Chapter 1
The phone rang.
It pierced the quiet of the night, vibrating on the nightstand with a sharp buzz that felt too loud for 10:30 p.m. Tapan reached over with a sigh, rubbing his eyes before answering.
“Hello?”
“Tapan Bhai… Hello? Tapan Bhai?” The voice on the other end was breathless, panicked.
Tapan sat up straighter. “Hmm… Ashu? Tell me.”
“Bhai, I need your help. Please, bhai. Please.”
“Areh, Ashu, what happened?”
“Bhai… I need two lakhs. Right now. It’s urgent.”
There was a pause. “What? What happened? Where are you? It’s already 10:30—are you coming?”
Ashu’s voice trembled. “It’s Amit… you know him, right? He met with an accident today. He’s in the ICU—critical condition. They need three or four lakhs immediately for treatment. His family… bhai, you know their situation. They don’t have anything. I have to help him, bhai. I promised them. I need to do this. Please help me. Just two lakhs. I swear, I’ll return it within a month.”
Tapan swung his legs off the bed, now fully awake. “Where are you right now? How long will you take to reach?”
“Bhai… please…”
“Ashu! Right now, it’s tough to arrange such money. But listen—just come first. We’re all hungry here. We’ll eat together and then sit and talk. Don’t worry, okay? Everything will be fine.”
A beat of silence.
“Bhai…”
“Okay Ashu. Come fast. Bye.”
When you ask someone for money, they rarely say no outright. Instead, their words dance around the truth- hesitations, excuses, vague promises. They won’t slam the door in your face, but they will slowly close it politely. And if you are not paying attention, you might miss the message entirely. But the truth is there hidden between the lines: They are saying no- you just have to hear it in the silence.
The phone rang again.
It was Ashu—again. But this time, he sounded different. Nervous. Unsteady.
“Hello?” Ram answered, voice low and cautious.
“Sir… good evening, sir,” came the hesitant reply.
Ram frowned. “Ashu? What happened? You’re calling this late… is everything okay?”
There was a pause. Then Ashu's voice cracked. “No, sir. It’s not okay. I—I need help. Urgent help.”
Ram sat up straighter. “Tell me.”
“Sir, someone got my Aadhaar card information… I don’t even know when. They’ve created fake, obscene photos using my face, and now they’re blackmailing me. They're threatening to leak everything if I don’t send money immediately.”
The silence between them stretched, heavy and loaded.
“How much are they asking?” Ram asked quietly.
“Two lakhs, sir. I don’t know what to do. I can't think straight. My career… my life, it’ll be over if this goes out. I’m trying, but I can’t arrange it right now. They’re not even giving me time.”
Ram let out a long breath. “Two lakhs… Ashu, that’s a huge amount. And right now?”
“Yes sir. But please don’t worry—I’ll return every rupee within a month. Please trust me.”
There was compassion in Ram’s voice, but also caution. “Ashu… listen to me. Let the night pass. Tomorrow morning, we’ll talk properly. We’ll do something, I promise. If they want money, they won’t act yet. We’ll file a FIR, take legal steps. You’re not alone in this, okay?”
Ashu didn’t reply, but the silence spoke of helplessness and fear.
“Take a breath. Try to rest. We’ll sort this out. Don’t panic. I’m here. Okay?”
“…Okay, sir.”
“Good. We’ll talk in the morning. Bye for now.”
When you yearn for something- truly, deeply- a dare to voice it, hoping for support, and instead, you are handed advice you never asked for – Its maddening. Its like reaching water in a desert and being offered a map to the mountains
You must be thinking I’m a scammer.
Calling different people, spinning different stories—asking for money with a shaky voice and a trail of half-truths. I know how it sounds. Desperate. Suspicious. Maybe even rehearsed.
But let me introduce myself properly—because you need to know who I am before it's too late.
Hi.
I’m Ashu.
Ashutosh Das.
I’m 24 years old.
A banker. ICICI Bank.
Originally from Bhubaneswar, Odisha.
Currently posted in Gohana, Haryana.
And now…
I’ve been kidnapped.
Yes. This isn’t a game. Not a con. Not a story.
I’m not calling for sympathy—I’m calling for help.
They have my phone.
They’re making me say things. Crafting lies to fish for money.
But the truth is: I'm not in control anymore.