Jayanti Dharma Teja: The enigmatic genius whose shipping empire was built on deception

In India’s rogue’s gallery of flamboyant business tycoons, few stand out as vividly—and controversially—as Teja. A consummate hustler of the Nehruvian era, his rise was a heady mix of financial sleight-of-hand, strategic charm, and psychological intrigue. His fall, when it came, was as swift and dramatic as his ascent.

The chameleon of capital

Born into an influential Brahmo Samaj family in Berhampore, Andhra Pradesh, Dharma Teja’s early life was steeped in politics and privilege. His father, a Congress leader, regularly hosted giants like Subhas Chandra Bose and Mahatma Gandhi. 

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Tall and imposing, Teja earned a master’s in Chemistry from Mysore University, then went on to study nuclear physics at Purdue University in the US. There, he was mentored by none other than Enrico Fermi—and even counted Albert Einstein and Robert Oppenheimer among his acquaintances.

His life was a continuous parade of the glamorous and powerful. His first wife, Betsy—a wealthy, older Jewish-American—helped him gain social capital in elite circles. His second wife, the glamorous Ranjit Kaur, added further sheen to his image.

Before reinventing himself as a suave, cosmopolitan businessman capable of charming everyone from seasoned diplomats to hard-nosed bankers, Teja served as vice president of a magnetic tape manufacturing company that became hugely profitable, earning him fame and fortune. 

He also established a network of research labs across the US, further adding to his growing wealth.

The great shipping dream

Then, in what may have been a shrewd calculation—or a moment of hubris—Teja decided to return to India. His first stop: a meeting with then Prime Minister Jawahar Lal Nehru. It would set the stage for his most audacious performance yet—and ultimately, his undoing.

Teja’s pitch was irresistible. With government backing and international loans, he promised to build an Indian shipping line to rival the world’s best. The year was 1961, and the patriotic appeal landed perfectly. Nehru instructed his officials to guarantee loans worth crores. Global banks, reassured by the government’s endorsement, quickly followed suit.

Teja used this largesse to acquire 26 ships and launch Jayanti Shipping Corporation, which soon cornered nearly half of India’s expanding maritime trade.

What followed was a masterclass in financial sleight-of-hand. Teja conjured the illusion of a thriving shipping empire that, in reality, floated on borrowed money and smoke. Behind the scenes, he orchestrated a complex web of shell companies across jurisdictions, spinning paper trails so dense that auditors would spend years trying to make sense of them.

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One of his more cunning manoeuvres involved purchasing aging vessels at highly inflated prices through his own offshore firms—effectively using loan money to pay himself, while logging the deals as standard business expenses. Another trick: taking out insurance on ships that mysteriously developed “problems” soon after coverage kicked in.

Fall from grace

The ruse couldn’t last forever. In 1966, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi—whose sons Teja had befriended in London—ordered an inquiry. Teja fled to Europe with his wife and later resurfaced in New York. When Indian authorities pushed for extradition, he pulled off one final escape, this time to Costa Rica, where President José Figueres granted him diplomatic protection and even a passport.

That bold move backfired. During a subsequent trip to Europe, Teja was arrested at London airport and extradited to India. In court, he made the sensational claim that he’d conducted secret diplomatic missions for the Indian government—leaving the judge dumbfounded.

In 1972, Teja was sentenced to three years in prison for forgery and falsification of accounts. The scale of his deception stunned financial investigators. But prison was no deterrent—he used the time to write poetry and prose, seemingly unrepentant.

The return of the maverick

Remarkably, Teja’s story didn’t end there. 

Despite serving a jail term and remaining in default on his taxes, Teja found an unlikely champion. When questions arose over how he was still able to travel abroad—his passport was meant to be impounded—Prime Minister Morarji Desai told Parliament in 1978: “Teja is free to come and go whenever he chooses. The country has got more from him than what he owes.”

But his successor, the no-nonsense farm leader Charan Singh, was less indulgent. Outraged that Teja had flown out of the country without a valid passport, he ordered a case to be filed—not against Teja, but against Pan Am, the airline that flew him.

Teja did return to India in 1983, but by then, the mystique had faded and his firepower was spent. He died in New Jersey in 1985, leaving behind more questions than answers.

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Was Jayanti Dharma Teja a conman with a flair for theatrics or a misunderstood visionary undone by his own ambition? How did he weave such an intricate web of deception under the very noses of India’s top political leaders?

The legend remains, somewhere between genius and grifter.