He was not a gangster, not a killer, not even a man with an army. Yet his name sent shivers through India’s richest businessmen and left police officers scratching their heads in disbelief. Mithilesh Kumar Srivastava — better known as Natwarlal — became India’s most legendary conman, the man who sold the Taj Mahal not once, not twice, but three times. His life was not just a story of crime, but of intelligence, charm, and rebellion against a system he believed was already corrupt.

In the early 1900s, in the small village of Bangra in Bihar, a boy named Mithilesh was born into an ordinary family. Nothing about his childhood hinted that he would one day become a national legend. He was bright, sharp, and observant — a boy who noticed details others ignored. Teachers admired his intelligence, and neighbors spoke of his politeness. But inside that calm exterior was a restless mind — a mind fascinated by the power of persuasion.

As a young man, he studied commerce and learned the language of money, trust, and signatures. He discovered something remarkable: people believed in paper more than truth. That realization would define his destiny.

The first time Mithilesh decided to cheat someone, it was small. A forged signature on a cheque, a clever play with timing, a lie wrapped in charm. When it worked, he felt an intoxicating sense of power — not over money, but over people’s certainty. He could create belief where none existed.

In his twenties, he began traveling to bigger towns — Patna, Calcutta, Bombay — posing as a government official, a lawyer, even a social worker. Each disguise opened new doors, each scam became more daring. He understood that the richer a man was, the easier he was to fool — because pride blinded them to doubt.

By the 1940s, Natwarlal had become a myth in the making. Police knew his name but could never keep him long enough to prove a case. He would escape from jails with ease, sometimes walking out disguised as an officer, other times vanishing through sheer wit. In one famous incident, he even signed a bail paper as the magistrate himself and calmly walked out of the courthouse.

But his most audacious crimes were yet to come.

It started with a spark of madness or genius. Tourists were fascinated by India’s monuments, and bureaucrats often didn’t know what was happening within their own departments. So one day, Natwarlal arrived in Delhi dressed as a senior government officer from the Archaeological Department. He carried files, stamps, and a flawless English accent. His target: a group of wealthy foreigners eager to “invest” in Indian heritage.

He offered them a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity — the rights to the Taj Mahal. The buyers, blinded by greed and confidence in his official demeanor, paid a hefty advance. Papers were signed. Seals were stamped. The deal was done.

Days later, they realized the truth: they had been sold India’s pride — a monument that could never be owned. By then, Natwarlal was gone.

But one con wasn’t enough. He did it again — and again. Three separate times, in three separate years, he “sold” the Taj Mahal to unsuspecting millionaires and business groups. Each time, his plan evolved, his disguise perfected. And each time, the legend of Natwarlal grew stronger.

Soon, he expanded his operations. Reports claim he “sold” the Red Fort, the Rashtrapati Bhavan, and even the Parliament House — all through fake documents and government seals so convincing that even trained officers couldn’t tell the difference.

What made him so successful? It wasn’t just his disguises. It was his deep understanding of human nature. He studied people’s weaknesses — greed, pride, impatience — and turned them into opportunities. When others saw risk, he saw patterns. When others hesitated, he smiled.

Natwarlal didn’t use violence. He used psychology. And perhaps that’s why his crimes became stories, not just reports.

His charm was legendary. Those who met him said he could make anyone trust him within minutes. He dressed impeccably, spoke softly, and carried himself like a man of authority. There were rumors that he even tricked industrialists like Tata, Birla, and Dhirubhai Ambani with clever schemes — though none could ever prove it.

Police from eight different states pursued him. He was arrested more than nine times and sentenced to nearly 100 years in total. Yet he spent less than 20 behind bars. Every time he was captured, he escaped. In one daring incident, he slipped away from a moving train while being escorted by police — leaving behind only his handcuffs.

The older he got, the more mythic his persona became. Newspapers wrote about him with fascination. Some called him a villain; others saw him as a folk hero — India’s own Robin Hood. According to some reports, Natwarlal donated part of his earnings to poor families in Bihar, helping them with education and food. Whether that was truth or part of his legend, no one knows. But the idea made people root for him.

He had turned crime into performance, deception into art.

By the late 1980s, his health began to fade. Police finally caught him in Kanpur when he was almost 84 years old. But even then, he outsmarted everyone one last time.

In 1996, while being transported from one prison to another, Natwarlal vanished again. The police lost track of him entirely. Some believe he died in a remote village; others think he fled to Nepal or beyond. His lawyer later claimed he had been cremated years before — but no one could confirm. There was no grave, no photo, no witness. Just silence — and a name that refused to fade.

Natwarlal’s story is not just about scams. It’s about the psychology of belief. It’s about how society measures morality — whether intelligence used against power can still be called a crime.

He lived in a time when India was changing — when wealth was rising but honesty was not rewarded. He understood the system too well. He played it like a game, and for decades, he won.

Even today, his name is a metaphor. In India, when someone pulls off a clever trick, people say, “Don’t be a Natwarlal.” His legacy outlived his crimes.

Many films, books, and shows have been inspired by his life. Amitabh Bachchan once played a character named Natwarlal in a 1979 Bollywood film — a tribute to the original conman. And yet, the real man remains an enigma. No photo of his final years exists, no confirmed record of his death. He became exactly what he always wanted — a ghost that lives in every story about deceit and brilliance.

In the end, what makes Natwarlal unforgettable is not what he stole, but how he did it. He exposed a truth no one wanted to admit: that the system’s greed makes deception possible. His crimes were reflections of human desire — the hunger for more, the blindness to consequence.

Perhaps that’s why, decades later, his story still captures imaginations. Because Natwarlal didn’t just con people — he held up a mirror to society and made everyone see their own reflection in his smile.