Fear of the Fraud

I miss being able to trust strangers. There was a time when upon receiving a message from an unfamiliar number, reminding me to book my car’s annual servicing and offering to arrange a pick-up, I’d have replied with a: “Yes please 👍🏾”.1

Not so, anymore.

Earlier this month, I was exchanging messages with someone to schedule the free maintenance check the dealership had promised me — and I couldn’t shake off the suspicion that this fellow was planning to steal my new(ish) car. He claimed to be a representative of the authorised workshop though I had no way of verifying this. For all I knew, he could have sourced my number from the folks at Bajaj Finance. They seem to have everyone on speed dial. What if this was all part of an elaborate heist? Why else would he want to know my car’s registration number? Surely that information should’ve been available in their system. When he asked me for a copy of the car’s Registration Certificate (RC), I narrowed my eyes at the phone. I’d seen enough advertisements by the RBI, cautioning people not to share their card details with strangers. I saw no reason why the same principle should not apply to the RC. I made an excuse and did not message the guy for an entire week.

Eventually, though, I had to relent. During my week of silence, the man never bothered to check in, which told me that while he was a pretty disinterested employee, he was probably not out to bait me. I sent him pictures of the RC and requested him to send somone to collect the car. Now, you may be wondering why, if I had doubts about his bona fides, I did not choose to visit the service centre myself. This is a reasonable question, and an opportune moment for us to discuss the ‘certainty effect’. Developed by Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky, this theory of behavioural economics explains how individuals have a skewed perception of potential gains and losses. As they described it:

In the positive domain, the certainty effect contributes to a risk averse preference for a sure gain over a larger gain that is merely probable. In the negative domain, the same effect leads to a risk seeking preference for a loss that is merely probable over a smaller loss that is certain. The same psychological principle — the overweighting of certainty — favors risk aversion in the domain of gains and risk seeking in the domain of losses.

In other words, when given a choice between suffering: (a) a minor inconvenience that is bound to happen, or (b) a major tragedy that may or may not occur, human beings tend to take a punt on option (b). It sounds bonkers when spelt out in this fashion, but Messrs. Kahneman and Tversky knew their stuff. Faced with the tedious chore of driving to the workshop on a hot and dusty afternoon, I discovered I did not mind the alternative — even if it came with the faint possibility of my car getting pilfered. And so, as I handed the keys to a man I’d never met before, I took solace from the fact that if things did go south, I would at least have gotten my daily nap in before it was time to call the police.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The car returned the next day, shinier than before, and my fears that the receipts had been the work of a master forger were laid to rest. I was relieved, but also distressed. This was not how I used to be. The paranoia I experienced during this epsiode was a new aspect of my personality and I couldn’t say I cared much for it.

I’ve been known to be something of a soft touch. I was never naive enough to fall for those emails from Nigerian princes, the ones where they issued a cry for help with a promise of generous rewards. But if I were to run into a Nigerian prince, and he pleaded his case in person, I would almost certainly have reached for my wallet.

Nowadays, of course, Nigerian princes face stiff competition in trying to separate you from your money. Everyday you are in the crosshairs of fraudsters who bombard you with nefarious schemes. You are added to WhatsApp groups that offer dubious investment advice and attempt to lure you with guarantees of fantastical returns. You receive umpteen calls from people trying to rob you or offer you personal loans, which are kind of the same thing. You even receive messages from your boss — with his LinkedIn profile picture as the display image and everything — asking you to urgently send him a voucher, so he can treat an important client to some champagne.

In 2025, the number of financial fraud complaints registered with the National Cyber Crime Reporting Portal exceeded 24 lakhs. The amount involved in those cases was well over ₹22,000 crores, a nearly 4000% increase since 2021. That is an incredible growth curve. There must be some private equity guys out there dying to get in on the action — yes, it’d involve the little snag of investing in a criminal enterprise but, fucking hell, can you imagine the upside? It’d be enough to buy another sea-facing penthouse, who could argue against that!

In a world where scams have been regularised as spam, Simran keeps reminding me that Mad-Eye Moody’s exhortation of ‘Constant vigilance!’ is a mantra we must all adopt. ‘You’ll get badly fleeced one day,’ she says, only half-jokingly, when I show her the insurance I am about to purchase online. (The website url, she points out, does not match the official hyperlink of the insurer — it’s a fake webpage.) She seems to have a sixth sense for these things, an uncanny ability to spot the glitch. This skill allows her to banter with aspiring swindlers, playing along with their ploys for a bit of fun — a fact you may remember from an earlier newsletter issue.

I possess none of her bravado, and so I adopt a policy of zero interaction. I reject calls from unknown numbers, exit groups I’ve been added to without my consent, and ignore unsolicited emails and messages. Ghosting is not rude when you don’t know the other person, right? It keeps my bank account secure but I hate how this virtual-world cold-heartedness has bled into my real-life interactions with strangers. I hate how easily my caution has morphed into cynicism.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way back from the gym when the auto rickshaw driver asked me where we were. This was a troubling query for a variety of reasons, not least being that if he’d suffered a sudden attack of amnesia, should he — and I — be motoring along in a vehicle under his charge? Did he remember, for instance, how to work the brakes?

Bandra, I replied with a frown.

He must have sensed my alarm because he clarified that he rarely travelled to this part of the city. Earlier that afternoon, he had picked up a fare at Kandivali. This customer had embarked on a Mumbai darshan sojourn, heading southwards following a circuitous route. There had been many stops along the way, too. By the time they’d reached Bandra, the sun had set and the meter had clocked up close to a thousand rupees. His patron had asked him to wait and scooted inside a nearby building, vowing to return within a few minutes. ‘She said she wanted to go back to Kandivali,’ he said, his faced crumpled with anguish. ‘I waited thinking it will be a big fare.’ After a while, when she did not turn up, he tried looking for her. The watchman at the building was no help. Perhaps she had slipped out from the back gate? Eventually, he had to accept there was nothing he could do. When I flagged him down, he was still in a daze. ‘Who will pay for the fuel?’ he groaned, cursing his luck, his villainous passenger, his life.

I listened to his tale of woe with guarded silence. Apart from a few ‘hmm’s and ‘acha’s, that I hoped conveyed my sympathy, I did not offer much of a reaction. The man had made no mention of it, but I was already planning what I’d do if he asked me for some money. Did he truly get cheated out of a day’s wages? Or was this a well-crafted ruse, designed to prey on the gullible?

Soon, the man struck up another mournful tune. His daughter was unwell, he said. He had wanted to spend the day with her, by her side. But he did not have the luxury of taking a day off. Plying the auto was his livelihood. It was the only way he could earn money to pay for his little girl’s treatment. And now, he was worse off than when his shift began. We were nearing my home, and still, he made no request for cash.

Perhaps that was the gambit, I told myself. He wanted me to buckle under the weight of moral obligation and volunteer to help him. He would be grateful and I would feel virtuous — my good deed for the week ticked off. But surely his story was not credible? A free-riding cheat and an ailing child — it was all a touch too melodramatic, wasn’t it? Life was no movie script, and I was no sucker. When we reached my drop, I asked him to stop, paid the fare and walked away. If I avoided his eyes, it was only to ensure my resolve wouldn’t crumble.

In the days that followed, I wondered if I’d made the right decision. Was being remorseless the price you paid to avoid being deceived? And was it a price I considered worth paying? I suppose so. Over the years, I have grown accustomed to ignoring the kids who shuffle up to me at a specific street corner in Bandra and ask me to buy them a carton of milk. I’ve heard the milk thing is a racket. I barely glance at them, refusing to acknowledge their presence, and wave them away if they persist. If I have learnt not to care about them, why should I care for the travails of an auto rickshaw driver I’ll never meet again?

Some days later, on another auto rickshaw journey, another driver drew me into conversation. He arrived in Mumbai eighteen months ago, he said, and couldn’t wait to go back home. And where was home, I asked.

‘Bhagalpur. It’s a small town in Bihar.’

‘I know. I was born in Bihar, not too far from Bhagalpur,’ I told him.

Enthused by this revelation, he continued etching his biography. He’d wasted both time and money when he was young. The move to Mumbai was part of his plan to raise capital. He wanted to start a business in Bhagalpur, and become a medical representative. He had friends who’d chosen that career and they were doing well. Most importantly, it would let him be close to his family. Mumbai was a good place to make quick money but it was no place to live, not when you were alone. Unprompted, he shared details of how much money he earned every day, his weekly expenses, and the number of months he needed to wait before he could board a train to leave this city and begin his new life.

I nodded along, the same questions swirling inside my head. Was any of it true? Was this account building up to an appeal for a contribution? Constant vigilance demanded that I remained unmoved.

We reached home and I paid him the fare, thinking about men with distant families and unwell daughters. Wait, I called out, as the soon-to-be medical representative started pulling away. And, knowing full well that if I found myself in a similar situation in the future I would likely take refuge in prudent apathy, I reached for my wallet.