Fooled by Deepfakes, but not by fools

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Act 1: The Setup

The old colonial house on Southern Avenue stood quiet, save for the slow creak of a ceiling fan and the occasional murmur of pigeons on the balcony. Pranab Babu, a retired government officer with a fondness for mishti doi and Satyajit Ray thrillers, lived alone there. His wife had passed away years ago, and his only son, Rohan, now worked in Silicon Valley. Every Sunday night, father and son video-called—Rohan with his hurried updates, Pranab Babu with his slow, deliberate tales of how the cat next door now preferred his fish curry.

Life was predictable, until three clean-cut young men came to his door one afternoon.

"Namashkar, Pranab Babu! We’re Rohan da’s friends—from college. He sent us to check on you. Said you were alone and stubborn as a goat."

"That does sound like something my son would say," muttered Pranab, squinting at the tall, smiling figure of Vikram, their leader.

But it wasn’t until they played him a video—Rohan, clear as day, saying, “Baba, please trust them. They’re like brothers to me”—that he let them in.

Only later did he wonder: why didn’t Rohan mention them in last Sunday’s call?

The boys—Vikram, Aryan, and Tushar—quickly became fixtures in his home. Bringing groceries, fixing his smartphone, even debating politics over tea. But Pranab Babu, ever the bureaucrat, didn’t rise through the ranks by being naïve. He noticed small things—like Vikram checking out his phone PIN when he typed it, or Tushar getting too interested in his bank messages.

“Hmm,” Pranab murmured one evening, pretending to fumble with his medicines. “Looks like dementia might be my new best friend.”

And with that, the old fox hatched a plan.

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Act 2: The Plan

One evening, over rosogollas, Pranab piped up, “I’ve always wanted to take a dip at the Kumbh Mela in Prayagraj. If I die before I do it, my wife will scold me in the afterlife.”

Vikram chuckled. “We’ll take you, Pranab Babu. Why not! The neighbors will think we’re such dutiful caretakers!”

He pretended to beam with joy. But the real move came the next morning, when he scribbled a note and tucked it into a grocery bag just as the delivery boy arrived.

In distress. Heading to Maha Kumbh with captors. Help.
— Pranab Babu

The note was addressed to Babulal, the street-smart sidekick of Samaranand, a retired detective and old chess partner from his more eventful days.

A few hours later, Babulal burst into Samaranand’s drawing room like a cyclone. “Sir! Emergency! Pranab Babu’s been kidnapped by some chai-sipping cyber criminals!”

Samaranand looked up from his crossword. “Chai-sipping, you say? Dangerous breed. Assemble the team.”

And that meant calling Soumya—the bespectacled hacker who lived on cold coffee and revenge fantasies involving telecom companies.

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Act 3: The Escape

The Kumbh Mela was chaos incarnate—millions of pilgrims, saffron flags, lost children, loudspeakers, and monkeys stealing prasad. Perfect for disappearing.

On the second day, during the holy dip, Pranab whispered, “My knees, beta, they don’t bend like they used to,” and as the crowd surged forward, he vanished like a magician’s final act.

Tushar screamed, “He’s gone! Find him!”

But Pranab was already with Babulal, who appeared like a shadow and handed him a kurta-pajama set. “Time to trade this VIP look for common man camouflage, Dada!”

Meanwhile, Soumya created havoc by hacking the local police announcement system. For fifteen minutes, a robot voice declared:
“Alert: Beware of pickpockets disguised as saffron yogis.”
The thugs froze. “They’re onto us!”

Samaranand, from a distance, chuckled. “Beginner’s panic. Textbook.”

They soon stumbled upon a disfigured body dressed in Pranab’s old clothes—Aadhar card and all.

Vikram stared at the corpse. “Is that…?”

Aryan recoiled. “Must be him. The stampede…”

Vikram, suspicious, frowned. “Hmm… Or maybe he played us.”

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Act 4: The Chase

Back in a safehouse in Prayagraj, Pranab grinned over a cup of tea. “My acting was quite good, no? Should’ve joined theatre instead of the IAS.”

Samaranand muttered, “Don’t flatter yourself. The corpse did half the job.”

Soumya tracked Vikram’s phone. “They’re not done yet. Planning to cross into Nepal. With your money.”

“My money!” Pranab clutched his heart. “They won’t even pay GST on it!”

The trio mobilized fast. “We intercept them at the train station. Platform 5,” said Soumya.

“Just like old times,” grinned Babulal.

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Act 5: The Showdown

The railway station was buzzing. Loud vendors, impatient passengers, stray dogs, and amidst it all, a group of thugs boarding the Gorakhpur Express.

Then came a voice:
“You forgot something, Vikram!”

The leader turned. Pranab Babu stood on the platform, arms folded.

“You’re supposed to be dead, old man!”

“And you’re supposed to be clever, but here we are.”

Vikram lunged. But before he could reach Pranab, Soumya played a video on his tablet—it showed Vikram confessing to the bank fraud during one of his careless late-night rants, caught via phone mic hack.

Babulal, swinging a bag full of samosas, knocked one thug out cold. “My lunch and your face have a date!”

Just then, police sirens wailed. Samaranand had called in his old friends. The gang was arrested amidst much shouting and one rogue attempt to leap into a luggage compartment.

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Act 6: The Conclusion

Back in Kolkata, Rohan flew in immediately. “Baba! I had no idea—how could they fool you?”

Pranab smiled, “They didn’t. I let them think they did. That’s how you trap a mouse—give him cheese.”

The house was full—Samaranand sipping whiskey, Babulal relishing biryani, Soumya setting up the TV with a sly grin.

“You all saved me,” Pranab said, wiping his glasses. “But more than that—you made this old man feel alive again.”

Rohan added, “I’m shifting back to India. Remote work and all that. Can’t leave you alone anymore.”

Pranab looked at him, eyes twinkling. “You’ll miss your avocado toast.”

“I’ll survive on luchi-alur dom,” Rohan laughed.

As the laughter echoed through the hall, the camera zoomed out, catching the image of the house once again full of warmth, mischief, and the quiet courage of an old man who refused to be a victim.