, Ansh’s father, the celebratory firing incident changed his life. A child lost, a job abandoned, and a city left behind. After the incident, he resigned from his marketing job at a private company and moved his entire family back to his village, Sambhal—a place he now considers safer. 

“That bullet could have hit me instead. And if it had, my entire family would have been destroyed. I’m the sole breadwinner—what would have happened to my wife and children then?” He said. 

The bullet that struck Ansh came from the reckless hands of two men—Hitesh, known as Happy, and his friend Deepanshu Kumar. On the night of 16 February, as a wedding procession from Gurugram made its way through Aghapur village in Noida, the two fired shots in the air in celebration. 

“It’s a tradition—one deeply tied to superstition. People believe in it, but slowly, those beliefs are fading”

Deepanshu, a 24-year-old law student, was arrested on 19 February. Happy, 25, went into hiding but was caught days later near Noida’s Sector 47. Police recovered the murder weapon, an illegal 32-bore pistol. 

“But now, celebratory firings are significantly reduced, and I believe that in a few more days, it will almost disappear entirely. Change takes time. It’s a tradition—one deeply tied to superstition. People believe in it, but slowly, those beliefs are fading,” said DCP Singh.

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The culture of firing custom

In the wrestling akhadas of Shahpur Bamheta village, where elders gather to play cards and share hookahs, Shalek Yadav leaned back, lost in memories of a time when weddings weren’t just about music and dancing—they were marked by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the night.

Shahpur Bamheta, known for its wrestlers, had long embraced this tradition. Here, gunshots were a symbol of pride and power.

“There used to be a lot of firing,” Yadav said. “But now, it has almost stopped. The government has put restrictions in place, and people follow the rules.”

Celebratory gunfire isn’t just an Indian tradition—it’s been common across the subcontinent, the Middle East, North Africa, and Central Asia for centuries. These regions have a history of political instability and violent crimes, and in the past, carrying weapons was often a necessity. People attending gatherings, like weddings or festivals, were also signaling to potential threats that they were armed and ready to defend themselves. 

“Under colonial rule, strict gun laws meant only the elite had access to firearms, turning this display into a status symbol. Today, with firearm licenses in India being rare, it remains a way to assert dominance rather than self-defense,” said Abhijeet Singh, the founder of Indians For Guns NGO.

When Ram Badan Singh’s sister got married in 1973, a gunshot fired during the wedding procession hit a neem tree, causing several branches to fall. “In UP, this practice has been around for a long time, but it has decreased significantly now. When a small gun is fired, the bullet tends to hit people, but with a bigger rifle, it doesn’t,” said Singh.

Yadav remembers his own wedding day, when the crack of gunfire filled the air—three, maybe four shots. Back then, weddings stretched over three days, and the baraat always left before sunset. “There would be firing during the procession, sometimes at the bride’s farewell,” he said. “The groom’s side also carried guns—to protect the bride’s jewellery on the journey back. You never knew who might attack on the road.”

“In the old days, when the Baraat arrived, the bride’s family would fire two shots, and the groom’s side would answer with four.”

His son disappeared into the house and returned moments later carrying an old, long-barreled gun that Yadav got a license for in 1992. The metal was a bit rusty, and had cobwebs clinging to it. A thick layer of dust told its own story— it hadn’t been touched in years.

“The last time I used this,” Yadav said, running a hand over the worn barrel, “was when my grandson was born—after three granddaughters. I stepped onto the balcony and fired three shots into the sky.” That was six years ago, the gun was never touched again.

“We only did it for celebrations,” his wife said. “But not anymore.” She said she had never fired a gun herself.

Everyone seems to have their own version of how this tradition began. One recalled, “In the old days, when the Baraat arrived, the bride’s family would fire two shots, and the groom’s side would answer with four. It was a way of announcing the groom’s arrival.” 

Others believe it was always about status—a display of power and wealth. Brahma Singh Pehelwan, a wrestler in Shahpur Bamheta, however, blamed modern weddings. “People drink, get carried away with loud music, and start firing. DJs should be banned,” he said.

Laws, culture, and consequences

Gun ownership in India is not illegal, but acquiring a license is a grueling challenge. The process, often mired in bureaucracy and corruption, can stretch for years. Because the scramble for the much-coveted license is a trying process, having a gun and shooting becomes a declaration of status and style.

“In 1992, Delhi had around 45,000 licensed gun owners. Today, despite a population explosion, that number has dwindled to about 30,000. It’s not a lack of interest, it’s the system that discourages people,” Abhijeet Singh told ThePrint. The Indians For Guns is a nascent movement for responsible gun ownership. It doesn’t have the reach and clout of the American National Rifle Association (NRA).

It started as a simple Yahoo group in the early 2000s and evolved into a thriving website by 2006, where firearm enthusiasts could educate themselves. But this wasn’t a reckless free-for-all. The goal was never to promote gun culture for the sake of it—it was about awareness, responsibility, and the right to make informed choices, Singh said.

Wedding celebration gunshots add to the panic and taboo around guns in India. The stigma around firearms, Abhijeet Singh argued, stems from unfamiliarity. A gun is just a tool, neither good nor bad, he said. 

Gun culture, however, varies across India. The north sees more legal gun ownership than the south because of a deep-rooted military history. Before Partition, Punjab alone contributed over half of the British-Indian Army. Generations of service in the armed forces created a cultural comfort with firearms. In contrast, the South, with a different historical trajectory, has seen much lower gun ownership.

In many parts of India, particularly in the north, celebratory firing is a relic of the past, a dangerous tradition that refuses to fade. 

One such tragedy unfolded in Uttarakhand in 2007. Bhagwan Singh, caught up in the excitement of a wedding celebration, fired shots into the air. But joy turned to horror when the bullets struck attendees, killing two. Singh was initially charged with murder under Section 302 of the IPC. However, after considering the lack of intent, the court reclassified it as culpable homicide not amounting to murder (Section 304). 

A case in Punjab was even more devastating. In 2016, a 25-year-old pregnant dancer was performing at a wedding in Bathinda when a stray bullet from a celebratory firing ended her life. For years, her family fought for justice. Finally, in 2023, the shooter, Lucky Kumar, was sentenced to eight years in prison under Section 304 and the Arms Act.

These cases signal a societal shift. The judiciary is cracking down on negligence, sending a clear warning that reckless traditions have no place in modern India. As law enforcement tightens, practices like celebratory gunfire are being reevaluated as needless hazards.

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Lost lives 

Over the years, celebratory gunfire has evolved, especially in rural areas. In villages of Ghaziabad, traditional firearms have been replaced by powerful firecrackers, often called golas. These are essentially sutli bombs—firecrackers wrapped tightly with jute string to create a louder explosion. The science behind it is simple: the more compressed the explosive, the louder the bang.

But with the laws, celebratory firing is fading, as it is now a punishable offense with up to two years of imprisonment and a Rs 1 lakh fine. The law also enforces stricter firearm regulations, including license revocation for misuse and a cap on legal gun ownership.

The penalties are severe, and more than the legal case itself, people fear losing their gun licenses, which are extremely difficult to obtain. But beyond the legalities, the real cost of irresponsible firearm use is measured in lives lost.

A gunshot cracked through the air like a firecracker, but it carried the weight of tragedy. One moment, Vikas Tripathi was caught in the whirlwind of his younger brother’s wedding in UP—music blaring, laughter echoing, glasses clinking. The next, his elder brother lay motionless, the bullet cut his life short.

His brother’s children—just three and six at the time—were too young to understand what had been taken from them. Too young to even remember the father who should have watched them grow. 

“In Bihar, if a village had 100 houses, at least 85 had firearms”

But for Tripathi, guns had never just been weapons. They were a tradition. A way of life. Growing up in his village, no wedding procession was complete without the deafening bullets tearing. “It was like bursting firecrackers today. Back then, that’s how we showed happiness,” he said. 

His elder brother had owned a gun. So had his brother-in-law. Whether they were licensed or not hardly mattered. In Tripathi’s village, almost every household had one—some legal, many not. “In Bihar, if a village had 100 houses, at least 85 had firearms,” he said. 

Tripathi still remembers the first time he held a gun. He said he was in the 10th or 12th grade. The weight of the metal in his hands wasn’t just physical—it carried a thrill, a rush of power. “It wasn’t about violence. It was about what is forbidden. The more you’re told ‘no’, the more you want to do it,” he said. 

At weddings, Tripathi and his friends used to strut around with pistols, firing rounds into the sky, basking in the admiration it earned them. Back then, no one batted an eye. No one questioned it. It was just how things were.

But times have changed. Now, one photo, one tweet, and the police come knocking. Today, he owns a licensed firearm, but he sees it differently. It’s for his protection, not for display. Tripathi no longer feels the thrill of holding one in his hands. Maturity does that to one, he said. 

And as for celebratory gunfire, he lets out a long breath, saying it’s just a symbol now—like an expensive wedding or a flashy car. But is it worth a life?

“No. Never.”     

(Edited by Ratan Priya)