Dheeraj had just turned 100.
After a lifetime of routine and reverence, his world was blissfully small: a daily walk to the temple at 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., long hours of prayer, and a landline phone that rang maybe twice a week, usually from distant relatives or temple staff confirming some event.
He had outlived almost everyone he knew, except for his son’s family. He didn’t mind. Silence had become a companion. Predictability, a blessing.
That changed yesterday, when his 25-year-old grandson, Arjun, gifted him a smartphone.
“Now you can video call me anytime, Dadaji,” Arjun had said cheerfully, placing the sleek black device into his wrinkled hands. “Tomorrow morning, 7 a.m., I’ll come over and show you how to use it.”
Dheeraj had looked at it like it was a sacred object—shiny, powerful, confusing. But he had smiled, nodded, and placed it beside his old religious book before going to bed.
But before Arjun could arrive the next morning, the unfamiliar rectangle buzzed to life on the bedside table.
[1 New Message: “Your son is being arrested. Call immediately – 99999-00000 to speak with the police.”]
Dheeraj blinked. His heart pounded. His son? Arrested?
His fingers, usually steady while stringing prayer beads, now trembled. He reached for the landline. It was slow—he had to squint at the number, dialing it carefully, one digit at a time.
A deep voice answered.
“This is Inspector Raghavan. Your grandson is involved in a smuggling case. We have him in custody.”
“What? Arjun? No—there must be some mistake!”
The voice remained calm but firm. “You want to help him, don’t you?”
“Of course!”
“Then click the Zoom link we just sent you. We’ll talk face-to-face. This is a very sensitive case, and we need your cooperation.”
Fear clouded Dheeraj’s reasoning. He hesitated but reached for the smartphone, hands trembling. He managed to unlock it, open the message, and tap the unfamiliar Zoom icon.
To his surprise, a video call opened.
A man in a police uniform appeared on screen. Behind him, on the wall, hung a photo of the same deity Dheeraj had worshipped for decades.
That broke his resolve.
“Arjun has been caught red-handed,” the officer began. “If we don’t act quickly, he will be transferred to a central jail where even lawyers struggle to visit.”
Dheeraj’s breath caught. “What do you need from me?”
“₹10 lakhs,” the man replied flatly. “Immediately. He’s being framed by someone, but we can pull a few strings. You’ll get it all back in 48 hours.”
Dheeraj nodded slowly, stunned.
“But... I only use the landline. I don’t know how to... bank on phone.”
“We’ll guide you,” the scammer said, a touch too quickly.
And so began a two-hour tutorial from hell. They coached him—step by step—on how to install the banking app, how to type slowly with his thumb, and how to transfer ₹2 lakhs at a time due to the daily cap. He followed every word, not even questioning the number of repetitions.
He wept silently between transfers. He didn’t eat. Didn’t drink water. Every rupee felt like a lifeline to his beloved grandson.
Just as he was about to hit ‘Submit’ on the final ₹2 lakh transaction, a sudden, thunderous knock rattled the main door.
Then it burst open.
“Dadaji!”
Arjun stood in the doorway, panting, face pale with panic.
Dheeraj froze. On the screen, the scammers immediately went silent. Arjun’s voice rang through the room like a thunderclap.
“YOU SCAMMERS!”
With a click, the video disconnected.
For a moment, all Dheeraj could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. His chest heaved. The tears came again, but this time with gasps of disbelief.
“I thought... you were in jail,” he whispered, clutching Arjun’s arm like a drowning man.
Arjun knelt beside him. “No, Dadaji. I’m okay. I got a strange call from the bank saying multiple large transactions were being attempted. I knew something was wrong. I rushed here. I thought something happened to you.”
“They showed me... our deity in the background. I thought it had to be real,” Dheeraj stammered.
Arjun sighed. “They study us. They knew what you believed in. They used your trust, your habits... even your love for me. That’s how these people work. They don’t just steal money—they steal trust.”
A week later, with Arjun’s persistent follow-up and a bank manager’s sympathy, the transactions were reversed.
The money was saved.
But something else wasn’t.
The smartphone, once full of promise, now sat silently in its box, back on the shelf. Dust gathered. Dheeraj no longer looked at it.
“I only wanted to do video calls with you,” Arjun said one evening, softly.
“I did a video call that day,” Dheeraj replied, his voice empty. “But not with you.”
Arjun didn’t push. He knew this wound wasn’t just financial—it was spiritual. Something ancient inside Dheeraj had cracked: his trust in a world that moved too fast, a world where even a friendly voice could be a trap.
He still went to the temple. Still prayed. But Arjun noticed the change. The pauses in the chants. The sadness in the silence.
According to GASA.org, on 7th November 2024, the scam industry generated over $1.03 trillion globally—and that’s just from reported cases.
Unreported? Immeasurable.
How many like Dheeraj remain silent out of shame, confusion, or heartbreak?
How many are navigating the terrifying waters of modern technology with no map—armed only with faith, and the phone number of a grandson?
Scammers aren’t always loud. They aren’t always sloppy. They wear uniforms, mimic officials, fake call quality, forge backgrounds—and worse, they sound just like someone you love.
So what can we do?
Maybe it starts with one conversation. One visit. One message pinned to the refrigerator:
“If you ever get a message saying someone is in trouble, arrested, or in danger—pause. Don’t act. Call me first.”
It may seem obvious to us.
But to them, it could mean the difference between heartbreak and hope.
Because trust is a beautiful thing.
And sometimes, it’s the very thing criminals weaponize.
Let’s not let them win.
