“Your son is suspected of possessing drugs.” The words echoed nonstop in her mind as she peered outside the window. Blissfully oblivious to her turmoil, the world outside carried on as usual. Suddenly she spotted a hooded man. Was he an undercover spy? She hastily pulled back the curtains.

“Don’t leave the house without our knowledge. Cops in plain clothes are watching you and can arrest you on slightest suspicion without any warrant.” The advisory from the narcotics official seemed to be real. It also saw her sequestered in her apartment for the last two days.

Her lifeless mobile flickered to life as she switched it on. “Don’t make or receive calls from anyone. The calls may be traced to the other person.” Another warning from the friendly officer rang loud in her ears. An instruction she had been following to the T. She would never do anything that might jeopardise her loved ones in any way. It took her an enormous amount of resolve to resist the urge to call and check on her son who was studying in another city. She also paid no heed to the multiple calls and messages from her husband who was travelling for work. The mobile resumed its state of network-lessness.

***

The benevolent narcotics chap called again, this time a video conference. Flanked by Mahatma Gandhi’s smiling portrait on one side and Dr Ambedkar’s on the other, he patiently heard her side of the story and sympathised with her. Yes, it was entirely possible that someone had misused his son’s Aadhaar Card* to book the drug parcel. They would deal with the real culprit later. Right now, their immediate priority was to ensure his son was not implicated wrongly in the case. He paused the video call briefly to get his superior online.

“Hello Madam! We know your son is innocent. Unfortunately, the press has got wind of the operations, and we can’t do much.” The senior cop coughed slightly before breaking the ominous news. “Your son will be imprisoned and released only after the trial is complete.”

Her heart sank. Her son’s career would be over before it even began.

“Sir, please do something.” She whimpered.

“We can pay the media to keep their mouth shut.”

She immediately agreed. She would hold on to any tenuous hope that was dangled before her. To begin with, she would withdraw all her FDs prematurely. No price was too high when it came to her son’s life.

After the call ended, her hand reached for the aeroplane mode once again when a WhatsApp message from her husband popped up. “Where has my Jhansi-ki-Rani* vanished?”

“Your Jhansi-ki-Rani is defeated.” She broke down. Throwing all the caution to the wind, she confided in him the whole ordeal between sobs.

“Darling, call 1930* now and report the cybercrime.” It gradually dawned upon her that she was being scammed.

Crossing the threshold of her house after 48 hours of “digital arrest*” she headed to the police station.

***

Glossary:

Aadhaar Card – ID card issued by the Indian government

Jhansi-ki-Rani – here, sobriquet meaning courageous woman

1930 – a helpline number in India to report cybercrimes

Digital arrest - a type of cyber scam where fraudsters pretend to be law enforcement officials to extort money from victims