New short fiction by Anita Nair: A social media star falls prey to cyber fraud. Who’ll believe her?

The music stopped and another impatient voice came on. “Madam, we are calling from Delhi Customs. There is a package with your name as the sender.”

Urvashi sighed. She received several packages from various brands. One of the perks that came with having 323K followers was how brands wooed you with freebies. So far, she had avoided obviously paid for partnerships lest it take away from her credibility. But she didn’t send out anything. So what did the man mean? Why couldn’t these fools check before calling her?

The man grunted and switched to Hindi. “Is this your address?” he asked, reading out the full address.

“Yes,” she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

He continued in Hindi, “You sent a parcel to an address in Malaysia.”

“I haven’t sent anything to anyone. Besides, I don’t know anyone in Malaysia.” Her voice rose, as she tried to find the words in Hindi, a language she had learnt in school and had no use for until she moved to Bengaluru. She had to dredge her memory to be able to speak to autorickshaw drivers and street vendors when they pretended not to understand Tamil or English. Over the years she had picked up a smattering of Kannada, making her Hindi even more garbled.

“The parcel has books in it. Hidden inside the books are fifteen ATM cards, seven expired passports and 25 grams of MDMA,” he said.

“What?”

“Do you know what MDMA is?” His voice was gentle. Before she could answer, he added, “It’s drugs. Illegal substance.”

“But I didn’t send any package to anyone,” Urvashi said, certain she could sort this out with the simple truth.

“Did you use your Aadhaar card recently?” he asked in a voice that sounded weary.

“I’m sure I did. We all use it all the time, don’t we? As ID proof. For travel. For hotel bookings. For Digiyatra.”

“Looks like a case of identity theft,” he said, sounding sympathetic. Then, as if to console her, he added, “We see so many cases. Madam, I’m going to connect the call to the CBI desk attached to the Customs department. They will be handling this. But, madam, please be prepared to visit Delhi to sort this out.” She heard him pressing buttons and his voice murmuring to the person who came on about case #201/B2 320. “Probable case of identity theft,” he said.

Urvashi rose from the chair. She glanced towards the living room, wondering whether she should call out to Mahesh.

Then she hesitated. There was no knowing what Mahesh would say or how he would react. It was quite likely he would tell her this was her ROI on time spent on social media. And who said returns on investment had to always be positive? He’d pause, flick his hair and grandstand: I know you think there will be no consequences to putting yourself out there, but there’s always a consequence for every action.

Another voice came on, also impatient. Another man. Were there no female police officers? Urvashi glanced at the time. 11.40 am. She was already late.

The new man said he was Sub-Inspector Manish Sharma. Urvashi didn’t know what to say. So she said hello.

He said brusquely, “This is a serious offence. Smuggling drugs. It’s best you be honest. Did you send this?”

Urvashi sighed. “I told the other officer already. I have nothing to do with this package.”

There was silence from the other end. Then, “Who else stays with you?”

“My husband.”

“Children?”

“We don’t have children.”

“I see,” Manish Sharma sounded thoughtful. “Have you used your ID proof recently? Aadhaar or passport?”

Urvashi frowned. She had travelled abroad on a sponsored trip to Zanzibar. It had involved travelling to Mumbai and a night’s stay at a hotel before she boarded the Kenya Airways flight.

“Yes,” Urvashi said. “I went to Zanzibar. That’s an African country,” she added, unsure if Manish Sharma had ever heard of it. She didn’t think he would have heard of Freddie Mercury either.

“On work or vacation?”

“Work,” Urvashi said, hoping he wouldn’t ask about her line of work.

“What do you do?” Manish Sharma had switched to speaking in Hindi. Urvashi fumbled for the word for journalist in Hindi.

Eventually she mumbled, “Patrakaar. And a social media influencer.”

“So you have a public profile.” He had switched back to English.

“Yes, yes,” she said.

He sighed. “You are an educated woman. You should have been more careful. Haven’t you read about such cases of identity theft? Do you realise the seriousness of this matter?”

Urvashi felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. She walked to the switchboard, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder, and turned the fan regulator to maximum speed. ‘What do I do, Officer?’ A friend of hers had said that it was best to call them officers, even if they were only constables. Makes them feel important and hence more easy to deal with, he had claimed.

“Hold on,” Manish Sharma said. “We need to check if your identity has been used for anything else. You really should have been careful, Urvashiji.” She smiled. Her friend had been right. The “officer” had worked its magic. She walked back to the chair.

The line crackled with static. Manish Sharma must be talking to someone in the control room. She got up again and walked to the mirror to check her face. Her makeup had already begun to run. She wondered if she should turn the air conditioning on. But this should be over soon, and she would have to leave immediately afterwards. She turned on the phone speaker and pulled the curtains shut. She would redo her face once the call was over.

“Madam,” her phone spat at her. She looked at it as if it were Manish Sharma.

“Yes, Officer,” she said, surprised at his change of tone from helpful public service official to custodian of law.

The “officer” didn’t work. Instead, he said, ‘It’s best if you tell me right now if you are involved in any criminal activity.’

What constitutes criminal activity? Smoking a joint? Getting into the swimming pool without showering? Pilfering a disposable toilet seat cover from Terminal 1 of Bengaluru airport?

“No, Officer. Not at all.” Urvashi was firm.

‘That’s not true. There’s an FIR registered with your name as the accused.’

“I don’t think that’s right, sir,” she said, grinding out the “sir” through clenched teeth. For a brief moment, she wondered if this was about Mahesh and his rants on LinkedIn because, though he disdained all social media, LinkedIn was different. It was a watering hole for corporates and professionals, he claimed.

“It’s best you admit your involvement. You do know that we’ll get to the truth and then there will be no way out.”

“No, sir,” Urvashi stuttered. “What is the case, sir?”

“Human trafficking and money laundering,” he said. She could almost see his lips curl in disgust.

“What?” she yelped and then, strangely, she giggled – this was obviously a prank.

“This isn’t a joke. Human trafficking is a very, very serious case, madam. As is money laundering.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself. What the fuck! “Human trafficking and money laundering?” Her voice rose. “Are you sure?”

Excerpted with permission from ‘The Land of Lost Content’ in Why I Killed My Husband and Other Such Stories, Anita Nair, Westland.